Elarys held him tightly, as if afraid he might slip away again if she loosened her grip even a fraction. Her arms trembled faintly around his shoulders; the scent of her familiar lavender soap mixed with the sharp herbal tang of the healing room.
"You scared me," she whispered against his shoulder, voice muffled and raw.
"I'm sorry," Vlad replied gently, one hand resting lightly on her back.
She pulled back just enough to look at him properly—eyes red-rimmed, searching his face as though memorizing every detail. Her fingers brushed through his hair, slow and careful, reassuring herself he was truly awake, truly here.
"You were unconscious for three days."
Three days.
To him, it had felt like mere hours drifting in that endless silver sea—time stretched thin, weightless.
"I'm fine now," he said.
And he meant it.
As he slowly pushed himself upright against the pillows, a strange clarity washed over him.
The air felt different.
Lighter.
Clearer.
Mana floated through the room like faint, shimmering threads—delicate silver-blue strands weaving lazily between objects, drifting in the slanted sunlight that poured through the arched window. They pulsed softly around the candle flames, curled along the edges of the embroidered bed curtains, gathered in quiet pools near the stone floor.
He froze.
He could see it.
Beyond the door, hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor—quick, uneven. Voices murmured in restrained urgency, words overlapping like ripples.
The youngest son of Draven has opened his eyes.
The door opened abruptly.
Seraphiel stepped in first—presence firm and commanding even in silence, dark armor polished to a dull gleam, cape draped over one shoulder. Lysera slipped past him almost immediately, moving with the fluid urgency of someone who had crossed kingdoms without rest. Aldric followed close behind, expression calm but eyes sharp.
Lysera ran straight to the bed and wrapped her arms tightly around Vlad, pulling him against her chest.
"You're back…" Her voice trembled faintly—barely audible, but raw with relief.
Vlad smiled softly into her shoulder. "You returned, Sister. I thought you were away."
"I came back because I was worried about you," she said, holding him even tighter. "Do you have any idea how worried I was?"
"Don't worry," Vlad replied lightly. "I won't leave until I fulfill our promise."
Lysera pulled back just enough to meet his eyes—searching, fierce. "You better," she said, laughing through the remnants of her worry, the sound shaky but warm.
Vlad laughed with her—soft but genuine, the first real lightness in days.
Behind them, Seraphiel stood still.
He watched the scene in silence—family reunited, laughter filling the room like sunlight after storm. He also wanted to join them, to embrace his son, to laugh with him, to let the weight on his shoulders ease for even a moment.
He took a small step forward—then stopped.
Aldric gently tapped him on the back. "At least say something to him."
Seraphiel exhaled quietly and walked closer to the bed.
"It is good to see you well, son."
Vlad lowered his gaze respectfully. "I apologize for making you worry, Father."
For a brief moment, Seraphiel paused.
His hand tightened at his side—fingers curling into a fist, knuckles whitening.
Without another word, he turned and walked out of the room.
The door closed softly behind him—almost too gently.
In the corridor, he stopped and leaned back against the cold stone wall, head lowering slightly. Shadows played across his face in the torchlight.
Aldric stepped out a moment later and watched him silently.
After a pause, Seraphiel spoke, voice low and rough.
"Why did you place me upon this cursed throne, Brother?"
Aldric folded his arms.
"You will understand when the time comes."
Seraphiel closed his eyes briefly—long enough for the lines of exhaustion to deepen around them.
Inside the room, laughter still lingered—soft, healing.
Outside, the weight of a kingdom remained.
"Are you not going to speak with Vlad, Brother?" Seraphiel asked quietly.
Aldric turned toward him.
His eyes were only half-open, as though weighed down by thoughts too heavy to share. A faint smile curved across his lips—small, knowing.
"I was just about to head inside," Aldric replied evenly.
Seraphiel studied him for a brief moment, then gave a small nod.
"Then I will not keep you. I will be in the throne room if you need me."
He turned, long cape shifting with the motion, fabric whispering against the stone floor as he strode down the corridor—each step measured, deliberate.
Aldric lowered his head slightly.
Just for a moment.
When he lifted it again—
Seraphiel was gone.
No footsteps.
No lingering presence.
Vanished.
Aldric's faint smile disappeared.
"…Brother," he muttered under his breath.
He stepped forward into the corridor, scanning the empty hall—shadows stretching long and unbroken.
"Don't tell me…"
His expression darkened—jaw tightening, eyes narrowing.
"Damn it, Seraphiel. You better not be heading to Valeren."
He turned sharply and began walking—then broke into a run.
"Kaira!" he called out as he moved through the estate halls, voice echoing off vaulted ceilings.
Guards straightened at the sound—hands snapping to weapons, postures rigid.
"Erik, with me. Now."
The urgency in Aldric's tone left no room for hesitation.
Something was wrong.
"What is it, Lord Aldric?" Erik asked as he rushed toward him, black cloak snapping behind.
Aldric did not waste breath.
He pointed toward the distant courtyard where Kaira waited—massive silver form coiled, wings half-unfurled.
"Take Kaira to Kaishen and bring Lord Raizen to Valeren."
Erik's eyes widened. "Does that mean the Patriarch is—"
"Yes," Aldric cut in. "Seraphiel is already on the move. Go."
There was no time for hesitation.
Erik mounted Kaira in one fluid motion; the great beast launched into the sky with a thunderous beat of wings—wind splitting in her wake, banners tearing loose from nearby towers.
"Lucas," Aldric said without turning, "stay behind. Protect the capital."
And then—
He was gone.
The ground where he stood cracked faintly from the force of his departure. A ripple of displaced air marked the path he carved into the sky before even that vanished.
Unaware of the chaos outside Valeren, King Caelum Valeren sat in council.
The throne hall was heavy with incense and tension—tall braziers burning low, casting flickering shadows across marble pillars and the assembled nobles.
"Any word from the scouts?" Caelum asked calmly, fingers steepled.
"There is nothing significant in the letter sent from Kaishen, my lord," one advisor replied, bowing low.
"And Draven?"
The room tightened.
The advisors exchanged uneasy glances—eyes darting, throats clearing.
"We have not received any letter from the unit dispatched there, my lord. We… believe they might have been intercepted."
A wine glass shot past the speaker's face.
It shattered against the wall in an eruption of red—shards glittering like blood drops on marble.
"I instructed you," Caelum said softly, dangerously, "to send only elites to Draven."
No one spoke.
Silence hung like a noose.
Caelum leaned back slowly—throne creaking under armored weight.
"I hope you know that if they caused any trouble in Draven…" His gaze darkened, pupils narrowing to slits. "Seraphiel will not remain seated."
In the meantime, at House Kaishen—
Kaira descended like a falling star before the towering gates—wings flaring wide, silver scales flashing in the late sun. Dust billowed upward in violent spirals; guards rushed forward, spears leveled, moving into fighting stances until a voice cut through the tension.
"Stand down."
The guards parted instantly.
Raizen Kaishen stepped forward—towering, composed, dark hair bound back, armor etched with golden lightning motifs.
Erik dismounted immediately and bowed low.
"I come at Lord Aldric's request."
Raizen's brow furrowed—deep lines carving his forehead.
"Speak."
Erik explained—quick, precise.
Raizen exhaled sharply and rubbed his temple.
"That fool…"
He stepped forward.
"There's no time to waste talking. We move now."
Both mounted Kaira.
She surged skyward again—tearing through the clouds toward Valeren, a streak of frost and fury against the darkening horizon.
Aldric was moving through the forest like a fracture in reality.
Trees blurred past in streaks of green and brown.
The earth barely registered his steps—boots barely touching soil before launching forward again.
He did not teleport.
He advanced so violently fast that distance surrendered before him—air parting in sharp cracks, leaves whipping into sudden whirlwinds behind.
He conserved mana carefully.
If Seraphiel had truly lost control—
He would need every ounce of it.
"I hope," Aldric muttered to himself, voice low against the rushing wind, "I am not too late."
Meanwhile, the doors to the Valeren Throne Hall opened with a resonant groan.
"His Majesty, King Caelum Valeren."
Nobles rose as Caelum entered—tall, silver-haired, crowned in black iron and sapphire. Knight Captain Vaelor Caedryn followed behind like a shadow carved in steel—armor matte black, face hidden behind a visored helm.
He took his throne.
The queen seated beside him—expression serene, hands folded.
Duke Altheris Vaelmont stepped forward—robes heavy with gold thread.
"Greetings, my king."
"Speak."
"My king, House Vaelmont would—"
The palace shook.
An explosion thundered through the halls—deep, bone-rattling.
Stone screamed.
The nobles erupted in murmurs—chairs scraping, voices rising.
"Silence," Caelum commanded.
Instant stillness.
He glanced toward Vaelor.
Vaelor understood without further instruction.
"Is Kaelis brawling with the Order again?" Caelum asked dryly.
"It would not surprise me, my king," Vaelor replied evenly. "His arrogance has grown."
"I will discipline them."
Vaelor stepped forward.
"I will come with you," Caelum said, rising.
"My king—" Duke Altheris began.
"I will hear you later."
The doors closed behind them.
They stepped onto the wide balcony overlooking the courtyard.
And the sight below froze the breath in Caelum's lungs.
The main gates—
Gone.
Blown inward—iron twisted into grotesque spirals, impaled into stone like broken teeth. Decorated with the broken bodies of Valeren knights—armor rent, limbs bent at impossible angles. Blood drenched the white marble in wide, glistening pools. A single crimson trail carved violently across the courtyard—drag marks smeared with gore.
At the end of it—
A knight drenched in blood.
Screaming.
His voice tore through the palace grounds as he was dragged across the stone—armored fingers clawing uselessly at the marble, leaving streaks where his nails split and bent backward. His legs kicked weakly; armor scraped, metal shrieking against stone in long, grating wails.
Caelum's eyes followed the trail.
To the one dragging him.
"Seraphiel…?" Caelum's voice trembled—barely audible.
Vaelor stepped forward beside him—
And froze.
His hand tightened around the hilt at his waist—though he did not draw it. It shook despite himself.
Seraphiel stood in the ruin.
White robes—now streaked with crimson arcs, as though painted by violent brushstrokes. Around him, wounded knights crawled—some begging in broken whispers, some screaming, some too broken to move.
His silver hair did not stir in the wind.
Smoke parted around him like reverence.
In one hand, he dragged the knight by the leg—casual, almost careless.
The knight's chestplate was crushed inward—metal warped like softened wax. Each pull forced a broken scream from his lungs. The grinding scrape of armor against marble echoed relentlessly through the courtyard.
Seraphiel stopped.
Slowly—
He looked up.
His eyes met Caelum's.
And in a voice barely above a whisper—
"Incinerate."
Flame erupted.
Not around the knight.
From within him.
Fire burst through the cracks in his armor—pouring from his mouth as his scream rose into something inhuman. His body arched violently; fingers dug into stone until they snapped backward with wet cracks.
The smell of burning flesh filled the air—acrid, choking.
Knights nearby recoiled in horror. One tried to crawl away—legs dragging uselessly. Another vomited onto the marble.
Seraphiel stood before the inferno—the flames illuminating his features in gold and red.
And he smiled.
The same smile he had shown Aldric.
Calm.
Too calm.
"Your knights gave me quite the welcome, Caelum," Seraphiel called up lightly, as the burning screams behind him began to weaken. "I hope the explosion did not interrupt anything important."
The fire died.
The body collapsed into charred stillness—smoke curling lazily upward.
His smile widened.
The air around him trembled.
Not with mana.
With pressure.
Several knights dropped to their knees—clutching their chests as if something invisible pressed against their ribs. A crack split the marble beneath Seraphiel's feet without him moving.
Caelum's hands tightened against the balcony railing—hard enough for the stone to fracture under his grip, dust sifting down.
"Seraphiel…!"
He shouted with everything in his lungs.