Crimson embers danced through the midnight air as the once-glorious halls of House Malhan were swallowed by fire.
Ashvik Malhan, Lord of the Second Noble House, stood like a steel wall, his robes torn, blood dripping from a gash on his forehead. Six masked assassins, cloaked in black, moved with deadly precision around him—shadows with steel fangs. Their blades sang as they clashed against his, sparks flying, footwork graceful yet merciless.
Behind him, Isha Malhan, his pregnant wife, clutched their terrified five-years-old son, Shaurya. Her eyes were wild with panic, and her trembling arms wrapped tightly around the boy. But, the boy showed courage had threw some offensive spell on assassins but it was weak and they easily dodged it.
One assassin attacked—Ashvik parried—but another struck from behind, slashing across his back. He stumbled. Blood sprayed across the scorched marble. His knees hit the floor, sword slipping from his hand.
Shaurya screamed, reaching toward his father—but Isha held him back, tears blinding her.
The assassins closed in, blades raised for the final blow.
And then—
"Enough."
A cold wind swept through the inferno. The lead assassin staggered—then fell, blood gushing from a wound that hadn't even been seen.
From the shadows stepped Naren, the head butler of House Malhan. His silver hair was unbound, face marked with age and scars, but his eyes burned with cold fury. In one hand, he held a hidden blade laced with strange runes.
In less than ten seconds, two more assassins fell—clean strikes to the throat and heart. The rest hesitated, fear flashing in their eyes.
That moment was enough.
Soldiers in Malhan colors burst through the smoke. Crossbows fired. The remaining assassins scattered like rats into the firelit corridors.
Ashvik, panting and bloodied, managed to stand. Naren supported him with one hand, the other already shielding Isha and Shaurya.
"My lord," Naren said calmly. "We cannot hold them off forever. We must leave."
Ashvik gave a bitter look at the burning legacy behind him, but he nodded. "Take them. I'll cover—"
"No. You come too," Naren interrupted. "Your life is no longer yours alone."
The group moved quickly through the hidden tunnels beneath the estate, paths only known to a few within House Malhan. The ancient stone passage was filled with darkness, lit only by Naren's grimoires floating ahead.
Kanak Das, now eight-year-old, carried a few salvaged scrolls and clutched Shaurya's hand as they fled. Shaurya was saddened by losing his home, region and its people. But he vowed to take it back someday.