Brianna stepped back a step, her eyes still fixed on the figure before her. A strange sensation began to form in her chest — a cutting, intense cold that seemed to emanate from him, from the guard himself. The energy was ancient, ancient as forgotten legends, and pulsed with a power that no mortal could comprehend.
Before anyone could react, the impulse arose: her hands rose instinctively, and the space around distorted. In a blinding instant, the ground disappeared beneath their feet, and they were transported to an ancient and secret place in the castle.
When sight returned, they were in the central circle where an ancient altar rose, the air heavy with ancient energy. Around, cells already contained the nobles that Brianna had captured before — men and women who had supported the former count, now imprisoned, their looks reflecting fear, anger and resignation.
The prince cast a cold look around the central circle, his eyes evaluating every detail with almost surgical precision.
"Ah, of course," he said, irony escaping at the tip of his voice, but in such a contained way that it almost seemed like a mask. "Nothing like an ancient altar full of prisoners and strange energy to liven up the day, is there?"
Brianna frowned, her gaze scanning the central circle and the ancient altar. Incredulity showed in her voice.
"How…?" she began, almost whispering, but urgency made her voice rise. "All the altars… all the priests… are dead. How did you manage to leave the Abyss?"
"Well, that's something you will have to discover on your own," the prince said, arching an eyebrow. "But I'll make it easier: she likes pink. Not just any pink, of course, but the one that burns before blooming."
Brianna widened her eyes. "Isabela? Don't tell me she destroyed the last…"
"Bingo," he replied, with a contained smile. "And here we are, contemplating the shards of the past. But, let me ask: how do you intend to deal with a body that insists on remaining in danger while all eyes turn to it?"
"Why would I do that?" Brianna retorted. "I can simply leave him here until he dies."
"Naturally," he said, with the calm of someone dictating the rules of a game only he knows. "But don't forget: leaving pieces to chance can make the board much crueller than you imagine."
"And yet," Brianna replied, firm and calculating, "not always does the one who dictates the rules know all the pieces of the board. Some learn too quickly, and others… too late. Perhaps, prince, the true game is not in winning or losing… but in knowing which moves are worth risking."
"Fascinating," he said, arching his eyebrow, the corner of his mouth curving into a contained smile. "I see my adversary not only observes the board, but knows how to play."
"Before making any decision, let me tell you something," the prince said, his voice low, cutting, as if carrying the weight of a tomb. "There was a prince, many years ago, who fell in love with his own half-sister. A forbidden, monstrous love that grew inside him like an open wound, bleeding in silence, consuming his reason."
"He tried to contain himself. He tried to suffocate that obsession that devoured him from within. He waited years… until he finally took the throne. But power did not erase the madness that inhabited his heart. And on a cruel and inevitable night, he took her by force, consumed by a desire that had never been tamed."
"Months later, a child was born…" he swallowed dryly, his dark eyes immersed in memories that seemed painfully alive. "Hair white as the snow that covers corpses, eyes red as embers, skin so pale it seemed drained of all light and heat. A child cursed from birth, condemned never to touch the sun, never to know a day without pain."
The prince clenched his fists, his voice growing heavier.
"The mother died early, and the king, taken by hate and fury, blamed the little prince for everything. He was locked in absolute darkness, isolated, ignored. He grew up surrounded by contempt and the rancor of everyone. Each breath was a reminder of the world that hated him, each step an act of resistance against existence itself."
"When he finally received a mission that could give him recognition, there was no forgiveness, no love. Only the cruel choice: fail and be annihilated, or risk everything and perhaps, just perhaps, survive the weight of his own curse."
He raised his eyes, somber, fixed on Brianna, a cold and ironic smile appearing at the corners of his mouth.
"And tell me, Brianna… do you know what happened after the little prince left?"
Brianna let out a laugh — first short, incredulous; then, as if something inside her exploded, the laughter became an angry voice:
"I understand where you want to go," she said, regaining composure and facing him with eyes that now burned. "But there is still something that doesn't fit. Why does he want him dead?"?"
The prince smiled, a cold gesture that did not reach his eyes.
"You are clever, think: how did the count discover something about summoning? Do you think he had easy access to that kind of knowledge?" he said, the words falling like blades.
Brianna tilted her head, her mind working fast, connecting pieces that before seemed disconnected.
"Don't tell me…" she murmured, almost to herself — "he was involved in the count's revolt… in the search for the fall of the emperors."
A chill ran down her spine.
"With the count dead," he continued, his voice low, loaded with irony and fear, "he no longer has the hunger for ancient information. What he wants now is to cover up his own involvement."
The prince raised his eyebrows, interrupting her with a cold, almost amused smile:
"Exactly. Now, with your permission… let me guess. Perhaps the death of one of your beloved children?"
The prince pondered, his fingers brushing his chin. His voice came soft, almost playful, but there was calculation in every syllable:
"So you can leave this body to rot and find its death by the king's hand, or fix this and we can talk about how we will kill him," he concluded with a smile.
Brianna opened her mouth, then closed it. There was hardness in her face, and in it, no compassion.
"I will do what is necessary," she said, in a cutting tone — "but first: tell me your true name. Only then will I continue."
The prince raised an eyebrow, the smile shrinking until it became something almost cruel.
"Do you know what it means to know the true name of someone who came from the Abyss?" he asked, defiant.
"I know very well," was Brianna's dry answer. "Then tell me," she added, "if not, I'll leave him rotting here and try to make a deal with the king."
He paused, as if weighing the next words.
"I could just wait for another victim and take his body," he retorted, as if that alternative were trivial.
Brianna's eyes narrowed.
"If you could do that now, you would not be so desperate to stabilize yourself outside the Abyss," she said. "So tell me: what is your name?"
The prince stared at her for a moment that seemed to last an eternity. There was contained laughter at the corners of his lips when, finally, he spoke:
"You may call me Typhon. An old acquaintance of Zeus." His voice had the same coldness as the blade. "You are… a Greek creature, aren't you?"
Brianna raised an eyebrow, surprised and, for a moment, curious.
"How do you know that?" she asked.
"That you will have to discover on your own," he replied, with an enigmatic glint in his eyes — "but I'll leave a hint: there is a goddess who could be called 'mother of the Earth.'"
The prince smiled, satisfied with himself, and added, almost distracted:
"So Gaia also walks these lands. Interesting."
The name hung in the air like a veiled threat. Brianna felt a icy current run down her spine — the conversation had taken a turn that was not only political nor only personal. There were ancient forces, forbidden names, alliances to forge — and, at the center of it all, the body of a prince who could be nothing more than a coin to be played on a board where even the light seemed unsafe.
She clenched her fists. The laughter had disappeared; in its place, a calm as sharp as glass.
"Very well, Typhon," Brianna said, her voice low, firm, and loaded with lethal irony. "Tell me what you know."
As the heavy silence spread through the room, Ereon reached the gates of the Marquisate castle. Crossing the walls unnoticed, he advanced through the inner courtyard — until spears rose before him. The guards surrounded him in silence, forming a rigid barrier.
"Who are you?" one of the guards asked, the spear's blade shining under the sun. "How did you manage to pass the walls unnoticed?"
Ereon pushed his hood back with a dry gesture. His black hair, with long streaks, messy and disordered, fell to the nape and partially over his eyes, which were as black as the vast darkness of night. The pale skin of his face contrasted with the darkness of his hair and eyes, giving him an almost ethereal and impossible-to-ignore appearance.
"Call Brianna," he said, voice firm. "Or Kael. Now."
The guards looked at each other. Silence. No one recognized him immediately; no one moved. One of them, more arrogant, stepped forward, pointing the spear as if wanting to push him back.
"State your name," ordered the captain, a short-bearded man who kept calm as a profession. "We do not give passage to anyone who crosses the walls alone."
Ereon breathed deeply, exhaustion evident for a moment. Then, with his left hand, he raised his neck, showing a mark: a stylized black raven, wings open, inscribed in the center of a perfect geometric composition. The symbol represented the union of a group.
The captain frowned, his eyes narrowing as he recognized the mark. "I understand… you are Ereon," he murmured, almost to himself. "The Lady warned about this symbol and about the position of each group member. But currently things have been chaotic since the prince's arrival. I will guide you, but first… could you inform me?"
Ereon approached the stairway, firm, facing the captain. "Her name is Medea," he said, in a firm voice — "and she is with me. That is all you need to know."