House of Blood

The midnight hour approached with the steady, oppressive march of an executioner’s procession.

Across the vast estate of the Prim Sanguis, ancient arrays began to hum, their subterranean mana conduits surging with spatial energy that vibrated through the foundation of every tower.

Servants scurried through the subterranean passages like frantic rodents, carrying sealing charms and high-tier defensive wards, well aware that when the rift to the Ancestral Plain opened, even a leak of its atmospheric pressure could wither a normal human’s lungs into black ash within seconds.

Yet, in the grand marble corridor leading to the Patriarch’s inner sanctum, there was no rush.

There was only a cold, rhythmic cadence.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The base of Valerian’s S-Rank chitin staff struck the white-and-red tiles with absolute precision.

He walked with unhurried grace, his dark crimson silk robes swishing gently against his boots.

The northern blindfold covered his eyes, but his posture was that of a predator walking through familiar territory.

He carried no luggage, no travel bags, and no defensive talismans.

He needed none.

Behind him walked Corvus and Lyra.

Corvus had his hands folded neatly behind his lower back, his white-gloved fingers resting over the hidden mechanisms of his spatial daggers.

His posture was impeccably upright, his eyes darting across every shadowy alcove in the corridor with the cold, calculating instinct of a veteran guard who had survived three separate internal clan purges.

Beside him, Lyra moved with the phantom silence that only the shadow-trained possessed.

Her maid’s skirt did not rustle; her leather boots made no sound against the polished floor.

Her hands were buried inside her long white apron, resting lightly against the hidden hilt of her phantom wire needles.

They were not merely a butler and a chief maid.

They were the anchors of Valerian’s personal branch, two living weapons bound to his bloodline since his sixth winter, willing to cut down an entire legion if he gave the quietest command.

Valerian reached the massive double doors of the study.

The heavy iron-wood panels were inscribed with spatial suppression runes that hummed with a low, bone-chilling resonance.

He did not pause.

He reached out with his bare left hand and pushed the doors open, stepping directly over the threshold without waiting for permission, without announcing his presence, and without executing the formal three-step bow required of every Sanguis heir.

Inside, the grand study was as cold as a mountain tomb.

Icarus Prim Sanguis sat behind his expansive desk, carved from a solid, forty-ton slab of void-black obsidian.

The room was illuminated only by the faint, eerie glow of red mana lamps flickering in iron sconces along the walls.

Icarus held a long silver quill, its tip tracing meticulous lines of dark red ink across a thick parchment ledger.

He did not look up.

He did not pause his writing.

The moment Valerian’s boots crossed the threshold, the ambient temperature inside the room plummeted by ten degrees.

Frost immediately began to bloom across the edges of the obsidian desk, crystallizing in intricate, spiderweb patterns.

”You have precisely two minutes before the spatial array in the deep courtyard aligns for your departure,” Icarus spoke, his deep, resonant voice flat and completely devoid of human warmth.

”State your business, Valerian. If you came to bid farewell, save your breath. The Ancestral Plain does not grant passage to sentimental fools.”

Valerian came to a halt five paces from the desk.

He stood tall, his dark crimson silk robes hanging loosely over his broad, young shoulders.

He did not assume a submissive posture, nor did he lower his head.

He rested his left hand casually on the upper neck of his new black chitin staff.

”I am not here to offer sentiment, Patriarch,” Valerian stated smoothly, his tone light, pleasant, and devoid of fear.

”I am here to present a formal proposition regarding the Vanguard’s northern trade and border doctrine.”

Icarus’s quill did not stop.

”The Vanguard’s doctrine is decided by the High Council and executed by my hand. You are a fifteen-year-old aspirant entering the trial of death. You hold no seat on the council.”

”I hold the ground,” Valerian countered, his voice steady as iron.

”I request an official, exclusive trade partnership between the Prim Sanguis domain and the Frost-Blood tribe of the Iron-Tooth Pass. A permanent supply conduit.”

SCRATCH.

The sound of the silver quill against the parchment ceased instantly.

The room fell into an absolute, suffocating silence.

The flickering crimson flames in the iron sconces froze, as if the very air had forgotten how to burn.

THUMMMMMMMMM!

Without a single word of warning, a heavy, needle-focused wave of Icarus’s Void-Sovereign Aura erupted from his sitting frame.

It was not the wide, blanket pressure he had unleashed earlier to crush Valerian’s spirit; this was a razor-thin, pressurized beam of pure, lethal intent aimed squarely at the boy’s chest.

The air around Valerian turned as thick as boiling lead.

CRACK!

The marble tile directly beneath Valerian’s boots fractured, spiderweb cracks bursting outward in a three-foot ring.

His knees buckled slightly, his boots sinking a quarter-inch into the stone floor as the sheer weight of the aura slammed directly into his chest.

The hairline fractures along his ribs—healed only hours prior by Wren’s vital energy—strained under the sudden, brutal pressure.

His heart hammered against his sternum like a trapped beast, and his throat choked as the oxygen was forced entirely out of his lungs.

Cold sweat gathered instantly at his temples, trickling down his pale jaw and soaking into his high collar.

Behind him, Corvus’s eyes narrowed into slits, his fingers twitching toward his daggers, while Lyra’s shadow-aura flickered violently around her ankles.

Yet neither moved.

They knew the rules of the study.

Intervention meant immediate death for a vassal.

Valerian locked his jaw.

He did not scream.

He did not groan.

He forced his back straight, his northern blindfold locked firmly onto his father’s emotionless face, bearing the suffocating, crushing weight of a Void-Sovereign through pure, unyielding strength of will.

Icarus slowly lifted his head.

His liquid-crimson eyes glowed in the dim light, cold and sharp enough to slice through solid diamond.

”They are barbarians,” Icarus said softly, every word echoing like a heavy bell in the quiet room.

”The Prim Sanguis do not negotiate trade with lawless wasteland clans. They are insects that scavenge off our northern border.”

”Give me a single reason why I shouldn’t order the Third Vanguard Battalion to march up the pass and execute their chieftain for harboring a runaway heir.”

Valerian took a single, controlled breath, forcing his lungs to expand against the invisible mountain pressing against his ribs.

Blood rushed to his ears, making his head throb, but his pleasant, calm smile did not vanish.

It merely sharpened.

”On paper, it is a basic trade agreement,” Valerian rasped, his voice remaining smooth despite the suffocating force.

”We supply them with surplus Vanguard steel, high-tier medicinal salves, and spatial grain. In exchange, they hand over raw S-Rank monster hide, bone marrow, and spatial chitin harvested from the Red Wastes.”

He shifted his weight, his chitin staff tapping the cracked floor once.

”In reality, it is zero-cost defensive architecture,” Valerian continued, his tone turning clinical, analytical, and cold.

”The Iron-Tooth Pass is the primary migration corridor for the northern beast tides. By feeding the Frost-Blood tribe military-grade equipment and establishing a permanent trading hub at their gate, we turn their entire clan into a standing meat-grinder on our northern flank.”

”They will bleed to defend that pass because their survival depends on it.”

”They thin out the monster hordes before the beasts ever touch our outer wall.”

”We save gold, we save vanguard legionnaire lives, and we secure a three-hundred-mile border without placing a single Sanguis soldier on the ridge.”

Silence stretched across the study once more.

The suffocating needle of aura hovered over Valerian’s chest for three long, agonising seconds, testing the absolute limit of his physical endurance.

Then, with a subtle, almost imperceptible blink from Icarus, the pressure vanished into thin air.

WHOOSH.

The heavy atmosphere released its grip.

Air rushed back into Valerian’s lungs like a cold draft.

He did not stumble.

He did not reach up to wipe the sweat from his temples.

He simply stood tall, his breathing deep and rhythmic as his inner sea stabilized.

Icarus dipped his silver quill into the red inkwell once more.

He lowered his eyes back to the parchment, his marble face revealing not a single trace of approval, irritation, or thought.

”The trade permits will be stamped and waiting at the northern gate by dawn,” Icarus murmured, his voice returning to its flat, unyielding tone.

”Get out of my sight.”

Valerian offered a subtle, chilling smile.

He bowed his head slightly—not out of submission, but out of formal acknowledgment—and turned on his heel.

His dark crimson robes swept around his legs as he strode out of the study, Corvus and Lyra falling into step two paces behind him like two silent ghosts.

The massive, iron-wood double doors clicked shut with a heavy, echoic thud that signaled the absolute closure of the chamber.

For a moment, the study returned to its quiet, frozen state.

The silver quill scratched methodically against the thick paper, tracing line after line of administrative directives.

Then, a subtle ripple tore through the deepest shadow in the eastern corner of the room.

The darkness did not merely part; it dissolved, turning into a pool of liquid shadow that rose from the stone floor.

Out of the gloom stepped a woman of breathtaking, lethal elegance.

She wore a fitted crimson leather cloak draped casually over a dark silk corset that accentuated her sharp, killer curves.

Long, midnight-black hair cascaded down her back like a river of black silk, framing a skin-white face defined by high, razor-sharp cheekbones, full crimson lips, and eyes that burned with the terrifying brilliance of molten rubies.

She walked without making a sound, her movements so fluid and weightless that she seemed to glide above the cold marble.

She was Vesperia Prim Sanguis—Icarus’s wife, mother to the seven heirs, and the undisputed Grandmaster of the Shadow Realm’s assassin guilds.

She strolled toward the desk, leaning her hip against the edge of the void-black obsidian slab.

A sharp, gorgeous smirk spread across her crimson lips as she looked toward the closed doors, her molten eyes flicking with amusement.

”He played you like a cheap lute, my love,” Vesperia purred, her voice a mesmerizing blend of sweet honey and deadly poison.

”You actually sat there and listened to his little strategic lecture.”

Icarus did not stop writing.

”He presented a sound economic and military doctrine. The northern pass has been a drain on our outer garrisons for twenty years.”

”Oh, please,” Vesperia chuckled softly, a low, melodic sound that carried a thread of pure malice.

She raised one hand, running a long, manicured black fingernail over the sharp hilt of a hidden stiletto tucked into her waist.

”You think he gives a single damn about your northern border defense? Or your vanguard gold?”

Icarus paused his quill for a fraction of a second, but did not offer a reply.

”He gave you a brilliant, airtight strategic excuse so you wouldn’t send a shadow team to slaughter that little barbarian chieftain girl he spent three years with,” Vesperia smirked, her ruby eyes glowing brightly in the dim light.

”He used your own territorial paranoia and greed against you.”

”He put the entire Frost-Blood tribe directly under the personal protection of the Prim Sanguis name.”

”You didn’t just approve a trade agreement, Icarus...”

”You just signed off on being his personal security guard for the northern wilderness.”

Silence hung between them.

Icarus laid his silver quill down beside the inkwell, his large, scarred hands resting flat against the dark obsidian desk.

His face remained as unyielding and cold as a carved statue, thoroughly accustomed to his wife’s deadly, mocking banter.

”If he possesses the mind to manipulate his Patriarch before he even sets foot in the Ancestral Plain,” Icarus spoke quietly, his voice carrying an ominous, low thunder that rattled the stone walls, ”then perhaps he might actually survive the land of blood.”

Vesperia’s smirk widened into a brilliant, terrifying smile, her ruby eyes glittering with wild, prideful maternal malice as she stared at the closed doors.

”Oh, he’ll survive,” she whispered softly into the dark, her shadow-aura flaring around her heels like a hundred coiled serpents.

”He’s my son, after all.”