House of Blood

The morning sun filtered through the high glass domes of Sector B, casting sharp shafts of amber light across the thick, artificial jungle floor. Ferns ten feet wide unfurled beside paved stone paths, and the damp smell of wet topsoil mingled with the sharp tang of bruised eucalyptus leaves.

Cell One stood at the perimeter clearing of the trial grounds.

Casper rolled his right shoulder, testing the fit of his leather doublet.

”The humidity in this sector feels like breathing inside a boiled kettle. Why are the First-Year Faction Trials held in a greenhouse?”

”Sector B simulates natural forest combat terrain,” Solene answered, adjusting the silver pin on her white cape. Her blue eyes scanned the dense foliage ahead. ”The capture-the-flag exercise requires each cell to secure three perimeter banners while defending its own staging stone from rival factions.”

”Which faction holds the eastern ridge?” Lyra asked, her fingers tracing the blue geometric runes glowing along her focus staff.

”The Alchemical and Merchant coalition,” Castor replied, resting his heavy war-mattock against his right knee. ”They control the three stone bridges crossing the central creek.”

Valen stood two paces behind Solene’s left shoulder. His dark wool coat was buttoned tightly to the collar, and the thick black linen blindfold covered his upper face. Beneath his left sleeve, the dark-mithril suppressor guard remained locked, keeping the three dragonic cores within him subdued.

He held his leather equipment binder in his left hand, his fingers resting near the iron stylus tucked inside.

”The coalition deployed forty cadets to the eastern ridge at six o’clock this morning,” Valen stated, his voice perfectly level. ”Their formation consists of twenty shield-bearers from the Merchant faction and twenty alchemical apprentices equipped with low-grade smoke bombs and tangle-vines.”

Casper let out a short laugh, shaking his head.

”Tangle-vines? What are they going to do, tie our boots together while we walk past?”

”The tangle-vines are coated in fast-acting paralytic sap extracted from swamp-vines,” Valen explained. ”Contact with exposed skin induces localized muscle stiffness within three seconds. Protective footwear is advisable.”

”Noted,” Solene said.

She drew her narrow rapier three inches from its sheath, checking the smooth release of the steel before sliding it back into place.

”Cell One, advance in standard tactical wedge. Castor takes the point, Casper covers the left flank, Lyra provides mana-suppression support, and Valen remains on the rear logistics line.”

”Understood,” the squad answered.

They moved into the dense greenery of Sector B, their boots treading softly over damp moss and fallen leaves. The canopy overhead grew thicker, shutting out the direct sunlight and plunging the pathway into deep green shadows.

A quarter-mile into the sector, the path opened into a wide clearing crossed by a fast-flowing stone creek.

Three arched bridges spanned the water. Each was blocked by a line of Merchant faction cadets wearing heavy green arming doublets and carrying broad iron shields.

”Halt!” the lead merchant cadet shouted, raising his shield as Cell One approached the western bank. ”The eastern ridge is closed under a joint faction decree! Turn back or forfeit your ranking points!”

Solene did not slow.

She walked straight toward the center bridge, her white cape flowing behind her.

”Faction decrees have no authority over the Citadel’s trial regulations, cadet. Step aside.”

”We hold the bridge by right of prior occupation!” the lead cadet retorted.

His shield-bearers interlocked their metal edges with a heavy clang.

Behind them, three alchemical apprentices began pulling glass spheres from their utility belts.

”They are preparing smoke dispersion,” Valen stated quietly from the rear. ”The mixture contains blinding powder and iron filings intended to disrupt sensor wards.”

”Lyra,” Solene commanded without looking back.

”Already done.”

Lyra slammed the butt of her focus staff against the stone path.

A bright blue pulse of Medeis mana radiated outward, washing over the three bridges in a fraction of a second. The energy swept across the alchemical spheres in the apprentices’ hands, disrupting the reactive compounds inside the glass.

The powders clumped into damp sludge.

The apprentices stared down at their now-useless weapons in stunned silence.

”Castor,” Solene said.

Castor stepped past her.

He raised his war-mattock with both hands and brought its iron head down against the interlocking edges of the merchant shields.

The impact drove roughly twelve hundred pounds of force through the shield formation.

BOOM!

The shockwave shattered the lock.

The merchant cadets staggered backward as their heavy iron plates crashed against one another. The bridge decking vibrated beneath their boots, and the carefully arranged formation collapsed into a tangle of shields and flailing arms.

Casper darted past Castor on the left, his twin arming swords flashing in the dim green light. Moving faster than the disorganized cadets could react, he tapped each opponent on the chest guard with the flat of his blade.

”Hit. Hit. Hit,” he called cheerfully. ”You’re out of the match, boys.”

The merchant guards glanced at one another before raising their hands in surrender.

”Clear,” Castor reported, resting his mattock across his shoulder.

Solene crossed the bridge first, followed closely by Lyra, Casper, and the twins’ fellow Cell One members. Valen brought up the rear at a measured pace, his scuffed boots striking a steady rhythm against the stone arches.

By the time the squad reached the eastern bank, the merchant cadets had cleared the bridge.

A tall figure stepped out from behind a thick cluster of giant ferns.

Gareth Vance.

The First Blade of the Vanguard Division wore his formal marshal’s coat, its silver trim catching the sunlight filtering through the canopy. His hand rested casually on the pommel of his broadsword.

His sharp eyes swept over the squad before settling on Valen.

”Cell One,” Gareth said, his voice carrying a dry, mocking edge. ”Still dragging your blindfolded clerk through high-stakes practical trials, Princess Solene? I would have thought a top-three seed could handle basic perimeter security without a scribe carrying the supply inventory.”

Solene stopped.

Her cold blue eyes fixed on him.

”The scribe’s inventories keep our operational efficiency at ninety-six percent, Gareth. Your own security apparatus failed to notice an illegal flesh-weaving laboratory operating beneath Sector Three for six months. Perhaps you should borrow our scribe’s ledger.”

Gareth’s jaw tightened.

The reference to Alistair’s arrest struck precisely where Solene had intended. A dark flush crept up his cheeks, but he quickly smothered his reaction.

He turned his attention back to Valen.

”A clerk who reads bridges, identifies alchemical compounds, and carries iron styluses,” he muttered.

He stepped closer until only three feet separated them.

”I’ve reviewed your registry file three times this week, Scribe. No family history. No combat credentials. No meaningful records before your recent appointment. Yet you move through restricted vaults as if you own the stone.”

Valen stood motionless, his blindfold angled slightly toward the senior cadet.

”Administrative accuracy does not require family lineage, Gareth.”

Gareth narrowed his eyes.

”I keep my own records, Scribe. And my records tell me that men who hide behind black linen blindfolds usually have something to conceal from the High Council.”

”If you require an audit of your patrol logs, my ledger will be available after the trials,” Valen replied in a flat, unyielding tone.

For three long seconds, neither man moved.

Gareth’s fingers twitched near his sword hilt.

Then he exhaled sharply and stepped aside.

”Keep walking, clerk. The trial finals are in four days. When you face genuine combat against upper-tier operational cells, your ledger won’t save you.”

”The calculations remain consistent,” Valen replied.

Gareth stared at him for another moment before turning on his heel. He shoved through the fern clusters and disappeared along the path toward the central administrative outpost.

Solene watched him leave, her expression hardening.

”Gareth is watching us. The High Council is feeling the pressure after Alistair’s arrest.”

”They may be looking for grounds to intervene in Cell One’s trial bracket,” Valen observed, adjusting the leather binder beneath his arm.

”They won’t find any.”

Solene turned toward the trail leading deeper into Sector B.

”We have two more banners to secure before dusk. Let’s move.”

The squad resumed its march through the dense greenery.

Castor took the lead, his war-mattock resting against his shoulder. Casper moved along the left flank, while Lyra studied the faint mana traces that shimmered between the trees. Solene maintained the center, her rapier ready.

Valen followed quietly at the rear.

To anyone watching, he was exactly what his registry claimed: an unremarkable clerk assigned to keep a promising cell supplied, organized, and within regulation.

His equipment binder contained the inventory.

His mind contained the calculations.

And beneath his left sleeve, the dark-mithril guard continued to suppress the three dragonic cores that would make a mockery of every combat ranking in the Citadel if they were ever exposed.

Far above the trial grounds, deep within the Citadel’s upper spire, Saintess Seraphina sat alone in her white-stone prayer chamber.

Morning light streamed through the narrow windows, illuminating the silver prayer circles carved into the floor. Ordinarily, the chamber’s sacred wards produced a steady, reassuring hum.

Today, the sound felt distant.

Seraphina pressed a trembling hand against her chest.

Something had disturbed the consciousness sleeping within her soul.

Elizabeth.

The former Saintess’s surviving will stirred, its presence brushing against Seraphina’s awareness like a cold hand against glass.

Something is wrong.

Seraphina closed her eyes.

”What is it?”

For a moment, Elizabeth offered no answer.

Then her voice emerged from the depths of their shared soul, quiet and restless.

Crimson blood.

Seraphina’s fingers tightened against her chest.

It is circulating through the lower vaults.

The sacred wards continued humming around her.

But beneath that familiar resonance, Seraphina sensed something else—a distant vibration that did not belong to the Holy Kingdom’s divine power.

Elizabeth’s consciousness recoiled from it.

Whatever they are building down there, she whispered, it was never meant to remain a vessel.

Seraphina opened her eyes.

For the first time that morning, she was afraid to pray.