Lígia walked through the corridors as if her soul was still wrapped in the sheets of sleep. Each step was a dragged effort, her body enveloped by a silence that only the sound of her own footsteps broke.
The day was cool, with the subtle scent of the flowers that were blooming in the gardens filtering through the open windows. Still, she seemed immune to the gentle beauty of the morning.
It was when she turned one of the long corridors of the wing that she saw the slender and imposing figure of Vael. He was standing exactly five steps away. His posture was straight, his hands elegantly clasped behind his back, his hair tied in a low ponytail and his gaze calm but attentive.
Upon seeing her, he slightly inclined his head in greeting, the exact bow that protocol required.
Lígia lifted her chin slightly, and without a word, she continued walking until she reached him. As soon as she passed him, Vael began to follow her, staying exactly one step behind, with the respectful silence of someone who understands the power of modesty.
The carpet caressed her feet with each step, muffling the sound. The air was filled with the scent of spiced black tea and fresh bread coming from the hall. When the tall double doors opened with the gentle push of a servant, Ligia entered the hall.
Clarisse was already at the table, dressed in a light blue dress with lace, her eyes bright at the sight of her.
" Li!" she waved her little hand excitedly, her cheeks as pink as ripe apples.
A real smile, small and warm, appeared on her lips. She sat next to her sister, the servants moving like well-trained shadows around the table.
"Where is my father?" Ligia asked bluntly, her eyes scanning the long table where he, as always, should already be seated.
Vael, to her left, inclined his head.
"The Duke will be present shortly. He has been detained by an urgent letter from the Order of the North."
Before Ligia could respond, the sound of doors opening echoed through the hall.
All the servants stopped, as if time had held its breath.
The figure that entered was imposing. The Duke needed no announcement.
Dressed in dark-toned clothes, fabric embroidered with antique silver, his intense violet eyes swept the hall with a cold but calculated gaze. There was the weight of ancient blood in him, something in his walk that reminded one of the wolves of the first era—steady, silent, predatory.
He walked to the head of the table. Clarisse shrank a little in respect, and Ligia looked at him directly.
" Daughters," he said in a deep, slow voice, " Good morning."
Ligia settled in her chair. Clarisse murmured in her fantasies.
" Where is Dorian?" Ligia asked him, fork in hand, her voice gliding through the hall.
The duke did not respond immediately. Instead, with a practiced and meticulous calm, he took some fresh strawberries from the center of the silver table and carefully placed them on Clarisse's plate, who offered him a sweet, toothless smile.
Only then did his eyes lift, cold as wet steel. "He is in his personal mansion. He will not be coming for breakfast."
Lígia nodded, just a small gesture that she understood or at least accepted.
There was no room for drama in their new routine; and if there was one thing that the House of Argêntea valued, it was composure.
Silence then fell like snow among the family members, but it was not uncomfortable—it was disciplined.
The sound of fine silverware against porcelain was almost melodic. The maids moved like well-mannered shadows, filling glasses, changing plates, as if they were part of the furniture.
Clarisse, oblivious to the implicit tension, chattered about the fairies in the greenhouse garden, describing in detail an imaginary conversation she had had with a "unicorn of shadow and sugar."
Lígia listened, smiling slightly, as if that fragment of childhood fantasy were a refuge.
"And then he told me that I can fly if I eat five petals of a magic rose!" Clarisse exclaimed, her eyes shining.
"Only five?" teased Lígia, with a smile on the corner of her lips. "I thought unicorns were more demanding…"
They laughed softly.
The duke watched the two with sharp eyes, but there was something in his shine... Maybe it was affection.
And then, when the last sips of tea had been taken and the maids began to clear the table, the duke stood up. The chair made a soft sound of wood being released from his weight.
"Lígia," he said, his voice filling the space effortlessly, "The Awakening ritual will take place on the night of the Blood Moon."
Clarisse blinked, confused, as if she hadn't understood. But Lígia did.
Lígia was about to respond, but she stopped herself. She took a deep breath, looked away at her sister, who was still frowning, trying to comprehend those words, and then rose from the chair with the same grace she had learned during etiquette lessons.
She bowed her head slightly to her father, as if accepting a mission and not an order. Her eyes said the rest.
The duke didn't smile. He just nodded.
As he left the hall, Clarisse ran beside him, small and excited. "Are you going out? Already? But what about today's drawings?"
Lígia stopped, and then leaned in slightly, her fingers lightly touching the girl's brown hair.
"How about another day, strawberry fairy. I need to... train to fly."
Clarisse wrinkled her nose, and then smiled.
"Then bring me sweet clouds!"
Lígia laughed, waved two fingers goodbye to her father and then walked on, leaving behind the sound of the hall, the echoes of the words and the memory of the sweet and subtle taste of childhood.
She didn't know if she would smile the same way again after that night.
Outside, the wind cut through the clouds like invisible blades, dragging cold currents through the highest towers of the estate.
Hovering in the sky like a silent sentinel, Dorian watched the main mansion from above, his eyes half-closed in the golden sunlight.
Down below, Ligia moved through the stone and glass corridors, escorted by her butler.
Dorian watched her with the precision and calm of an old man.
Vael kept a ceremonial pace behind her, his face as inscrutable as an ivory sphinx. The two of them walked through the corridors toward the east wing, where the servants were preparing the costumes and symbolic rituals for the ritual.
Ligia seemed calm. Or at least resigned. Her movements were fluid, like those of someone who has accepted a role she did not ask for but does not refuse.
Dorian remained silent for a few more moments, mentally recording her every gesture, every turn of her head, every restrained step.
Her gaze was calculated, but there was a shadow there—the same one that had been emerging when he thought of what she was about to inherit. And then, without warning, her body glowed faintly with the silver light of spatial distortion.
"Crux Spatialis."
The air around him rippled. Reality twisted into a runic spiral, and in the blink of an eye, Dorian was gone.
Somewhere, wind chimes were clanging against the black stone pillars, echoing with an ancient harmony. The shrine rose up into the mountains, carved into the rock itself, guarded by hooded statues that seemed to peer into the soul.
Harry, dressed in a rumpled navy blue robe, was in the middle of a rather... sloppy meditation. His legs were crossed wrong, the incense was unlit, and he was muttering about a protection charm that clearly wasn't working.
Then, in a sharp burst of energy, Dorian appeared at his side.
Harry jumped awkwardly. "VELMOR'S PANTIES!" he shouted, stumbling backward and knocking over a ceremonial vase. "YOU'RE SICK! DON'T DO THAT!"
Dorian merely arched an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest with an expression somewhere between boredom and affectionate contempt.
"When will you get used to it?"
Harry sighed, picking up the vase with the care of a monk but the humor of a weary old man.
"When you stop appearing out of nowhere like a nightmare of pure mana, perhaps."
Dorian didn't answer right away. He walked to the center, where light filtered through bloodstained stained glass. His fingers touched the edge of the consecrated stone, and his gaze was lost for a moment.
Harry stepped closer, his voice lower. "Have you seen her?"
Dorian nodded.
"She's getting ready."
Harry drummed his fingers on his waist.
"And does she look ready?"
Dorian took a while to answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, but firm.
"No one is ready for what comes with the Awakening."
The silence between them was filled with the sound of wind chimes.
Harry, always the more human of the two, always the one who talked too much and felt too much, looked up at the high ceiling of the temple and said,
"Then we prepare ourselves for when the blood begins to sing."
Dorian looked at him, and for a moment, he smiled.
A rare smile, like the sun on a winter's day.