House of Blood

The grand stone terrace overlooking the central plaza of Bergis was bathed in a warm, amber glow.

Below, thousands of citizens held up wooden goblets brimming with spiced winter wine and dark mead. The air, once choked with the metallic stench of monster blood and sulfur, now carried the rich, mouth-watering aroma of roasted wild boar, honeyed pastries, and burning pine.

Valerian stepped up to the edge of the carved stone balustrade.

His high-collared dark coat, freshly tailored and embroidered with subtle crimson dragon-scales along the cuffs, caught the flickering light of the surrounding braziers.

The moment his boots came to a halt at the edge, the clamor in the plaza below died down.

Thousands of eyes turned upward.

Valerian did not raise his voice to a shout. He simply allowed his mana to carry his smooth, quiet resonance across the entire valley.

”People of Bergis,” Valerian began, his slitted crimson eyes scanning the crowd. ”For twenty-two years, this province was left to rot. You were taxed into starvation by corrupt merchants and abandoned to the shadows of the northern mountains. You were expected to crumble.”

He paused, letting the silence hang over the city.

”Three days ago, the sky broke. A titan woke beneath your feet. And yet, standing here tonight, the northern wall still stands, and the snow beneath your boots is clean.”

Valerian raised his crystal glass of plum wine toward the illuminated plaza.

”This city does not belong to the monsters of the pass, nor does it belong to the rot of the capital. It belongs to those who bled for it. Let the Feast of the Frozen Ember begin!”

A deafening roar erupted from five thousand throats.

War-horns blared, drums thundered, and a massive shower of crimson and gold fireworks shot into the night sky, painting the snow-capped peaks in brilliant light.

The music of the minstrels struck up once more, and the plaza erupted into pure, unfiltered celebration.

Valerian turned back toward the grand banquet table, smoothly stepping away from the ledge.

”A fine speech, Lord Valerian,” a soft, melodious voice called out.

Saintess Seraphina walked over from the lower courtyard steps.

She wore a simple white ceremonial gown lined with understated gold embroidery, her long golden hair cascading over her shoulders.

Despite the exhaustion still lingering in her sapphire eyes from the battle, her smile was radiant and genuine.

”Saintess Seraphina,” Valerian acknowledged with a polite bow of his head. ”I believe you have yet to be properly introduced to our distinguished guests.”

Valerian gestured to the group standing near the high ornamental fountain.

”Allow me to introduce Lady Lyra Medeis of House Medeis,” Valerian said, as the fourteen-year-old arcane prodigy offered a refined, graceful nod.

”Chief Kaelen of the Iron-Tooth Tribe.”

The massive, scarred barbarian chief gave a booming laugh, slapping his hand against his leather chest plate in a warrior’s greeting.

”And Princess Solene Sol of the Imperial Family.”

Solene, standing at Valerian’s exact height with her sharp, vivid violet eyes and golden hair, stepped forward.

She appraised Seraphina with a cool, calculating gaze before inclining her head just enough to remain within imperial protocol.

”The Saintess of the Holy Kingdom of Lumeria,” Solene murmured, a sharp, dangerous smile touching her lips. ”I heard you held the city’s radiant barrier until your scriptures cracked. Admirable.”

”I merely did what my faith and my duty demanded, Your Highness,” Seraphina replied gently, her tone completely devoid of arrogance.

Lyra leaned against the fountain rim, her blue eyes gleaming with quiet interest.

”Duty is one thing, Saintess, but standing shoulder-to-shoulder with a man who summons shadow legions requires a very... flexible interpretation of Lumerian holy doctrine, doesn’t it?”

Seraphina blinked, then let out a soft, melodic laugh.

”Lord Valerian may command shadows, Lady Lyra, but those shadows protected thousands of innocent civilians while Lumeria’s holy envoys were nowhere to be found. Besides...”

She cast a subtle, amused glance toward Valerian.

”...he is far too stubborn to let anyone dictate his soul, holy or otherwise.”

”Hah! You got that right, holy girl!” Kaelen roared, taking a massive gulp from his wooden mug. ”The kid looks like an ivory statue, but he fights like a starved dire-bear! Cold, calculating, and ruthless!”

Solene crossed her arms, stepping closer to the circle.

”Oh, he’s worse than a bear. In the capital, every noble tries to hide their claws behind velvet gloves. Valerian doesn’t even bother with the velvet. He just hands you a contract and looks at you as if he’s already calculated three different ways to take your territory.”

”And he never smiles properly,” Lyra added smoothly, swirling the fruit juice in her glass. ”It’s always that tiny, razor-thin tilt of his lips right before he dismantles someone’s entire argument.”

”Or when he orders four new custom coats after nearly dying,” Seraphina chimed in, a mischievous glint flashing in her sapphire eyes. ”Aura told me he complained about the bloodstains on his silk before he even asked about his own fractured ribs.”

Valerian stood frozen, his glass halfway to his lips.

He looked at the four of them.

An imperial princess, an arcane prodigy, a Lumerian saintess, and a barbarian warlord chief—four individuals from completely opposing factions who should, by all political logic, be maneuvering against each other—were currently huddled together in a tight circle, exchanging amused nods and picking apart his personality with terrifying accuracy.

How did this happen? Valerian thought, his slitted crimson eyes narrowing slightly.

They met five minutes ago.

A quiet, amused chuckle sounded right behind his shoulder.

Valerian turned his head slightly to see his mother, Lady Vesperia, standing a few paces away.

She wore a regal velvet dress, holding a glass of sweet wine, her pale, gorgeous face lit up with a thoroughly entertaining, mischievous smile.

”They seem to be getting along splendidly, my dear,” Vesperia whispered softly, leaning in close so only he could hear.

”They are sharing classified behavioral observations, Mother,” Valerian replied deadpan. ”It is a breach of security.”

”Oh, hush,” Vesperia teased, her dark eyes sparkling as she looked at Seraphina, Solene, and Lyra. ”A mother can’t help but admire the company her son keeps. Lady Lyra has the brilliant mind of an arch-mage, Princess Solene possesses the fierce dignity of an empress, and the Lumerian Saintess has a heart purer than snow. I must say, Valerian... you certainly have exquisite taste for your future options. I’ll have a very difficult time choosing a daughter-in-law when the time comes.”

Valerian’s hand visibly stiffened around his wine glass.

A faint, nearly imperceptible twitch touched his eyebrow.

”Mother. I am fifteen.”

”And you own a province and command a shadow legion,” Vesperia replied smoothly, taking a dainty sip of her wine with an innocent tilt of her head. ”Time moves quickly when you’re busy conquering the north, darling.”

Before Valerian could even formulate a logical counter-argument to his mother’s teasing, the festive atmosphere on the upper terrace was abruptly shattered.

CLANG!

A heavy silver goblet was slammed violently onto a nearby marble table, splashing dark wine across the white tablecloth.

A young man stepped out from the noble viewing section.

He was around seventeen years old, clad in ornate, overly polished blue-and-gold armor bearing the crest of House Vane—a wealthy vassal family from the southern territories.

His face was flushed red from alcohol and wounded pride, his eyes burning with deep, envious resentment as he glared directly at Valerian.

”It’s a grand farce!” the young noble shouted, his slurred voice cutting through the surrounding conversations.

The minstrels stopped playing.

The laughter near the fountain died down.

Sir Van Liondale immediately placed a hand on his sword hilt, stepping forward, but Valerian raised a single finger, stopping the old knight in his tracks.

”Lord Julian of House Vane,” Valerian said softly, turning his crimson gaze toward the young noble. ”You seem to have lost your composure.”

”I have lost my patience with this grand lie!” Julian sneered, stepping out into the center of the terrace, pointing a gloved finger at Valerian.

”Look at you! Standing there like an untouchable god! Everyone sings your praises because you inherit the terrifying bloodline techniques of House Sanguis! You use ancient shadow arcana, dragon-blood transformations, and bound spirit titans to butcher mindless beasts!”

Julian drew a long, finely crafted rapier from his waist, the steel ringing sharply in the quiet air.

”Without your grand bloodline, without your dark spatial cheat techniques and your shadow legion, what are you?!” Julian spat, his eyes wide with drunken arrogance.

”You are just a frail, fifteen-year-old boy hiding behind ancient monster magic! I challenge you, Valerian Sanguis! A duel of pure, unrefined weapon proficiency! No mana, no bloodline traits, no shadow arcana, no spirit summons! Just cold steel against cold steel! Or are you too cowardly to fight like a true knight?!”

A tense, suffocating silence fell over the upper balcony.

Marvos and Maelis looked at each other, blinked, and then slowly looked back at Julian as if the boy had suddenly grown a second head.

Chief Kaelen let out a low, wheezing snort into his mead cup, trying desperately not to burst out laughing.

Lady Lyra pinched the bridge of her nose, shaking her head in pity, while Princess Solene simply raised an eyebrow, looking at Julian as if he were a suicidal insect.

Over in the far shadowed corner of the terrace, leaning against the stone archway, Wren and Nox’Aethel stood side-by-side.

Wren took a bite out of a roasted chicken leg, her golden dragon eyes gleaming with pure, unadulterated amusement.

A slow, wicked smirk spread across her face.

”Did... did that idiot just challenge Valerian to a pure weapon proficiency match?” Wren whispered, turning her head toward the shadow ball hovering beside her.

”Indeed he did, dragon-girl,” Nox’Aethel rasped softly, his floating shadow form pulsing with dark, silent giggles. ”He challenged the young liege—who spent three weeks in the secret realm mastering five different weapon forms under spatial pressure—to a fight of pure martial skill.”

”No mana? No arcana?” Wren chuckled, taking another bite. ”Man, I almost feel bad for him. Valerian’s been itching to test his physical form since he woke up.”

”This is going to be exceptionally entertaining,” Nox agreed, settling back into the shadow of the archway.

At the center of the terrace, Valerian slowly set his plum wine glass down on the tray held by a nearby servant.

He didn’t look angry.

He didn’t look offended.

His pale, flawless face remained completely unreadable, his slitted crimson pupils tracking the tip of Julian’s trembling rapier.

”Pure weapon proficiency,” Valerian repeated quietly, his voice dangerously smooth. ”No mana. No arcana.”

”Yes!” Julian barked, raising his chin, mistaking Valerian’s calm demeanor for hesitation. ”Unless the great Lord of Bergis cannot stand on his own two feet without his monster blood!”

Valerian walked slowly toward the weapon rack standing near the terrace guard station.

He bypassed the heavy broadswords, the spatial scythes, and the grand halberds.

His pale hand reached out, gently closing around the polished hilt of a standard, un-enchanted iron training sword.

He drew the blade with a soft, metallic whisper.

He didn’t take a stance.

He didn’t raise his guard.

He simply stood twenty paces away from Julian, holding the iron sword loosely in his right hand, his crimson eyes gleaming under the golden light of the festival fireworks.

”Step forward, Lord Julian,” Valerian said softly.

”Show me the skill of the south.”