House of Blood

Morning light streamed through the arched windows of the Governor’s Manor, casting long, warm beams across the polished oak table.

The scent of pine and fresh rain lingered in the air, but inside the private tea room, the atmosphere was soft and surprisingly still.

Valerian sat across from Saintess Seraphina, a steaming porcelain cup resting between his hands. His dark silk blindfold was tied securely, concealing his crimson eyes, yet his posture lacked its usual razor-sharp edge.

Across from him, Seraphina sat with her hands folded over her white robes, her sapphire eyes quietly observing the fifteen-year-old noble who had shaken the core of her theological world only a day prior.

”I asked you here this morning for a specific reason, Saintess,” Valerian began, his voice calm, low, and devoid of the harsh iron it had carried on the balcony.

He raised his cup slightly, letting the steam rise between them.

”I will soon be entering closed-door cultivation. I dislike leaving unsettled matters behind me, particularly when those matters involve the Holy Church.”

Seraphina tilted her head, her delicate features softening slightly.

”Unsettled matters, Lord Valerian?”

”Yesterday,” Valerian said, pausing to take a quiet sip of tea. ”My words on the balcony were sharp. Perhaps too sharp. I do not regret the truth of what I said regarding justice and consequence, but I acknowledge that I spoke with a measure of personal venom.”

He lowered his cup.

”For the hostility in my tone, I offer my apologies.”

Seraphina blinked, taken aback.

She had expected political maneuvering, demands, or further debate.

To hear the cold, unyielding conqueror of Bergis offer a sincere, measured apology was a shock that shattered her remaining defenses.

A quiet, genuine breath escaped her lips—a soft laugh that sounded like silver bells chiming in the quiet room.

A warm, breathtaking smile touched her face, illuminating her features far more than any divine light ever could.

”You are a strange young man, Valerian,” Seraphina murmured, her eyes crinkling with honest warmth. ”You break my doctrines in the morning and offer me tea by noon.”

She smiled.

”But... you were not wrong. You made me look past the ivory walls of the cathedral to see the raw, bleeding truth of the world.”

Her expression softened.

”Perhaps... when you return from your training, we might speak not as bitter rivals, but as friends?”

The sound of her gentle laugh struck Valerian’s chest with sudden, unexpected force.

For a fraction of a second, his heart skipped a beat, a strange warmth flickering behind his ribcage.

’Oh-ho? The cold dragon’s heart actually thumps for the holy maiden?’

Wren’s teasing voice echoed directly inside his mind, dripping with playful malice.

’Should I write to your father, little lord? ”Valerian’s first defeat: A Saintess’s smile”?’

Valerian’s jaw tightened.

Without missing a beat, he slammed his mental barriers shut, severing the telepathic bond with a violent flick of his spiritual force and muting Wren’s laughter into instant, absolute silence.

He cleared his throat, adjusting his blindfold.

”We shall see, Saintess. We shall see.”

---

An hour later, deep beneath the Governor’s Manor, the air grew frigid and heavy.

Valerian stood at the center of a subterranean stone chamber, his obsidian staff resting against his shoulder.

Standing before him in the damp darkness was Nox’Aethel, the ancient shadow-being’s dark mantle swirling like ink in water.

”You wish to enter the Shadow-Blood Sovereignty Trial?” Nox asked, his voice echoing like grinding stones. ”You are reckless, Valerian. The Blood Shadow Art is not a scroll to be read or a spell to be memorized. It is an ancient, primordial inheritance of horror.”

His crimson eyes narrowed.

”It will devour your soul if your resolve flickers for even a second.”

”I am aware of the risk,” Valerian replied flatly.

”Bergis is secure for now, but my strength is insufficient for what lies ahead. The Northern Wall, the Citadel, the Holy Kingdom... I cannot protect my territory with half-measures.”

He raised his chin.

”Open the realm, Nox.”

Nox stared at the boy for a long, silent moment.

Seeing the unwavering determination burning behind Valerian’s blindfold, the shadow titan let out a heavy, resonant sigh.

”Very well,” Nox rasped. ”I cannot teach you this art. You must conquer the trial and claim it with your own hands.”

He paused.

”But heed my warning: if you die inside, your soul will remain trapped in the dark for eternity. I will stay outside to anchor the gateway, continuously feeding it with my own mana to keep the tear stable.”

”That is enough,” Valerian said.

He turned toward the doorway, where Wren stood with her arms crossed, looking thoroughly unamused.

”Wren, you remain here as my acting authority.”

Wren raised an eyebrow.

”Your acting authority? You want me handling paperwork with that old bureaucrat?”

”I trust your battle instincts and territorial oversight,” Valerian said smoothly. ”I do not trust the local military leadership to handle an unexpected crisis without direct, absolute oversight.”

He paused.

”You and Sir Van Liondale will manage the city until I return.”

Wren huffed, rolling her golden eyes, but nodded grudgingly.

”Fine. Just don’t get yourself eaten by ancient demons, kid.”

Nox raised his shadowy arms.

The ambient dark mana in the chamber surged violently, twisting into a roaring vortex at the center of the room.

The space cracked open like a festering wound, revealing a swirling tear of pure, pitch-black abyss.

Valerian stepped forward without hesitation, plunging directly into the rift.

WHOOSH.

The world shifted instantly.

The air grew thick, stagnant, and sickeningly hot.

The light vanished completely, replaced by an endless, oppressive realm of pitch-black shadow.

Valerian stepped down, his boots sinking into several inches of warm, viscous liquid.

The stench hit him immediately—a nauseating, suffocating iron odor of stale, ancient blood and decayed flesh.

Valerian reached up and untied his blindfold, letting his Crimson Abyssal Dragon Gaze adapt to the darkness.

His slitted reptilian pupils dilated, taking in the terrifying landscape.

The ground was a vast ocean of congealed blood, stretching out into a desolate horizon.

Scattered across the crimson mire were thousands of bones—shattered human skulls, colossal ribcages of forgotten primordial beasts, and towering skeletons of unidentified monstrosities with curved horns and multiple limbs, half-buried in the red sludge.

A quiet, guttural growl vibrated through the blood beneath his feet.

Valerian gripped his obsidian staff tightly.

A cold, hungry smile crept onto his face as the shadows around him began to writhe.

---

Meanwhile, in the grand office of the Governor’s Manor...

Sir Van Liondale stood over a large wooden desk covered in blueprints and financial ledgers, rubbing his tired eyes.

Beside him, Wren sat atop the edge of the desk, idly flipping one of her dragon-skin daggers through the air with mesmerizing speed.

”If we redirect the trade tax from the eastern gate toward the wall fortifications,” Van Liondale mused, pointing at a map of Bergis, ”we can reinforce the lower wards before the winter snows set in.”

He glanced toward Wren.

”What do you think, Lady Wren?”

”I think taxes are boring,” Wren replied lazily, catching the dagger by the hilt.

”But the wall reinforcement is smart. Valerian wants this city built like an iron fortress, not a soft target for—”

BANG!

The heavy oak doors of the office burst open with a violent crash.

A scout commander of the city watch stumbled into the room, his armor covered in mud and sweat, his face pale as chalk.

He was panting heavily, his chest heaving as he gripped the doorframe to keep from collapsing.

”Sir Van Liondale! Lady Wren!” the scout screamed, his voice cracking with pure terror.

Van Liondale stood instantly, his brow furrowed.

”Report! What has happened?”

”The northern watchers... the signal fires!” the scout gasped, staggering forward.

”A massive... a catastrophic Beast Tide has breached the lower pass!”

His voice shook.

”Thousands of wild abyssal beasts have stampeded out of the northern crags!”

Wren’s golden eyes narrowed instantly, all laziness vanishing as her aura flared with sharp dragon pressure.

”How long until they reach the city walls?”

”They are moving fast, My Lady!” the scout cried, trembling violently.

”At their current march speed... the horde will hit the outer gates of Bergis in three days!”

Sir Van Liondale’s face drained of color.

He looked toward the deep corridors leading to the underground chambers, realizing with a sinking heart that their governor—their absolute anchor of power—was locked inside an unreachable realm of blood and death.

Wren let out a low, predatory click of her tongue, her daggers gleaming in the sunlight.

”Three days,” Wren murmured, her voice turning razor-sharp.

”Then we’d better get this city ready for war.”