Chapter 31: Genesis Of The Damned

It all began the day the heavens split open and they fell.

Æryth and Orion.

The first ængels to rebel against Astoria, Goddess of the Heavens and Mother of all Creation. The one who shaped the stars and breathed life into the world below.

But Æryth and Orion didn’t fall alone.

When the firmament tore open, thirteen of Astoria’s ængels were cast down.

Æryth.

Rhæmara.

Solariel.

Myrrhiel.

Dæryssa.

Bælerys.

Six of divine feminine light.

And Orion.

Azrækiel

Vælor

Omnaræl

Zaræchiel

Chyron

Seraphix.

Seven of divine masculine fire.

Their punishment was swift and merciless.

Their wings were severed and they were hurled down to the mortal realm.

Their first steps on earth were unsteady, the soil unfamiliar beneath their feet. And a cry of agony left their lips, echoing across seas and mountains.

Without their wings, they were cut off from divinity, their celestial powers gone and ripped from their souls.

What remained was grief so deep it crushed them from the inside out.

That grief curdled when they saw mankind, Astoria’s beloved creation thriving beneath the sun.

They watched humans love, praise, and worship the very Goddess who condemned them.

Their sadness became anger.

That anger turned to rage.

And the rage hardened into hatred.

Soon after, the fallen ones turned their fury on humanity.

They hunted them.

Slaughtered them.

Tore them apart with hands once made to shape light.

They drank their blood and consumed their flesh, driven by the desperate hope that if they took enough life, they might feel whole again.

Mankind, however, could not fight back.

The fallen were stronger.

Faster.

Relentless.

And with every kill, something changed inside them.

They became obsessed with the taste of mortal blood. With the warmth of life spilling on their tongues. And slowly, it corrupted them, twisted them, and warped them into creatures that could no longer stand in the light.

Once holy beings of radiance. Now something else entirely.

They called themselves vampires.

Monsters that stalk the night. Predators bound to darkness, sustained only by mortal blood.

The fallen conceived children.

From Æryth and Orion rose a line that would one day call itself House Bloodbourne.

Rhæmara and Chyron’s blood formed House Darkarion of Tenebris Reach.

From Bælerys and Omnaræl came the blood that would shape House Mordred of Noctis.

Solariel and Vælor’s descendants took Obsidia and became House Hellbourne.

Myrrhiel and Zaræchiel’s line claimed Duskfall as House Nightreign.

Dæryssa and Azrækiel birthed House Bloodspyr of Gravenmourn.

Solariel and Seraphix gave rise to House Solæris of Andromedis.

Æryth and Vælor’s lineage conquered Stygros as House Ravenheart.

Bælerys and Zaræchiel seeded House Blackthorne of Crimsonholde.

The thirteen also paired among themselves in other unions, their bloodlines giving rise to the minor houses that helped conquer the nine kingdoms that later became the Empire of Night.

Their children had children of their own, and slowly, their bloodlines began to spread across the world.

Some humans were turned, remade into monsters like them, multiplying the numbers of the children of night.

Astoria saw this and refused to allow her world to be corrupted by their darkness. So she sent her ængels down to earth, and through them, she blessed mankind.

The chosen ones were gifted the power to bend the forces of nature and reality to their will. And they were taught how to wield these gifts.

The blessed named themselves witches and wizards.

Astoria’s ængels also placed a curse upon every vampire so they could no longer birth new life. Then the witchborn fought against them to defend mankind.

Lightning cracked from their fingers.

Ice blossomed in deadly spikes.

Shadows twisted into weapons that struck unseen.

Fire roared from mortal hearts.

And blood stained the earth until the vampires were driven back and forced into the darkest depths of the world.

After the victory, humanity celebrated the witchborn for generations, and the two races lived in harmony.

It was an age of prosperity unlike anything the world had known before.

Witches and wizards used their gifts to help mankind in every way possible. They healed the sick and wounded. They helped farmlands flourish, ensuring abundant harvests year after year. They protected villages from natural disasters. And they used their magic to preserve peace between the kingdoms of the world, preventing conflicts from turning into bloodshed.

Some humans even fell in love with witches, and in time, marriages between the two became common. They raised families together, their children carrying both human and magical blood.

But time erodes memory.

Years became centuries.

Many kingdoms and dynasties rose and fell, all their knowledge lost with them. And as millennium after millennium passed, people forgot history.

Truth became myth.

Myth became lies.

And somewhere deep beneath the earth, the darkness waited patiently.

Then came a time when witches, once loved by all and celebrated as heroes, became feared, hunted, and butchered by mankind.

With no one left to hold back the darkness, the vampires rose again.

Kings and queens were overthrown. Their kingdoms were conquered. And night claimed the world piece by piece.

Thus, the Empire of Night was born. A realm that has stood for over ten thousand years.

First ruled by Ærion Bloodbourne of Darkholme.

Then his son, Rhægar.

And now Rhægar’s child, Azræl Bloodbourne, sits the throne while the nine kingdoms bow to him.

But after the night of Azræl’s wedding to Rhiannon of Astragarde, the Empire of Night hasn’t slept.

Across the nine kingdoms, whispers spread like wildfire.

Some claim the court went mad.

Others swear that ancient nobles turned into mindless savages.

There are even whispers that the Emperor himself lost control.

And according to the darkest rumours, the frenzy wasn’t caused by magic.

It was caused by the Astragardian’s blood.

Throughout the empire, ancient scrolls and books long forgotten and buried beneath dust and decay were pulled from archives and scoured for answers.

And in those forgotten pages, a name long lost to time was discovered once more.

Nytheriel.

An ængel who escaped from the heavens while one wing remained.

The ancient texts speak of the many mortal lovers he took. Of celestial blood passed down through generations, and descendants whose power rarely awakens, but if it does, it could change the world.

Blood that heals any wound.

Blood that cures any disease.

Blood that can lift any curse.

Blood that empowers any race that drinks it.

As the truth spreads across the empire, the realm holds its breath.

Will House Bloodbourne share this power?

Will they give others the ability to walk beneath the sun? To bring children into the world once more?

Or will they hoard it?

Some nobles watch with awe, while others fear the power House Bloodbourne now holds.

But there are always the ones that plot in silence, because power like that is never left unchallenged.

Somewhere within Darkholme’s walls, the Empress lives. She breathes. And her precious blood flows through her veins.

But whether she knows it or not, the night now watches her...

Closely.