I came from a family of nine—seven siblings and two parents. I was the youngest. My siblings were Veyron, Lysara, Dain, Sylas, Orin, and Kaelith, from our oldest to our second last born.


    My parents were unique. My father was an inventor, called the greatest mind to ever exist. His inventions spearheaded the evolution of our world, shaping nations with his brilliance. My mother was one of the leading researchers in mana, uncovering the very foundation of magic itself. Like they say, the two were meant for each other.


    It comes as no surprise that this meant we held a high place in the world, which I was grateful for. But fate has a cruel sense of humor. I was born with a rare condition where my skin kept drying and shrinking to my bones, making me, as you so eloquently put it, fugly.


    My family hid me inside our home, embarrassed by my existence. I couldn''t blame them. Even the servants in our house would look at me with disgust—I''m sure if it weren''t for my status, they would have spat in my face. I still remember one of them, a young maid, who used to leave food outside my door like I was some beast in a cage.


    She never met my eyes, never spoke to me. I once tried to thank her, just to see if she''d acknowledge me. She flinched and ran.


    I learned to accept isolation, to endure the whispers, the avoidance, the shame I brought upon my family. I buried myself in my mother''s research, the only thing that gave me a sense of worth. But none of it mattered in the end.


    Our lives took a turn for the worse when the emperor died and his son took the throne. A boy drunk on power, too foolish to see past his own paranoia. His advisors whispered poison in his ears, warning him that my father and mother''s influence posed a threat to his reign.


    And so, as always, power makes a person do unimaginable things. A rumor spread—my father was conspiring with the elves, selling military secrets and weapons. It didn''t matter that there was no proof.


    Three months later, the soldiers came.


    They stormed into our house, armored boots echoing like the drums of war. They dragged my father out of his own home like a dog. I remember our siblings and my mother pleading, crying, screaming. But the soldiers didn''t care. They kicked us away like insects, conjured flames to keep us back.


    Four weeks. That''s how long my father wasted away in a dungeon, given only one meal a day, rotting in darkness. No visits. No trials. Only the waiting. Then the verdict came—public execution.


    I still remember it. The way his head rolled on the ground. The way the emperor grinned as though he had just won a game. The sound of the crowd—some cheering, some silent. The sickening thud of my father''s head hitting the dirt, his lifeless eyes staring at nothing. My mother fell to her knees, a scream ripping from her throat. I had never heard her sound like that. It wasn''t grief. It wasn''t sorrow. It was fury.


    My mother—she went through the stages of grief. But she never got past the anger.


    At this point in time, our assets were confiscated. Our home, our status, our safety—everything was stripped away. My mother''s research, my father''s life''s work, stolen. And we were left to survive in a world we weren''t prepared for.


    I was a target. My ailment made sure of that. Beatings, insults, rock showers—every day was a reminder that I was nothing. I remember the laughter of street children as they threw stones at me, their aim improving with each hit. My siblings tried to shield me, but they were suffering too. We all were.


    My mother… she disappeared from time to time. She would return in the early hours of the morning, looking exhausted, defeated, and carrying a hint of shame. As a child, I didn''t understand where she went. But my older siblings did.


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    Then, on my eighteenth birthday, she called all seven of us together.


    She told us the truth. While she had fought to put food in our mouths, she had also searched. She had hunted for something beyond mortal means—something that could change our fate. And she found it.


    An elixir. No, not an elixir—a force. A remnant of something ancient, something beyond magic. It pulsed with power, and it whispered. It did not demand obedience. It did not ask for loyalty. It only required a sacrifice.


    Before we could fully grasp what she said, our mother took a blade and cut her own throat.


    We knew why she did it. She wanted to give us power, enough power to avenge our father—even if it cost her own life. And for that, we wouldn''t let her sacrifice be in vain. We drank.


    Veyron, our eldest, obtained the flames of the universe itself, hotter than the sun, consuming all in its path.


    Lysara wielded the light—not for guidance, but as a weapon sharp enough to cut through reality.


    Dain bent gravity to his will, making the world itself kneel before him.


    Sylas embraced ice, not the kind that melts, but the kind that steals the warmth of life itself.


    Orin took illusions, so powerful they could fool even us, turning truth into lies and lies into truth.


    Kaelith accepted decay, making time her servant, reducing anything to dust with a mere touch.


    And me…


    The Crimson of Desolation. Fire that did not burn, yet consumed. Decay that did not rot, yet reduced all to nothing. A power that was neither one nor the other, yet more terrifying than both.


    We hunted down the people responsible for orphaning us. The emperor sent his armies after we slaughtered his advisors.


    Thousands of men stood against us. They had numbers. We had power.


    The battles were not battles. They were massacres.


    The first army they sent against us was fifty thousand strong—elite warriors,


    battle-hardened knights, and mages trained for war. They came with banners


    flying high, thinking they were marching into a victory that would be sung


    about for centuries.


    We made sure there were no songs.


    Veyron was the first to strike. A single wave of his hand and the frontlines


    erupted in fire hotter than any forge, hotter than the core of the earth. Steel


    melted like wax, armor fused to flesh, and screams of agony filled the air as


    soldiers burned alive before they could even lift their weapons.


    Lysara followed, stepping into the chaos, her golden light cutting through the


    battlefield like a divine blade. It was blinding—some thought it was salvation


    until their bodies split apart before they could understand what had


    happened.


    Dain took control next. A flick of his wrist, and the ground beneath their feet


    became their greatest enemy. Gravity twisted, crushed, and folded men in half


    like they were nothing more than paper dolls. Some were slammed into the ground


    so hard their bodies left imprints in the dirt. Others were launched into the


    sky, flailing as they vanished into the clouds, never to be seen again.


    The enemy mages tried to fight back, casting walls of ice and stone, barriers


    meant to slow us down. That''s when Sylas stepped forward. His ice did not build


    walls—it tore through them. He froze the very blood in their veins, turning men


    into statues of brittle flesh. When they shattered, it was like glass breaking,


    their frozen remains scattering across the battlefield.


    Orin walked through the carnage like a phantom, his illusions twisting reality


    itself. Entire battalions turned on each other, slashing at their own comrades,


    screaming in terror as they saw loved ones in our place. One general dropped


    his sword and wept, believing he had run his own son through the chest. He had


    not. But the illusion didn''t let him see the truth.


    Kaelith didn''t need theatrics. Her touch was enough. She walked through the


    battlefield, running her fingers along steel and flesh alike. Swords rusted in


    their wielders'' hands, shields crumbled into dust, and men collapsed mid-swing,


    their bodies rotting before they could even scream.


    And then there was me.


    I did not burn. I did not rot. I did not cut, nor crush, nor freeze. I simply


    erased.


    Where I walked, nothing remained. Armor, flesh, bone—it all dissolved into


    crimson ash. I willed it, and men fell, their bodies unraveling at the seams.


    Some tried to run, only to find their legs gone before they took their first step.


    By the time the battle ended, the battlefield was unrecognizable. There were no


    bodies to bury, no weapons to salvage. Only silence, only ash.


    We moved from city to city, kingdom to kingdom. Some resisted, believing they


    could fare better than the last army. Some surrendered the moment they saw us.


    It didn''t matter. The outcome was always the same.


    Two years. That''s how long it took to carve our way to the palace.


    The emperor was no longer a boy, but it didn''t matter. The moment he saw us, he


    pissed himself like a child.


    We made sure his suffering lasted. Seven days of torment. Seven days of


    screams. By the third day, he was begging us to end him. By the seventh, his


    body finally gave out.


    And the throne was empty.


    Naturally, it was ours for the taking. But we didn''t just stay in the human


    territory. We spread. We conquered. We ruled.


    And for centuries, we came to be known as Sovereigns.