Two months had passed since Lady Elyra's death.
The once-bright halls of the Noir Estate had grown heavy with quiet routines and colder meals.
Isolde, now twenty-three, had taken charge of the people — managing food, medicine, and the estate's relations with the nearby villages.
Darian, twenty, oversaw the guards and the internal security of the estate, patrolling from dawn to dusk.
Their father, Auren de Noir, handled only the affairs beyond their borders — trade, diplomacy, and the whispering tension from the capital.
That night, the family gathered for dinner.
No one spoke.
Only the faint clinking of silver echoed through the room.
The candlelight flickered against faces that no longer smiled.
Isolde tried — as she always did — to lift the air.
She mentioned the village harvest, the children at the orphanage, even the newly planted gardens.
Her voice carried hope, but every answer she received was short, cold, or a quiet nod.
Eventually, she stopped trying.
The silence returned, thick and heavy.
When the plates were nearly empty, Valen finally spoke, his tone polite but distant.
"Father, may I be excused?"
Auren looked up slowly, his dark eyes sharp and unreadable.
"Sit down, Valen."
The room went still again. Even the air seemed to hesitate.
Auren placed his fork aside and leaned forward slightly.
"For some time now," he began, his voice deep and controlled, "our spies beyond Mount Noir have sent reports.
The demon tribes are moving. Preparing.
The King and those rats around him believe otherwise — they cling to their so-called peace pact with the Demon King."
His lip twitched.
"A fool's comfort. The enemy is close to our borders. When war comes, the first to bleed will be us."
He paused, his gaze sweeping across his children. "The only fortune we have is time. That is why, starting today, I will teach you our family's sacred art — The Blood Sword.
It is forbidden by the King's decree for any of our heirs to wield it, but laws mean little when the world itself is cracking."
He straightened his back. The firelight reflected in his eyes like dying embers.
"Do not expect to master it. True mastery takes a lifetime, and few ever achieve it.
But you must understand its essence, enough to wield it when the time comes.
Our spies estimate the enemy will strike in five years.
They will wait until they are many enough to ensure swift victory. They know they must break us first — the shield that guards the realm."
Auren's voice lowered, more solemn now.
"We are the House of Noir — and this land is the barrier that keeps the darkness from spreading.
So become strong. Strong enough to survive.
Your mother would have wanted it.
So live, and grow, my children. Live, even when hope dies."
He leaned back, silent once more.
No one replied.
Isolde looked down at her hands, trembling slightly.
Darian gave a brief, obedient nod.
Valen said nothing — he only stared at his reflection in the wine glass, as if trying to recognize the person he'd become.
When dinner ended, everyone left without a word.
Only the candles remained, flickering softly against the walls —
as if the house itself was trying to remember how to breathe.
Early in the morning, every member of House Noir gathered in the practice yard.
The knights had been relocated elsewhere; this training was not meant for outsiders.
The Blood Technique belonged only to the family — it had to remain within their bloodline.
The air was cold and still. The siblings stood in a line — Isolde, Darian, and Valen — facing their father, Auren de Noir, who held a sheathed sword at his side.
Auren's gaze swept over them.
"Today," he began, "you will learn what has protected our name for centuries — and what has destroyed just as many of our ancestors."
He lifted his blade and spoke with grave calm.
"The Blood Technique allows the wielder to bind their life to their weapon.
Your blood becomes the edge, your strength becomes the steel.
The sword feeds on you — but when it drinks the blood of your enemies, your own vitality is restored.
Yet there is a limit to what a body can hold. Exceed that limit, and it will devour you from within."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in.
"The enchantment makes your weapon stronger — sharper, faster, deadlier — but also hungrier.
The blade becomes your mirror. The aura you summon reveals what lives in your soul."
To demonstrate, Auren drew his sword.
A dark, pulsing energy enveloped the steel until it turned completely black — a blade that seemed to drink the morning light itself.
"Black," he said quietly, "means sorrow."
Then, without warning, he moved.
The strike came faster than their eyes could follow — a blur of motion and wind.
The training dummy ahead of him split cleanly in two before the sound even reached them.
The siblings froze in awe. Even Darian, who had trained under him for years, had never seen their father move like that.
He looked less like a man and more like something born of the void itself.
Auren lowered his sword.
"This," he said, "is the core principle of the Blood Technique.
The wielder binds their life essence to the weapon they carry. The blood becomes both blade and energy.
When drawn, it absorbs the wielder's life — sharpening the edge, increasing speed, heightening reflexes.
The reason it takes a lifetime to master is simple: if you use it without taking life, it begins to take yours. Or worse."
His tone hardened.
"So do not overuse it. Today, we focus only on understanding this principle.
When you are ready, we will continue."
The children answered together, their voices filled with determination and reverence.
"Yes, Father. We will try our best."
Auren smiled faintly — a rare, fleeting thing.
"I know you will."
And so their training began.
The demonstration portion was brief — far too dangerous to prolong — but all three practiced the core idea: channeling a fraction of their blood into the blade, feeling its weight shift with life itself.
By the end of the day, exhaustion painted their faces, yet the fire in their eyes remained.
Auren sheathed his sword and looked at them one by one.
"You will reap the fruits of your effort soon enough. But remember — your understanding of this art matters more than performance.
This technique carries great danger. Be careful."
"Yes, Father," they replied in unison.
The lesson ended.
The morning light dimmed to gold.
Darian and Isolde exchanged a brief glance, then turned to Valen.
"Come with us," Darian said softly.
"To the garden," Isolde added.
Valen followed them — to the place where their mother's grave lay, and where the flowers had long stopped blooming.