Late dawn draped Evolon in silver haze. The city still drowsed, its towers half-asleep beneath a paling sky. I stepped from the hotel's threshold with my cloak drawn tight, the chill air threading through the seams of my armor.
Beside me, Carmila moved with effortless poise. Her hood shadowed her face, and the insignia of the Silver Fang Guild gleamed faintly on her shoulder—an identity we had borrowed for the day. The glamour spell muted the fire of her hair and eyes, turning the predator into a mere mercenary.
The streets glimmered with dew. Merchants were only beginning to set up their stalls, and the scent of baking bread drifted through the air like a promise of ordinary life. I found myself slowing, listening to the laughter of two children chasing a mana-driven toy down the curb. For a moment I envied them—the simplicity of ignorance.
"You stare too long," Carmila murmured, voice barely audible. "They will see the soldier in your gaze."
"I know." I turned away. "Old habits."
"Habits born of killing are difficult to hide," she said, tone almost affectionate.
We walked in silence. The further we moved into the western quarter, the thinner the crowd became. The towers gave way to warehouses and offices, the veins of commerce that kept Evolon's heart beating.
Carmila's fingers brushed the edge of her cloak. "Once we cross the next street, speak to no one. The Ashbourne Trade Building is warded. Words can awaken it."
I nodded. The plan was simple: enter as Silver Fang mercenaries contracted for private security work, gain access to the restricted floors, then descend to the hidden section beneath. Fredrick's business empire was only a mask; beneath it lay one of Erebus's supply arteries.
The marble façade of Ashbourne Trade rose ahead, its sigil glinting in the morning light. I could almost feel the hum of mana lines beneath the street, threads of power feeding the wards.
Inside, the lobby was pristine—white stone, golden trim, silence broken only by the faint ticking of a wall clock. The receptionist's eyes flicked up as we entered.
I handed over our forged documents. "Silver Fang assignment, level B clearance. Escort detail."
She examined the seals, then smiled with professional ease. "You're early. The client will appreciate punctuality."
Carmila inclined her head. "We live to please."
The woman gestured toward a corridor lined with brass doors. "Freight elevator, end of the hall. You'll find security waiting."
We thanked her and moved on. My palms itched. Each step toward that elevator felt like a descent through layers of deception—first theirs, then ours.
When the door closed behind us, the noise of the upper floors vanished. The elevator rune flared blue, then sank into a crimson hue I didn't like.
"He knows," Carmila whispered.
"Maybe." I reached for the sword at my hip. "But we're already here."
The elevator began to move—not downward at first, but sideways, sliding through unseen passages. The walls around us pulsed faintly as if alive. My reflection in the metal looked ghost-pale.
Then came the lurch of true descent. The runes flickered from crimson to black, and the air turned cold enough to bite.
When the doors opened, the world had changed.
Stone corridors stretched before us, lit by weak mana lamps whose glow barely held back the dark. The walls were slick, sweating moisture that smelled faintly of iron. Somewhere in the distance, something scraped along stone.
We walked in silence. Each breath left a ghost of mist.
The first turn revealed an antechamber where two guards waited, dressed in merchant uniforms but carrying short spears infused with demonic runes. Their eyes were wrong—pupils ringed with red, smiles too still.
Carmila moved before I could speak. Her hand lifted, fingers slicing the air. A ripple of crimson light curved outward, shaping itself into a dagger of living blood. It flew silently; two heartbeats later, both men fell without a sound.
The weapon dissolved back into vapor, absorbed once more by her veins. She gave me a small, knowing smile.
"Your turn next time."
I shook my head. "You always take the easy kills."
"I enjoy the practice."
We pressed on. The corridor sloped downward, twisting through narrow turns until the hum of mana grew stronger. Runes crawled across the floor like veins, feeding on residual energy from the ritual ahead.
At the final door, we paused. It was carved of black ironwood, marked with sigils older than the kingdom itself.
I drew a breath. "Once we go through, there's no going back."
"Then why hesitate?"
I almost smiled. "Because I've learned what waits behind doors like this."
Carmila placed a hand on the sigil. Her blood magic flared, and the ancient lock sighed open.
Cold air poured out, carrying the faint stench of death.
We stepped through. The light behind us shrank to a thread, swallowed by the dark ahead. Each sound we made—the brush of cloth, the click of a buckle—seemed to echo forever. The passage descended in a slow spiral, its walls scored with symbols that bled faint crimson light.
I let a wisp of aura seep into my palm. The faint blue shimmer steadied my breath, pushing back the creeping chill. "He built this right under the guild inspections," I murmured. "How long has it been here?"
"Long enough for the stones to remember the screams," Carmila whispered.
Her words weren't poetic exaggeration. The air itself carried echoes: thin, distant sobs, perhaps remnants of mana imprinted by dying minds. My throat tightened. Every step felt heavier.
We reached the final bend. A glow pulsed beyond it—dull red, heartbeat-slow. Carmila's eyes met mine; beneath her glamour they flashed scarlet. She nodded once. We moved.
The corridor opened into a vast chamber hollowed from black stone. At first the floor looked patterned, a spiraling mosaic. Then the truth came into focus.
Bodies. Dozens of them, arrayed in circles like offerings. Adults, elders, children. The blood that once linked them had long dried, leaving dark trails that converged at a raised dais in the center. Around it, candles of congealed crimson burned without flame, casting a dull light that turned every shadow into a wound.
I froze. The smell hit me—iron and incense, rot beneath sweet perfume. My stomach twisted; the memory of other battlefields rushed up unbidden.
Focus, Adrian. Feel, then master it.
I forced my hand to unclench. The sword stayed sheathed, but my knuckles ached.
Carmila knelt beside one of the bodies—a young woman, eyes glassy, hand outstretched as if she had reached for someone. The vampire's composure faltered; her shoulders trembled once before she drew in a slow breath and smoothed the woman's eyelids shut.
"They used every drop," she said softly. "Even the air tastes of it."
Her calm returned, brittle but deliberate. She stood and pointed toward the dais. "Look."
I followed her gaze. In the center of the altar rested an obsidian idol no larger than a child's head, carved in the likeness of something that had never been human. Faint runes shimmered across its surface, drawing in the residual mana from the corpses. Each pulse fed the chamber with low, hungry vibration.
I crouched, studying the pattern etched beneath the idol. "It's a siphon. Whoever completes the ritual draws their strength from these souls."
"Fredrick," she breathed.
The name was enough to make the temperature drop. Somewhere deeper in the chamber, footsteps sounded—slow, measured, certain.
Carmila's cloak fluttered as she stepped closer to me, her blood magic already whispering at the edge of hearing.
Three figures emerged from the far shadows. Fredrick Antonio walked at their head, his fine coat replaced by dark armor inscribed with glowing red veins. Behind him came two lieutenants: a woman in plated leather carrying twin curved blades, and a gaunt man whose hands crackled with dim violet lightning.
Fredrick's smile was almost polite. "So this is the one they whisper about," he said, voice echoing through the chamber. "The ghost boy who vanished from his noble house, the disgrace they once mocked for weakness."
He began to circle slowly, eyes gleaming with dark amusement. "I remember the stories—how your family cast you aside, how even your fiancée and sister turned their gaze from you. A boy too frail to hold a sword, too soft to bear a name. Then, one day, gone. No farewell, no trace. And when you returned…"
His gaze flicked over the white strands that framed my face. "You carried the mark of struggle. Hair turned from black to white, eyes like sharpened ice. You walked into the academy entrance exam and tore through every contender. Even the instructors hesitated to stop you."
Fredrick's smirk deepened. "They say you didn't just pass, Adrian Kaelthorn—you conquered. The fallen noble who rose from ash and blood to become the sovereign of the academy itself. A fine story."
I said nothing. The words coiled in the air between us, heavy with memory. I remembered the laughter, the disdain, the endless nights spent carving myself into something that could never be broken again. The pain was still there, deep beneath the scars—but it no longer ruled me.
"You talk too much," I said at last, my voice low and even. "You think naming my scars gives you power. It doesn't."
Fredrick's expression hardened. The humor vanished, replaced by cold intent. "Then let's see what your power amounts to, Sovereign."
Carmila's voice slid between us, low and dangerous. "Enough talk."
Her aura ignited, a ripple of red mist that condensed into slender blades orbiting her like a halo. Each shimmered with fluid motion, daggers of blood poised to strike.
Fredrick's smile returned, brittle and cruel. "Then come. Show me the strength that turned mockery into legend."
I moved to stand beside her. The hilt of my sword was warm beneath my palm, aura already whispering along the edge. My heartbeat slowed, the world narrowing to the space between us.
For a breath, silence reigned—the kind that lives only at the edge of violence. The candles trembled, their red light flaring once before dimming.
Carmila's floating blades turned toward the enemy. Fredrick raised his hand; the runes on the floor began to glow, awakening the dormant circle. The air thickened, humming with the promise of blood.
I drew my sword.
The sound was clean and final, steel slicing through the hush. Aura blazed along the blade, pale and merciless.
Fredrick's smile vanished. The moment before the storm stretched thin as a heartbeat.
Then the world held its breath.