It was well past nightfall when Lord Typhon rode through the heavy iron gates of his manor, rain still dripping from the hem of his cloak. The wind howled across the courtyard, carrying with it the distant groan of thunder. Eugene stood at the top of the stone stairs, an oil lamp in hand, his face calm and waiting just as he had done for years.
"Milord," Eugene greeted, bowing slightly.
"Eugene," Typhon nodded, passing his soaked cloak into the man's hands.
The two exchanged no further words, but there was a silent understanding between them. Their bond ran deeper than duty, woven from battles, secrets, and the quiet resilience of two men who had outlived many.
As they stepped into the manor, the warmth of the stone halls barely touched the chill clinging to their skin. The dimly lit corridor, lined with flickering torches and the faint scent of damp wood, welcomed them like a brooding beast.
Without looking back, Typhon asked , "The lady. Is she still breathing?"
Eugene followed closely behind, folding the wet cloak neatly over his arm.
"She is, milord," he replied. "Though I wonder how a human with wounds like hers is still alive."
Typhon said nothing. His expression unreadable,
The manor was still cloaked in silence, the scent of damp stone and beeswax lingering in the air. Typhon walked slowly into his study, the soles of his boots echoing softly on the cold stone floor. The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting long shadows that danced along the ancient walls.
He didn't speak at first.
With a weary sigh, Typhon moved to the high-backed chair behind his desk, draping himself into it like a man carrying the weight of too many ghosts. He leaned back, one arm resting along the edge of the chair,
Eugene, already standing nearby with a goblet of something dark and steaming, studied his master quietly. Typhon took the goblet but didn't drink.
Finally, his voice broke the silence, low and sharp.
"Her clan turned on her."
Eugene raised an eyebrow, but his face betrayed little else. "Expected," he muttered. "They're humans, after all. Loyalty is often the first thing they trade when fear whispers."
Typhon's jaw ticked, his gaze fixed on the flames. "They didn't just cast her out. They humiliated her. Her husband Espusio led the charge, called her a traitor, left her to bleed"
Eugene snorted, this time louder
"And she believed herself loved?"
"She was blinded by it," Typhon said, his voice tighter now.
"She's human, milord," Eugene said quietly. "They cling to hope like it's armor, even when it's bleeding."
Typhon didn't respond, only sat back once more and exhaled deeply.
"Let her rest," he finally said. "But watch the doors. I don't trust the night."
Eugene nodded, already turning toward the door. "As you command."
And with that, the Lord sat alone in the flickering warmth of the fire.
******
Aldo's boots echoed softly across the cold stone floor of the dark hall, the air thick with the scent of incense and ancient dust. The only light came from a few dimly lit sconces on the walls, casting flickering shadows over the carved faces of forgotten warriors and fallen kings.
At the center of the shrine stood the Reliquary—an ornate concealment veiled in crimson silk and obsidian trim. And just before it, like a ghost mourning the dead, stood Queen Dalia , her back turned, her pale gown flowing like mist to the floor.
He didn't announce himself—he never had to. His steps were silent, his presence unmistakable. As he drew near, he wrapped his arm gently around her waist, pulling her slightly into his warmth.
"Aldo," she exhaled, his name a mix of relief and restrained longing. She turned slowly to face him, her eyes scanning his features—his long silver hair pulled into a low tail, those piercing violet eyes that missed nothing, and the sharp jawline that held no softness, only steel.
A smirk tugged at the corner of Aldo's lips. "If I may lighten your mood…" he whispered, brushing a lock of her hair from her cheek.
Queen Dalia gave a bitter smile, her voice quiet but sharp as a blade:
"Unless you can force Shem's alliance, Aldo… I doubt you can do anything."
The name Shem hung heavily in the air like a curse.
Aldo's jaw clenched slightly, but he said nothing for a moment. His grip on her waist tightened, not in anger, but in silent defiance.
"They'll come around," he finally said, voice low. "One way or another. Shem has forgotten who kept their walls from crumbling. Perhaps it's time they remembered."
Queen Dalia pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "And if they don't?"
Aldo's purple eyes narrowed. "Then we don't need them. I'll burn their pride to ash if I must."
Aldo's smirk deepened as he leaned in closer, his breath warm against her skin.
"How do you like your recent present? I'm sure Isis fancies it."
His voice was a whisper of mischief and pride.
Dalia chuckled, the sound soft and dangerous.
"It's perfect, Aldo… probably the best you've given me so far."
He gave a triumphant hum.
"Ha! Then I shall give you more," he declared, pulling her closer. "I swear it on my mother's life."
But before the words could settle, her hand shot up and clenched his jaw—firmly, possessively.
Her smile faded just slightly as her eyes bored into his.
"I know," she said simply—no need for thanks, no praise. Just certainty.
Because Aldo always kept his promises…