The summoning of Valthorz The year was 1287 of the Second Era. War had come like a storm from the North, merciless and unrelenting. The once-proud House Thornevale, keepers of the mountain pass and guardians of the Southlands, stood at the edge of extinction. The Northern Hordes, beasts in man’s flesh, swept through villages and outposts, their black banners devouring all light and hope. The Thornevale bloodline, noble and ancient, had withered. Only Elior, a boy of seventeen summers, remained. With blonde windswept hair, eyes that shimmered blue. In the crypts below the castle—cold and untouched for centuries—Elior found what desperation often seeks: forbidden power. Hidden behind a false wall in the catacombs of his ancestors, he discovered an ancient tome, bound in black scales, sealed with iron runes that pulsed with dormant power. The cover bore no title, only a symbol burned in ash—a vertical slit eye encircled by jagged crescents. The Book of the Malicious god. The legends spoke of it only in whispers—a pact forged in blood, a god of chaos unshackled through despair. Clutching a ceremonial dagger once used by his ancestors in ruins, Elior held it over the open book. His hand trembled. He whispered the invocation carved on the stone wall behind the altar. Then, with steady resolve, he cut across his palm, letting the blood fall onto the waiting page. The moment the first drop struck the paper, the crypt roared with ancient hunger. A beam of crimson light pierced through the ceiling, through stone and earth and sky, casting an unholy pillar up to the heavens. He was no horned demon, no mindless beast. He was handsome and terrible—dark hair wild as war itself, eyes like smoldering embers, He wore the arrogance of a god like a second skin. His gaze fell on Elior. “Ah… a Thornevale. It’s been a long time since your kin dared speak my name,” Valthorz mused, his voice both a whisper and a scream. Your 1 eye had turned purple with diabolical pupil