House of Blood

The sharp metallic smell of blood mixed with the damp, earthy scent of rotting pine leaves.

Valerian stepped over the lifeless body of the bandit leader, his plain iron dagger dripping thick, dark crimson into the mud.

He hadn’t used his signature dragon-fire, nor had he called upon the suffocating shadow arcana of Nox’Aethel.

To any onlooker, it had looked like the cold, brutal, and terrifyingly efficient work of a veteran sellsword.

In less than thirty seconds, twelve brigands lay dead in the ditch.

In the center of the muddy road, the short, heavily dressed merchant was still on his knees, clutching his locked steel chest like a lifeline.

His chest heaved in violent, hysterical gasps, his eyes wide with absolute shock as he stared at the young man standing amid the slaughter.

”You... you killed them all...” the merchant blubbered, wiping a mixture of sweat and mud from his forehead.

”Praise the heavens! I am saved! I am saved!”

Valerian wiped his dagger casually against the sleeve of a dead bandit’s tunic before sheathing it at his waist.

He adjusted the heavy black cloth wrapped securely over his eyes.

Even behind the blindfold, Valerian’s perception settled upon the merchant with cold, piercing precision.

”They were sloppy,” Valerian said softly, his voice smooth, flat, and completely devoid of emotion.

”You can stand up now.”

”Right! Of course, sir knight—or sellsword, I should say!”

The merchant scrambled to his feet, dusting off his rich velvet coat, though his knees were still visibly trembling.

”I am Master Garren. Name your reward, young man! Gold, jewels, exotic silks—whatever you desire, it is yours! My life and my cargo are worth a fortune!”

Valerian crossed his arms, leaning back against the trunk of a pine tree.

”I don’t need your gold, Master Garren.”

Garren blinked, stunned.

”You... you don’t? Then what could a warrior like you possibly want from a humble merchant?”

”A cover,” Valerian replied smoothly, his lips curving into a subtle, dangerous smile.

”A clean, legitimate identity. I want to enroll in the Royal Academy’s upcoming entrance examination, but I lack the background verification required for independent applicants.

”I need a merchant guild sponsorship token.”

Garren’s jaw dropped.

”A sponsorship token? That is a heavy request, lad! The Academy’s proctors scrutinize sponsored applicants strictly, and my guild’s reputation—”

”Is worth far less than your life in a ditch,” a sharp, melodious voice cut through the damp forest air.

Valerian’s head snapped slightly to the left.

Stepping out from the shattered interior of the carriage was a small, extraordinarily striking figure.

She stood barely four feet tall, possessing the compact, powerful frame of a dwarf paired with the nimble, graceful proportions of a gnome.

Her skin was a rich, deep mahogany, contrasting brilliantly with a mane of wild, braided silver hair that fell past her shoulders.

Her bronze-colored eyes burned with sharp, ancient intelligence as she hopped down into the mud, holding a heavy leather tool belt across her waist.

She adjusted the heavy smithing goggles resting on her forehead and looked Valerian up and down, her gaze lingering on the black cloth covering his eyes.

”Give him the token, Garren,” the girl said, her voice carrying a deep, resonant pitch that belied her small stature.

”He just saved your fat hide from being gutted like a prize hog.”

”N-Now hold on, Bryn!” Garren stammered, pulling a gleaming, ornate silver-and-gold medallion from his inner pocket.

”This token carries the direct authority of the Head of the Merchant Guild! If I give it to a random stray warrior—”

”He isn’t a random stray warrior,” Bryn interrupted coldly.

She took a step closer to Valerian, her sharp bronze eyes narrowing as a sly, knowing smile cut across her mahogany face.

”Is that right... Lord Governor of Bergis?”

The air in the woods instantly dropped ten degrees.

Valerian didn’t draw his blade, nor did his posture break.

But beneath his black coat, his mana circuit tightened like a coiled spring.

”I don’t know what you’re talking about, little girl,” Valerian said softly.

”Oh, don’t play stupid with me, Valerian Prim Sanguis,” Bryn chuckled, crossing her arms over her chest.

”Two weeks ago, when the Holy See’s grand procession passed through the border territories, I was in the crowd servicing the high priests’ carriage axles.

”I saw you.

”You stood on the balcony of the border watchtower, exchanging words in private with Saintess Seraphina before she was taken back to Lumeria.

”A face—and a posture—like yours isn’t easily forgotten.

”Especially not by someone who notices every detail of a man’s frame.”

Garren gasped, his eyes bulging as he looked between Bryn and the blindfolded youth.

”The... the Lord Governor of Bergis?!

”The seventh child of House Prim Sanguis?!”

Valerian let out a quiet, low breath.

The sly grin returned to his face, though his tone remained sharp as a razor.

”You have remarkably sharp eyes for a dwarf-gnome hybrid.”

”I am Bryn,” she declared proudly, tapping her leather belt.

”Chief Blacksmith and exclusive artisan partner to the Merchant Guild.

”And this ’fat bastard’ beside me isn’t just a merchant—he’s Garren, the Guildmaster of the Grand Merchant Alliance.”

Garren swallowed hard, nervously holding out the golden sponsorship token with trembling hands.

”If... if the Lord Governor himself requires a cover to enter the Royal Academy, who am I to refuse?

”This token will list you as ’Valen’, an elite guard under my personal guild payroll.

”No proctor will dare question the paper trail.”

Valerian reached out and took the heavy token, feeling the cold, forged gold beneath his gloved fingers.

It was perfect.

A merchant guild’s top-tier sponsorship was immune to standard nobility background audits.

”You have my thanks, Guildmaster Garren,” Valerian said, slipping the medallion into his coat.

Before Valerian could step into the shadows to depart, Bryn stepped directly into his path, tilting her head up to stare at his blindfold.

”Why do you wear that blindfold when you can clearly see right through it?” Bryn asked bluntly, her sharp eyes scanning the black fabric.

”Your perception is sharper than a hawk’s.

”You don’t have a single drop of blindness in you.”

Valerian paused, his hand resting on the hilt of his iron dagger.

”It carries history,” Valerian answered softly, his voice dropping into a solemn, heavy frequency.

”And it is for my protection... as well as the protection of everyone around me.

”My eyes carry things that should not be looked upon lightly.”

Bryn hummed thoughtfully, rubbing her chin as she examined the fabric.

”If you enter the Royal Academy wearing that specific enchanted blindfold, you’re going to fail your cover within three days, Lord Governor.”

”Why?” Valerian raised an eyebrow behind the cloth.

”Because any high-tier archmage—like Principal Elias—will take one look at the weaves in that fabric and smell ancient blood-magic and shadow arcana,” Bryn explained, a smirk spreading across her dark face.

”If you truly want to hide your identity as a Sanguis, you have to let go of that piece of history.

”At least while you’re on campus.”

Valerian went quiet.

The blindfold was tied directly to his early training, a restraint mechanism given to him to control his surging dragon-fire and abyssal perception.

”However...” Bryn continued, tapping a small, glowing mithril hammer attached to her belt, ”I am the head blacksmith of the Guild for a reason.

”Leave the parameters with me.

”I can craft you a new suppressor—something sleek, unreadable, and completely disguised as a common martial focus band.

”It will seal your aura, mask your eyes, and keep Archmage Elias’s appraisal spells from prying into what lies beneath.”

Valerian looked down at the tiny, master blacksmith, the cold edge in his demeanor softening into genuine intrigue.

”How long will it take?” Valerian asked.

”Ten days,” Bryn smiled, extending a small, calloused hand toward him.

”Delivered straight to your manor in Bergis before you leave for the exams.

”Consider it my personal investment in the secret Lord Governor.”

Valerian took her hand, shaking it with a firm, decisive grip.

”We have a deal, Master Blacksmith.”

An hour later, Valerian returned to his private study in the Governor’s Manor.

CLACK.

He tossed the golden Merchant Guild Sponsorship Token onto the center of his mahogany desk.

Standing around the desk were Wren, Nox’Aethel, Rook, and Aura.

Wren, dressed in her tailored dark crimson suit, picked up the token, her sharp red eyes narrowing as the single black slit beneath each of her cheekbones subtly flexed, sensing the faint trace of blood and high-tier mithril lingering on the gold.

”A Merchant Guildmaster’s personal sponsorship...” Wren murmured, her long platinum-gold hair falling over her shoulder as she looked up at Valerian.

”How on earth did you secure this in the woods?”

”I saved a fat merchant and made a deal with a half-gnome, half-dwarf blacksmith,” Valerian replied smoothly, stepping past them to pour himself a glass of water.

”My cover identity at the Royal Academy is set.

”I will be ’Valen’, a mercenary guard under Guildmaster Garren’s payroll.”

Nox’Aethel, sitting on the velvet divan in his physical obsidian-armored form, let out a deep, booming laugh that vibrated through the study.

”A Prim Sanguis lord playing a hired sellsword for a merchant guild...

”Oh, the old patriarch would lose his mind if he saw this!”

”It is... surprisingly airtight, Young Master,” Rook admitted, bowing respectfully.

”A mercenary under merchant sponsorship neatly accounts for your refined martial instincts, your dense mana, and your lethal aura, without ever linking you back to House Prim Sanguis or the governorship.”

”And what of your blindfold?” Aura asked, her sharp eyes locking onto his face.

”The Archmage Principal will appraise it instantly.”

”Bryn is crafting a replacement,” Valerian answered, looking out the balcony window toward the distant horizon.

”A mithril focus band designed to completely mask my Sanguis blood-scent and dragon-fire.”

Wren adjusted her collar, a rare, faint smile cutting across her pale alabaster face.

”Then it seems the Lord Governor is officially ready for the Royal Academy.”

Valerian’s slitted crimson eyes gleamed beneath his blindfold.

”Fourteen days, Wren.

”Let the games begin.”