They were called the Children of Glory.
The direct descendants of Arin Veyla,
the bloodline of the Hero of Light.
For five hundred years, the House of Veyla had been praised,
worshiped,
honored.
And slowly,
generation after generation,
the burden of that legacy twisted into pride.
At the Academy of Heroes,
they stood above the others.
Golden armor polished brighter than the sun.
Emblems sewn in silver and crimson.
Swords engraved with ancient oaths of the First Savior.
When they walked the marble halls,
others stepped aside.
When they spoke,
others listened.
When they judged,
others obeyed.
And the Children of Glory believed it was their birthright.
Not earned.
Inherited.
They whispered to each other behind marble columns:
"We are the pure blood of Light.
We are the true heirs of the world.
The others… are just shadows."
Students born of farmers, merchants, and common bloodlines were treated as lesser.
Dismissed.
Mocked.
Feared.
"Tarnished."
"Lesser Light."
"Ashborn."
New insults born in old tongues.
And slowly,
the Academy of Heroes — meant to unify —
began to divide.
Hidden duels in the training grounds.
Whispers of sabotage in classes.
Fierce competitions designed not to train,
but to humiliate.
The teachers saw it.
The masters whispered about it.
But none dared confront it.
Because the blood of Arin was sacred.
Because the House of Veyla held the world's loyalty.
Because even corrupted light still blinded those who worshiped it too long.
Not all Children of Glory were cruel.
Some still believed in the old dreams.
Some still remembered the true oaths.
But enough had fallen into pride.
Enough had turned the Academy into something Arin would have wept to see.
A place of fear.
A place of silent war.
A place where students wore smiles over knives.
And the seeds of hatred grew.
Fed by arrogance.
Fed by division.
Fed by a broken memory of a war no one truly understood.
The Academy trained heroes.
The Academy trained monsters.
And sometimes…
they were the same.
In hidden halls, students practiced darker arts.
Forbidden magic.
Ancient weapons.
Secrets whispered by forgotten spirits.
And in the deepest vaults of the Academy,
sealed behind sigils older than kingdoms,
something pulsed.
Something called.
Something waited.
Because when pride blinds a people,
when fear rots their hearts,
when hatred becomes law…
the Abyss does not need to invade.
It is born from within.
The Children of Glory stood atop marble steps,
gazing down at the world they thought they ruled.
But they had forgotten.
Arin fought for the broken.
Not the pure.
Arin died for the forgotten.
Not the crowned.
Arin carried the burden.
Not the crown.
And her children…
had dropped it.
And in the silent places of the Academy…
something was beginning to smile.
Because nothing feeds darkness faster than forgotten dreams.