Lucen Dray

Lucen's twenty-two years didn't come with candles, or chants, or banquets. They came with the echo of water falling on rock, in the cavern hidden beneath the Crystal Falls. The air smelled of iron, ancient magic, and defiance. There he was, standing before the stone-carved altar, worn by decades, marked by scratches, use, and magic. For years he'd waited for this moment. He'd prepared by reading forbidden grimoires, listening to the rumors of wizards and priests, observing every ritual from the shadows. He could. Of course he could! The guidance of the Great Wizard Hegor? Unnecessary. The advice of Winny the Wise Witch? Bah, superstitions. He was the Silver Saint, the pride of Gooth, the warrior who never needed anyone but his sword.

In front of Lucen, the summoning circle he'd clumsily drawn glowed softly. The runes carved on the stones, the red candles, the open book. Everything was set, everything was ready. Lucen smiled faintly, that arrogant smirk only a man confident in his strength could sustain.

Manifest yourself before me, My chosen Deity!

But the universe has its own sense of humor. And that day, when the blood from his palm, cut with the ceremonial dagger, touched the central rune, something responded... But not what he expected.