House of Blood

The cold northern rain couldn’t wash away the smell of scorched iron and burnt blood hanging over the east wing.

Workers cleared rubble in quiet panic, but I remained on a stone bench in the lower courtyard, wrapped in a heavy wool cloak.

My chest was tightly bandaged, every breath sending a jagged spike of pain through my cracked ribs.

My hands were shaking.

Not from the chill, and not from the residual heat of my dragon blood.

It was adrenaline.

It was fear.

’He almost had us,’ I thought, my knuckles turning white as I squeezed my knees.

’A fraction of a second slower, and he would have torn my core out through my sternum.’

’You survived, kid,’ Wren murmured softly, her shadowy form draped over my shoulders like a heavy blanket.

’Barely. But you’re breathing.’

’I miscalculated,’ I snarled internally, the cold, analytical strategist persona slipping to reveal the terrified ten-year-old underneath.

’I gathered all those trinkets—the ledger, the scrying stone, the princess’s seal—like they were absolute shields! I thought I was holding all the cards, Wren. I thought I was playing them, but Garren didn’t even care about the game!’

’Hey, look at me,’ Wren snapped, her phantom beak hovering an inch from my silk blindfold.

’You’re smart, Valerian. But you’re ten years old in a body that hasn’t fully bloomed, fighting a four-hundred-year-old war criminal who just sold his soul to star-rot monsters.’

’You’re allowed to get caught off guard.’

’You’re allowed to bleed.’

I didn’t answer.

I leaned forward, pressing my forehead against my knees, trying to suppress the trembling in my frame.

In my past life, I had watched stories where the reborn protagonist moved through every crisis with flawless, unshakeable calm—always three steps ahead, never showing weakness, never making a mistake.

It was a lie.

When a Stage 4 Blood Archon slams his palm through your wall and clamps an invisible vice around your internal organs, you don’t feel like a mastermind.

You feel small.

You feel helpless.

You feel the terrifying weight of your own mortality.

Heavy, measured footsteps approached.

I straightened up quickly, wiping a drop of cold sweat from my jaw and forcing my face back into a blank, unreadable mask.

It was Rook.

The old butler walked with his usual stoic posture, though his immaculate suit was torn at the lapel, and a dark shadow hung beneath his eyes.

”Young Master,” Rook said, bowing respectfully. ”Lady Vespera has convened an emergency council in the War Room. She requests your presence.”

”How is Aura?” I asked, my voice cracking slightly before I could smooth it out.

Rook’s eyes softened with a flicker of genuine grimness.

”Master Alexis managed to seal the wound and stop the internal bleeding. But the dark-blood decay on Garren’s blade was virulent.”

”She is alive, but she will not be able to hold a sword for months.”

I closed my fist tightly, my nails biting into my palm until I felt skin break.

Aura had taken that strike for me.

She was lying in a medical bay with decaying flesh because I had been so arrogant, assuming Garren would wait for a political trial.

”Lead the way, Rook,” I said softly, standing up.

My knees wobbled for a brief second before I stabilized myself.

The War Room was a massive, stone-walled chamber built deep beneath the manor’s central keep.

In the middle of the room sat a tactical projection table, displaying a glowing mana-map of the Northern Marches and the surrounding abyssal borderlands.

Vespera stood at the head of the table.

Her battle scythe was strapped to her back, her posture rigid as iron, though her red eyes were bloodshot.

Caelum leaned against a stone pillar, his massive arms wrapped in thick bandages where Garren’s counter-strike had scorched his flesh.

Alexis sat at the table, surrounded by dozens of urgent communication scrolls, his fingers moving frantically as he dictated orders to messenger bats.

As I entered, all three of my eldest siblings looked up.

”Valerian,” Vespera said, her voice strained.

She stepped forward, reaching out as if to touch my shoulder, but hesitated—sensing the tense, rigid posture I was holding to hide my pain.

”You should be resting. The healers said your chest—”

”I’m fine,” I cut her off, perhaps a little too sharply.

Alexis raised an eyebrow over his spectacles, but Vespera simply swallowed hard, letting her hand drop.

”Garren has crossed the northern border,” Alexis reported, tapping a glowing red marker on the map.

”He took nearly forty elite enforcers from the Sec branch with him.”

”According to our border scouts, they didn’t flee toward the Medeis territory or the Imperial Capital.”

”They’re heading straight for the Frost-Grave Rift,” Caelum growled, slamming his bandaged fist onto the table.

”The ancient seal where the abyssal demons were buried six centuries ago.”

”He used a star-rot amulet to escape,” I spoke up, walking slowly toward the table, keeping my breathing shallow so my broken ribs wouldn’t shift.

”That means he didn’t just align with the Sec branch rebels.”

”He’s working directly with the Abyssal Cult.”

”The Cult of the Shattered Star,” Alexis murmured, his face turning pale.

”If Garren breaks the primary seal at the Frost-Grave Rift...”

”A demon-tide will sweep through the Northern Marches,” Vespera finished coldly.

”It will wipe out the Orc-Blood Barbarian tribes first, then crash directly into our northern gates.”

”The entire region will be reduced to ash.”

”Then we deploy the full Prim Sanguis army,” Caelum barked.

”We march north and crush them before they reach the rift!”

”We can’t,” Alexis countered immediately.

”If we move the main army away from the estate, the other branch families—who are still uncertain about Garren’s treason—might view it as a purge and start an open civil war.”

”Furthermore, the Emperor’s border inspectors are watching us like hawks.”

”One wrong move, and the Imperial Army steps in to place our entire bloodline under military occupation.”

The room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence.

We were trapped.

Move the army, and the clan collapses from civil war and imperial intervention.

Do nothing, and Garren opens an abyssal rift that slaughters millions.

”Then send a strike team,” I said.

Vespera turned to me, her eyes narrowing.

”Valerian...”

”A small, elite vanguard,” I continued, pushing past the sharp pain in my lungs as I stepped closer to the map.

”Fast enough to bypass the imperial checkpoints, quiet enough not to trigger a clan panic, but strong enough to kill Garren before he unseals the rift.”

”It’s suicide for a small team,” Caelum warned.

”Garren is a Stage 4 Archon, and he has thirty Sec branch enforcers plus abyssal cultists.”

”Not if the strike team allies with the locals,” I said, pointing my finger directly at the vast, white expanse on the map surrounding the Frost-Grave Rift.

”The Orc-Blood Nomads.”

”The northern tribes know every inch of those frozen wastes.”

”They hate the abyssal cults more than anyone.”

Alexis stared at the map, his mind processing the logistics at terrifying speed.

”The Orc-Blood Chieftain... Chief Borka... hates the Prim family.”

”We’ve fought three border wars with them in the last century.”

”They hate us, but they survive,” I replied.

”If Garren releases the abyssal tide, their tribes die first.”

”They will fight alongside anyone who offers them a chance to slaughter demons.”

Vespera looked at me for a long, quiet moment.

She saw the dark shadows under my blindfold, the subtle tremor in my hands, and the cold, desperate edge in my voice.

”You want to go with them,” she said softly.

It wasn’t a question.

”I have to,” I admitted, my voice dropping.

”Garren knows my face. He knows my blood.”

”He won’t expect a ten-year-old ’dud’ to be riding with a vanguard into the frozen wastes.”

”And...”

I hesitated, my chest tightening with an emotion I hated to acknowledge—a raw, burning mix of guilt and anger.

”...and I need to be the one who ends him.”

”I brought this storm to our doorstep by playing around in the dark.”

”I’m going to fix it.”

”Valerian, you don’t have to carry—” Vespera started, stepping toward me.

”I DO!” I yelled, the outburst surprising even myself.

The air in the room spiked with a tiny, unstable burst of my ignited dragon blood before I forced it back down.

I took a ragged, painful breath, clutching my ribs as sweat beaded on my forehead.

”I do,” I repeated quieter, looking down at the stone floor.

”Aura is bleeding in the infirmary because I thought I was untouchable.”

”Garren almost tore my heart out because I thought paper ledgers meant victory.”

”I am not sitting in this manor playing the fragile child while people bleed for my mistakes.”

Silence blanketed the War Room.

Caelum looked away, rubbing the back of his neck.

Alexis closed his ledger with a soft sigh.

Vespera walked up to me, kneeling down until her face was level with mine.

She didn’t scold me for shouting.

She didn’t tell me I was too young.

Slowly, carefully, she wrapped her arms around my shoulders, pulling me into a firm, protective embrace, mindful of my injured ribs.

”You are a child, Valerian,” she whispered against my silver hair, her voice thick with emotion.

”You are allowed to make mistakes.”

”You are allowed to be afraid.”

I stood frozen in her arms for a second, my hands clenching into her shoulder armor.

For a single moment, the cold, reborn strategist disappeared, and I was just a bruised, terrified boy holding onto his older sister.

”We leave at dawn,” Vespera said, pulling back and looking into my blindfolded face with fierce, unshakeable pride.

”Caelum, prepare the vanguard shadow-steeds.”

”Alexis, lock down the estate and handle the Imperial Court.”

”Rook...”

The old butler stepped forward from the shadows.

”My Lady?”

”You ride with us to the North,” Vespera commanded, her battle scythe humming with a low, terrifying dark aura.

”We cross the border by sunrise.”

”And we kill every traitor who stands in our way.”