Primordial Heir: Nine Stars

In the depths of the northern continent, where the sun barely touched the frozen earth and the winds carried the screams of dying things, a place existed that no map showed and no sane person sought.

This was the continent of monsters. Sealed from the rest of the world by powerful barriers and guarded by the second strongest man alive—Azariah Raizen, the Warden of the North. For centuries, the monsters had been contained here, their hunger contained by walls of magic and steel.

But containment was not peace.

At the heart of this frozen hell rose a mountain so vast, so impossibly tall, that it pierced through the clouds and reached toward the heavens themselves. Its peak was lost in the perpetual gray sky, hidden from mortal eyes. The temperature here was so brutally cold that a drop of water would freeze solid the instant it appeared, shattering into crystalline dust before it could fall.

And on the highest point of that mountain, where even the strongest monsters dared not approach, stood a castle.

It was white—not the white of snow, but the white of bone. Countless skeletons, harvested from the most powerful creatures this continent had produced, formed its walls, its towers, its gates. Skulls of ancient beasts served as windows. Spines of leviathans formed the rafters. Rib cages of giants arched over doorways.

This was the seat of power. The throne of the one they called the strongest.

In this realm, the law of the jungle was absolute. Kill or be killed. Eat or be eaten. Strength was the only currency, and weakness was death. But since his arrival, even that brutal order had changed. The monsters, once mindless in their hunger, had become organized. Structured. They moved in formations, followed commands, served a purpose beyond simple destruction.

He had brought them intelligence. He had brought them strategy. And he had brought them to the brink of victory in the last great war, almost succeeding in invading the continent, almost breaking through the barriers that held them.

The world feared him. And rightly so.

°°°

Inside the bone castle, in a throne room large enough to hold an army, sat the king.

The throne itself was a monument to conquest—carved from the fused bones of a dozen ancient dragons, rising nearly twenty feet high. White and gleaming, it dominated the chamber like a mountain dominates a plain.

And on that throne, sprawled with the casual grace of absolute power, was a man.

He was massive—easily nine feet tall, his body a tapestry of muscle and scar tissue. His skin was blue, the deep blue of a frozen sea, and every inch of it was marked by the evidence of countless battles. Scars crisscrossed his chest, his arms, his face— handsome almost otherworldly. A single horn sprouted from his forehead, thick at the base and tapering to a wicked point, curving slightly at the end like a crescent moon.

He rested languidly on one arm, his posture that of a predator so secure in its dominance that it could afford to appear relaxed. His eyes were closed. His breathing was slow, deep, the rhythm of a being that had existed for centuries and expected to exist for centuries more.

The very air around him twisted. Not visibly—nothing so crude. But the space near his body seemed to warp, to bend, to flinch away from his presence. The ambient energy of the world, the prana that flowed through all living things, simply ceased to exist within a few feet of his skin. It was too afraid to approach.

Suddenly, his eyes opened.

They were crimson. Not the warm red of fire or the gentle red of sunset. This was the red of fresh blood, of raw meat, of violence given form. They gleamed in the dim light of the throne room.

The doors to the throne room opened.

A figure entered—tall, easily eight feet, with a strange and unsettling form. From the waist down, he had the legs of a bird, long and powerful, ending in taloned feet that clicked softly against the bone floor. His torso was human, broad-chested and muscular, covered in fine gray feathers. His face was human in shape, but where a mouth should be there was a sharp, curved beak. Golden-rimmed glasses perched on his beak, giving him an incongruous air of scholarship. Two pairs of wings, sleek and powerful, folded against his back.

The royal avian race. One of the highest-ranking monster species. And this was one of the king’s adjutants, a commander in his own right.

He approached the throne and knelt, his head bowed low, his wings folding tight against his body in a gesture of absolute submission.

”I greet the sun,” he said, his voice a strange mix of human tones and avian clicks.

”Someone has come to see you.”

The king’s crimson eyes flickered with something—amusement? Interest? It was impossible to tell.

”Is that worm from outside?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very bones of the castle.

The avian adjutant nodded without raising his head.

To call the leader of the Ouroboros organization, the most feared shadow organization on the continent, a worm—only someone of the king’s stature could do such a thing. Only someone whose power was so overwhelming could behave as he was doing right now.

”Let him in.”

The adjutant vanished, moving with the supernatural speed of his kind. Moments later, the doors opened again, and another figure entered.

He was shrouded in black robes that covered every inch of his body, revealing only pale skin around his eyes. Those eyes were light red, almost pink, and they blazed with an intensity that bordered on madness. He moved toward the throne with trembling steps, his whole body shaking with barely contained emotion.

When he reached the proper distance, he collapsed to his knees. Not knelt—collapsed, as if his legs could no longer support him. His forehead pressed against the cold bone floor. His entire form quivered.

The King of Monsters looked down at the groveling figure with the mild interest of a cat watching a mouse.

For a long moment, there was silence. Then the king’s hand moved. He reached beside his throne and picked up a small container, specially crafted to preserve its contents. He tossed it carelessly toward the kneeling figure. It landed before him with a soft thud.

Inside, wrapped in preserving magic, were hearts. Still beating. Still warm. Hearts extracted from powerful monsters—creatures of immense strength and rare abilities.

The Pope’s trembling intensified. He knew what these were. Raw materials. Fuel for the organization’s experiments. With these, they could create demonized humans of unprecedented power. Soldiers who would serve the cause, wreak havoc from within the enemy’s lands while the monster armies attacked from without.

To think, the king mused silently, that boy I saved so casually all those years ago could become so useful.

His crimson eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

”Do not disappoint me,” he said aloud.

The Pope’s voice, when it came, was choked with ecstasy. ”I will not, my lord. I swear it. I will succeed. I will pave the way for your glorious return. The continent will fall. The barriers will break. Your reign will extend over all.”

The king said nothing. He simply watched, his expression unreadable.

After a moment, the Pope spoke again, his voice steadier now. ”There is something else, my lord. A matter I thought you should know.”

He described a boy. An anomaly. A young man who had awakened not one law, but two. Who had appeared from nowhere and shaken the foundations of the great clans. Who had drawn the attention of powers far beyond the normal scope.

Nero. The name meant nothing to the king. But the description—the dark blue hair, the unusual power, the ominous red eyes—stirred something in his ancient memory.

The lords, he thought. The ones who watch from beyond. They’ve taken an interest in this boy.

His eyes narrowed slightly, the only sign of his shifting thoughts.

”Keep watch on him,” he ordered. His voice allowed no argument, no question.

”Observe. Report. Do not interfere unless I command it.”

The Pope bowed even lower, his forehead scraping the bone floor. ”As you command, my lord. Your will be done.”

The king waved a hand. The dismissal was clear.

The Pope rose, still not raising his eyes, still trembling with fervent devotion. He backed away from the throne, maintaining his bow until he was through the doors. Only when they closed behind him did he straighten, clutching the container of hearts to his chest, his light red eyes blazing with purpose.

Inside the throne room, the King of Monsters leaned back on his bone throne, his crimson eyes fixed on some distant point only he could see.

The lords are interested, he thought. That boy... he must be the one they spoke of.

His lips curved into a smile—slow, cruel, hungry.

Interesting.

Outside, the frozen winds howled. The mountain stood eternal.