House of Blood

The central library of the Citadel spanned four subterranean levels, housing six million volumes of imperial jurisprudence, tactical maps, alchemical research, and ancient bloodline registries.

It was one of the few places within the Citadel where silence was enforced more strictly than security.

High arched windows of thick, green-tinted glass admitted only pale afternoon light, casting long rectangles across polished oak tables and high-backed leather chairs. Between the towering bookshelves, enchanted lamps floated beneath the vaulted ceiling, illuminating the narrow aisles with a steady, golden glow.

The third level was reserved for restricted historical records.

Mirain Sec Sanguis sat at a corner table, surrounded by stacks of heavy, leather-bound registry books dating back three centuries. Her crimson mantle lay draped over the back of her chair, and her violet eyes moved steadily across a handwritten lineage scroll detailing the Sanguis clan’s migration patterns during the southern border wars.

She had been searching for nearly two hours.

The deeper she dug into the records, the more inconsistencies she discovered.

Some entries had been rewritten. Others contained suspicious gaps between generations. Several documents referenced supplementary registries that no longer existed in the library catalogue.

And four consecutive pages had been cut from the volume before her.

Valen stood beside the table, holding an open manuscript detailing ancient alchemical containment wards. His dark wool coat was buttoned tightly to the collar, and the black linen blindfold covered his upper face. Beneath his left sleeve, the dark-mithril suppressor guard remained locked, keeping his three dragonic cores subdued.

He appeared entirely absorbed in the manuscript.

Mirain knew better than to mistake his silence for inattention.

”The registry entries for the seventh generation are missing four pages,” she said without looking up.

Her voice was quiet, but it carried clearly through the otherwise silent aisle.

”The binding thread has been cut with a razor. Someone deliberately removed the birth records of the younger sibling line.”

”The removal occurred roughly ten years ago,” Valen replied.

His attention remained on the manuscript.

”The cut edges show oxidation consistent with prolonged exposure to open air. Whoever removed them did so before the binding was repaired.”

Mirain slowly lowered the lineage scroll.

Her violet eyes narrowed.

”You determined that from looking at the pages?”

”The evidence is visible.”

”Of course.”

She leaned back in her chair, studying him.

”You speak of the missing seventh child of the Sanguis clan as if you watched the pages being cut.”

Valen turned a page.

”Historical patterns of document tampering follow standard administrative procedures. When a royal family wishes to erase an inconvenient lineage branch, removing the birth registries is usually the preliminary step before a public execution.”

Mirain’s expression hardened.

She rose slowly, her leather boots making a soft click against the polished floor as she stepped around the table.

Stopping two feet from him, she searched his blindfold for a reaction.

”You mention public execution with a remarkable lack of emotional fluctuation, Valen. Most citizens speak of the guillotine in Sector Zero with hesitation or revulsion. You speak of it like a mechanic describing a gear replacement.”

”An execution is a mechanical process,” Valen answered.

”A blade falls, a spine separates, and the administrative registry is updated. The emotional response of the observer does not alter the physics of the drop.”

For several seconds, Mirain said nothing.

She had encountered hardened soldiers who discussed death without blinking. She had questioned nobles who treated executions as necessary political measures. She had even spoken to officials who could sign a death warrant while eating breakfast.

But Valen was different.

He did not sound indifferent because he had grown accustomed to violence.

He sounded as though he had personally reduced the act to its smallest mechanical components and found nothing left to understand.

Mirain reached out, resting her gloved fingers against the edge of the manuscript he held.

”Ten years ago, a boy from the Sanguis clan was publicly executed on that exact scaffold in Sector Zero.”

Valen remained still.

”The official charge was high treason against the Empire. The court declared him a powerless outcast because he could not manifest his family’s signature Death Aura.”

Her voice dropped.

”They claimed he possessed no bloodline heritage whatsoever. His execution records were sealed under direct orders from the High Marshal, and the surviving members of his household were forbidden from discussing the case.”

She searched his face again.

”Yet, ten years later, an underground laboratory beneath Sector Three is harvesting ancient bloodline samples to fuel an artificial vessel designed to surpass a Demon Lord. Every data log I recover points toward someone who understands the precise architecture of royal-grade bloodline seals.”

Valen closed the manuscript halfway.

”The laboratory in Sector Three was operated by Instructor Alistair and the alchemical department,” he reminded her calmly. ”Alistair is currently secured in the upper holding cells.”

”Alistair was a pawn.”

Mirain’s answer came without hesitation.

”He lacked the specialized knowledge required to combine Sanguis and Solarian bloodlines without causing immediate cellular rejection. The formulas recovered from his laboratory were too precise for an ordinary instructor. They accounted for hereditary mana incompatibility, soul resistance, and bloodline instability.”

She tapped the missing-page entry with one finger.

”Someone supplied him with that knowledge. Someone who understands how royal bloodlines behave under artificial containment. Someone who knows how to bypass the suppressors designed to keep those bloodlines dormant.”

Her gaze returned to Valen.

”And you seem remarkably comfortable discussing all of it.”

”Would you prefer that I panic?”

”I would prefer an honest answer.”

”Then you may be disappointed.”

Mirain’s fingers tightened against the table.

Before she could respond, a sharp, metallic clink echoed from the adjacent aisle.

Both of them turned.

The sound had come from somewhere between the history shelves.

Mirain’s hand dropped instantly to the crimson rapier at her waist. She pivoted toward the dark opening between two towering rows of bookshelves, her violet eyes narrowing as she searched the shadows.

”Who is there?”

Silence answered her.

The green-tinted light filtering through the high windows shifted as a cloud passed over the sun. For a moment, the aisle grew noticeably darker.

Then came another sound.

A faint scrape.

Valen raised his head slightly.

His ears caught the friction of leather against the floor, followed by a measured sequence of footsteps. Whoever was moving had attempted to distribute their weight carefully, avoiding the creaking joints of the old shelving.

An inexperienced intruder might have escaped notice.

This one had nearly succeeded.

”The intruder is moving north toward the emergency stairwell,” Valen said conversationally. ”Pace is approximately twelve feet per second. Estimated weight: one hundred and sixty pounds.”

Mirain drew her crimson rapier.

The blade hissed against its brass fitting.

”Stay here.”

She sprinted down the aisle.

Valen listened until her footsteps faded beyond the shelves.

Only then did he close the manuscript and place it neatly in the center of the oak table. He adjusted his leather equipment binder and stepped into the open aisle.

He had taken barely three steps when a figure emerged silently from behind a pillar to his left.

The man wore the dark wool tunic of a mid-level library archivist. A bronze mask shaped like a blank human skull concealed his face, its surface polished enough to reflect the enchanted lamps overhead.

In his right hand, he held a short, bone-carved dagger.

Dark runes pulsed along its length, flickering with a sickly green light.

”Valerian Prim Sanguis,” the masked man rasped.

His voice sounded like dry gravel grinding together.

”The Mad Doctor sends his regards.”

Valen stopped.

For the first time since entering the library, he no longer appeared to be a clerk examining records.

He turned his blindfolded face directly toward the attacker.

”You are using an obsolete bone-carved dagger from the Second Age,” he observed. ”The runes are designed to disrupt low-tier mana cores. They should have no effect on a dark-mithril suppressor.”

”The blade isn’t meant for your core.”

The masked man lunged.

His movement was unnaturally fast, the dagger driving straight toward Valen’s chest with enough precision to suggest that the attack had been rehearsed.

”It’s meant to test whether you bleed red or black.”

Valen did not draw a weapon.

He shifted half a step to the right.

The dagger passed within two millimeters of his coat’s lapel.

At the same instant, Valen’s right hand shot forward and clamped around the attacker’s throat.

CRACK.

The impact echoed sharply through the aisle.

Valen’s fingers tightened around the man’s neck, lifting him four inches off the floor with controlled, effortless force. The attacker’s boots scraped uselessly against the polished stone as his hands clawed at Valen’s wrist.

The bronze skull mask slipped free.

It struck the floor and spun once before settling beside the man’s discarded shadow.

Beneath it, the archivist’s eyes rolled backward. His mouth opened in a silent gasp as Valen’s grip cut off his air.

”Your approach was inefficient,” Valen remarked.

He tilted his head slightly.

”You announced your employer, identified your target, and attempted a direct attack in a room with only one exit behind you.”

The archivist struggled harder.

Valen’s expression did not change.

”Either your employer has a poor understanding of operational security, or you were never expected to leave this room alive.”

A sharp hiss interrupted him.

The green runes on the dagger flared.

Valen’s attention shifted toward the weapon.

A heartbeat later, the hilt erupted.

HISS—POP!

Thick, yellow-green smoke burst from the dagger, flooding the aisle between the bookshelves in a fraction of a second. The acrid cloud smelled of scorched hair and rotting sulfur.

Valen immediately released the attacker and stepped back.

The archivist collapsed onto the floor, unconscious and motionless.

The smoke spread rapidly, swallowing the shelves and obscuring the enchanted lamps. Somewhere beyond it, footsteps echoed against the emergency stairwell.

A second intruder was escaping toward the lower levels.

Valen could have pursued.

Instead, he remained where he was.

The smoke was thick enough to obscure the floor, and the unconscious attacker lay within reach. Pursuing the second intruder would leave the first unattended and risk losing the only immediate source of information.

He adjusted his sleeve over the suppressor guard.

The dark-mithril remained locked.

A moment later, hurried footsteps approached from the northern aisle.

Mirain burst through the smoke with her crimson rapier raised. She coughed, waving the yellow-green cloud away from her face with her free hand.

Her gaze immediately found the unconscious archivist.

Then it moved to Valen.

He stood untouched by the chemical cloud, his coat smooth and his blindfold perfectly straight.

”The second one got away down the emergency stairs,” Mirain said, her breathing uneven. ”Did he say anything?”

”He mentioned the Mad Doctor.”

Valen stepped around the bronze mask.

Mirain’s violet eyes narrowed.

She studied the unconscious attacker, then the dagger lying beside him. Finally, her gaze settled on Valen’s right hand.

The hand that had caught a charging attacker by the throat and lifted him off the floor without drawing a weapon.

”You did this?”

”He attempted to stab me.”

”That wasn’t what I asked.”

”I am aware.”

Mirain stared at him.

For a moment, the only sounds were their breathing and the fading hiss of the smoke dispersing through the enchanted ventilation grilles.

”They’re not hiding anymore,” she whispered. Her voice had turned cold. ”They’re actively hunting us inside the Citadel.”

”Apparently.”

”The library is protected by warded entrances, registry seals, and regular security patrols. Two intruders entered this level, one carried a weapon designed to test your blood, and the other knew exactly where to run.”

She looked toward the emergency stairwell.

”This wasn’t a random attack.”

”No.”

Valen bent down and retrieved the bronze skull mask.

He turned it slowly in his hands, examining the narrow grooves carved along its inner surface.

”The trial finals begin in four days,” he said. ”The perimeter security will be tested long before the opening ceremony.”

Mirain’s expression tightened.

”You’re thinking about the trials?”

”I’m thinking about the timing. The attack occurred while we were reviewing sealed Sanguis records. The attacker knew my identity, and his weapon was designed to test a specific biological response.”

Valen slipped the mask into his equipment binder.

”Someone has connected our investigation to the trials, or they intend to use the trials as cover for something else.”

”And you think the Mad Doctor is behind it?”

”He has already demonstrated an interest in bloodline experimentation. His name is the only confirmed connection we currently possess.”

Mirain glanced down at the unconscious man.

”Then we’ll interrogate him as soon as the enforcers arrive.”

”An excellent administrative decision.”

She gave him a sharp look.

”Valen.”

”Yes?”

”Someone just tried to kill you.”

”And failed.”

He secured the binder beneath his arm.

”That is generally the preferred outcome of an attempted assassination.”

Mirain looked as though she wanted to argue.

Instead, she turned toward the entrance and began calling for the library guards.

Valen remained beside the fallen archivist, his blindfold concealing his expression.

The Mad Doctor had sent a message.

Not a threat disguised as a warning. Not an anonymous letter or a forged registry entry.

A direct attack.

Someone had spoken his true name inside the Citadel and attempted to discover what lay beneath his suppressor.

That meant the investigation had entered a more dangerous phase.

Valen ran his thumb once across the edge of the bronze mask.

Four days remained before the trial finals.

He would need to revise the security arrangements, examine the library’s access records, and determine how much the Mad Doctor knew about the three cores.

He would also need to ensure that Mirain did not discover the answers before he was ready.

The administrative workload was becoming unreasonable.

For the first time that afternoon, Valen considered whether the Citadel might benefit from hiring an additional clerk.