House of Blood

The grand estate in the central district of Bergis had survived the onslaught of the Granite World-Eater, but it was currently succumbing to an entirely different kind of terror.

Valerian sat behind his mahogany desk, his posture rigid, his dark coat immaculate, and his crimson eyes fixed blankly on the steaming teacup before him.

To his left, Wren stood with her arms crossed, leaning against a stone pillar while nervously picking at her fingernails.

Hovering beside the window, Nox’Aethel had condensed his void-like titan form into a floating, football-sized ball of dark shadow, desperately trying to blend into the velvet drapes.

Standing in the center of the study was Aura.

Valerian’s personal head maid was nineteen years old, dressed in a spotless, crisp black-and-white uniform with starched lace sleeves. In her pale, delicate hands, she held a clipboard stacked high with medical reports, destroyed clothing receipts, and damage assessments.

Her smile was sweet.

Her eyes were devoid of all light.

”Three days,” Aura said softly, her voice resembling a silk ribbon hiding a razor blade. ”Unconscious for three whole days. My Lord wakes up, and instead of resting his core, he immediately orders four new custom coats and authorizes three hundred thousand gold coins for a public feast.”

She took a slow, deliberate step toward the desk.

”Do you know what I found in your shredded coat, my Lord? Black blood. Acidic wolf bile. And actual mountain dust. Do you recall my single, humble instruction before you marched out to the northern pass?”

Valerian cleared his throat slightly.

”Aura, the situation required—”

”I asked you not to ruin your tailored silk,” Aura interrupted smoothly, turning her icy gaze toward the pillar. ”And Lady Wren...”

Wren flinched, her dragon ears twitching backward.

”Hey, now! I held the entire front gate! I took out the titan’s right eye!”

”You allowed a fifteen-year-old noble to jump off a fifty-foot wall into the open jaw of an ancient beast,” Aura said, tapping her pen against her clipboard with rhythmic, terrifying precision.

”And you, Lord Nox’Aethel...”

The ball of shadow near the curtain shuddered.

”I am an ancient primordial abyssal titan—”

”You are a spirit bound to my Lord’s soul core,” Aura corrected, stepping closer to the floating shadow ball. ”When my Lord’s physical body suffers core exhaustion, your mantle destabilizes his spiritual pathways. You should have advised him against absorbing an entire army inside a sealed pocket realm!”

Nox’Aethel slowly deflated, floating lower toward the floor.

”The young liege is... ambitious...”

At the far side of the study, Rook, the grey-haired veteran butler, stood beside the tea cart.

With practiced, silent precision, he set down a plate of fresh lavender biscuits, bowed thirty degrees toward Valerian, and took three smooth, backward steps toward the side exit.

Valerian’s eyes darted toward his butler.

Rook, do not leave.

Rook met his master’s gaze with a look of profound, unshakeable professional neutrality.

He reached behind his back, opened the brass door handle without making a sound, and slipped out into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind him with a soft, decisive click.

The butler had successfully abandoned his sovereign to the maid’s wrath.

Valerian suppressed a sigh, raising his teacup.

”Aura. The city is safe. The legion is sealed. The scolding is noted.”

Aura stared at him for three long seconds before letting out a soft, defeated sigh.

Her sweet demeanor returned in a flash as she adjusted her apron.

”Your new tailored coats will arrive by evening, my Lord. Sir Van Liondale is waiting outside with the festival preparations.”

Ten minutes later, Sir Van Liondale entered the study, holding a heavy leather binder containing the provincial records.

”My Lord,” the old knight said, bowing deeply. ”The clearing of the northern pass is complete. The Blood Shadow vanguard—the one you named Atlas—has proven remarkably efficient. He cleared forty tons of mountain rubble from the trade road single-handedly.”

”Atlas possesses the physical density of the World-Eater,” Valerian replied, signing a stack of provincial requisitions. ”He does not tire. What of the city’s morale?”

”That is precisely why I am here, my Lord,” Van Liondale said, his eyes brightening. ”Bergis has not celebrated the Festival of the Frozen Ember in over twenty-two years. Under the previous merchant council’s greed, the taxes rendered local celebrations impossible. The citizens have survived a horde, a dark eclipse, and a sleeping titan. They need a reason to remember why this province is worth living in.”

Valerian set his quill down.

”The Frozen Ember. The old winter solstice tradition.”

”Yes, my Lord. A grand feast in the central plaza, golden lanterns along the battlements, and the burning of the Great Ash Log to signify the end of hardship.”

Van Liondale paused, looking at the young lord with deep respect.

”If we host this feast now, it will declare to the entire continent that Bergis is no longer a neglected borderland—it is your stronghold.”

Valerian’s slitted crimson eyes glinted with cold, calculating intelligence.

”We will not merely host a local feast, Sir Van,” Valerian said softly. ”We will host a summit. Send out the Sanguis blood-birds and the spatial messenger arrays immediately.”

He drew a piece of parchment, writing down four distinct titles.

”First, House Sanguis—my mother, Lady Vesperia, and my siblings.

Second, House Medeis—invite Lady Lyra Medeis.

Third, the Iron-Tooth Barbarian Tribe—inform Chief Kaelen that the northern pass is open for trade.

And fourth...”

Valerian’s lips curled into a subtle, razor-thin smile.

”...send a royal summons to Princess Solene Sol. Let the Imperial Court see what grows in the north.”

Three days later, the city of Bergis was transformed.

The grey, frost-bitten stone walls were adorned with thousands of glowing, amber-gold lanterns that cast a warm, magical light over the snow-covered rooftops.

The central plaza, once a bleak courtyard of drills and stone, was filled with long wooden banquet tables laden with roasted wild boar, spiced mountain wine, honeyed bread, and simmering cauldrons of winter stew.

Music played by local minstrels echoed off the battlements, drowned out only by the laughter of five thousand citizens who ate, drank, and danced without fear for the first time in a generation.

At the northern gate, the grand carriage procession began to arrive.

Standing at the entrance of the estate courtyard, Valerian stood in a brand-new, high-collared dark coat embroidered with crimson dragon-scales along the cuffs.

Beside him stood Wren, looking unusually refined in a fitted leather vest, and Inquisitor Charles, who wore his polished silver Holy Knight dress armor.

CLOP-CLOP-CLOP.

The first carriage, bearing the dark-crimson crest of the Sanguis Grand Duchy, pulled to a halt.

The door opened, and Lady Vesperia stepped out, wrapped in a regal fur mantle.

Behind her stepped Morrigan, Marvos, and Maelis, followed closely by the young twin pair, who immediately gaped at the surroundings.

”Valerian!” Maelis shouted, practically tumbling out of the carriage.

”Mind your manners, Maelis!” Marvos snapped, though his own eyes were wide as he looked at the massive, glowing lanterns lining the fortress walls.

Lady Vesperia walked forward, her pale, elegant face softening as she looked at her fifteen-year-old son.

She didn’t offer a stiff aristocratic greeting; she reached out, gently cupping Valerian’s cheek with her gloved hand.

”You look thin, Valerian,” Vesperia whispered, her eyes searching his face for any lingering signs of the battle. ”The blood-birds spoke of a mountain collapsing.”

”The mountain was dealt with, Mother,” Valerian said softly, leaning into her touch for a brief second before bowing slightly. ”Welcome to Bergis.”

”Dealt with?” Marvos muttered, looking around the courtyard until his gaze landed on a figure standing silently near the inner keep.

Standing eight feet tall, encased in dark, granite-like armor with eyes that burned like subterranean gold, Atlas stood like an unyielding statue.

Beside him, Invictus leaned against his broadsword, his crimson-and-gold plate armor radiating thirty percent of his primordial power.

Marvos swallowed hard, his knuckles turning white.

”Valerian... what in the gods’ names are those things guarding your door?”

”My household guard,” Valerian replied smoothly, without missing a beat.

Before Marvos could process the statement, a second carriage—this one forged from polished blue-iron and bearing the arcane crest of House Medeis—coasted to a stop.

The door opened, and Lady Lyra Medeis stepped onto the snow.

The fourteen-year-old arcane prodigy wore an elegant indigo dress laced with silver mana-threads. Her dark hair was braided with blue crystals, her sharp, intelligent eyes sweeping over the grand estate before landing directly on Valerian.

”Lord Valerian,” Lyra said, stepping forward with flawless high-society grace, bowing her head just enough to show respect without compromising her house’s pride. ”My father sends his regrets that he could not attend the northern pass opening, but he sent me with House Medeis’s personal congratulations on your... recent territorial expansion.”

”Lady Lyra,” Valerian acknowledged, offering a hand to escort her up the stone steps. ”Your presence honors Bergis.”

”I see you’ve been busy,” Lyra murmured under her breath as she walked beside him, her gaze lingering on the pulsing spatial energy humming within Valerian’s coat. ”The arcane fluctuations in this valley are three times denser than they were a month ago. You didn’t just kill a monster; you anchored an arcane nexus here.”

”A sovereign does not leave his land barren,” Valerian replied coolly.

THUD. THUD. THUD.

A heavy rumble shook the snow at the courtyard entrance as a dozen massive, fur-clad warriors mounted on giant dire-bears rode into the perimeter.

At the front was Chief Kaelen of the Iron-Tooth Tribe—a giant of a man with a scarred face, braided beard, and a massive war-axe strapped to his back.

The militia guards drew their spears nervously, but Kaelen dismounted with a heavy thud, tossing a massive barrel of northern mead onto the snow.

”LITTLE DRAGON!” Kaelen bellowed, his voice echoing off the stone walls as he let out a boisterous laugh. ”The northern tribes heard the mountains fall! We thought the world was ending, but our scouts said the kid from House Sanguis turned the mountain into his footstool!”

Wren stepped forward, a smirk on her face.

”Watch your tongue, Chief. You’re talking to the Lord of Bergis now.”

”HAH! I like her!” Kaelen roared, slapping his knee before turning to Valerian and offering a heavy, warrior’s forearm.

”The Iron-Tooth Tribe brings fifty barrels of winter mead and three hundred bear hides. The northern passes are open, Lord Valerian. You have the respect of the tribes.”

Valerian gripped Kaelen’s forearm firmly.

”And the tribes have the protection of Bergis.”

Finally, a pristine, white-and-gold carriage escorted by twelve Imperial Griffon Knights descended gracefully from the sky, landing in the center of the courtyard.

The gilded door opened, and Princess Solene Sol—the younger sister of Princess Aurelia—stepped onto the snow.

At fifteen years old, she stood at the exact same height as Valerian, possessing the signature golden hair and sharp, vivid violet eyes of the Imperial Sol Lineage.

She wore a heavy white fur mantle over a tailored gown of gold silk, moving with the razor-sharp, terrifying composure of a royal who had grown up competing in the deadly politics of the imperial palace.

”Lord Valerian Sanguis,” Princess Solene said, her sharp violet eyes locking onto his crimson gaze with equal footing. ”My royal sister sends her greetings from the capital. The Emperor was... intrigued to hear that a peer of my age managed to suppress a titan-class threat without requesting imperial legions.”

”The Emperor’s legions are better suited for the capital’s borders, Your Highness,” Valerian said, bowing with immaculate, equal-ranking royal etiquette. ”Bergis is capable of sweeping its own doorstep.”

Solene’s violet eyes flicked toward Atlas, then to the Blood Shadow soldiers standing along the ramparts, before returning to Valerian’s calm, unreadable stance.

A tiny, dangerous smile touched her lips.

”So it seems. It appears my time at the Royal Academy won’t be as boring as I anticipated.”

By nightfall, the high terrace balcony overlooking the central plaza had turned into a grand hall of lights.

A massive table stretched across the stone terrace, where the most powerful figures of the northern continent sat side by side.

Lady Vesperia sat beside her children, watching with quiet pride as Marvos and Maelis eagerly questioned Chief Kaelen about northern monster hunts.

Down in the courtyard, Saintess Seraphina stood among the citizens, her golden hair glowing under the lantern light as she distributed blessed loaves of bread to the children of the militia, her face bright with genuine happiness.

Valerian stood at the edge of the high stone balcony, holding a glass of dark plum wine.

Behind him, soft footsteps clicked against the stone.

Lady Lyra Medeis walked up beside him, leaning her elbows against the snow-dusted balustrade, looking out over the illuminated city below.

”You’ve built something terrifying here, Valerian,” Lyra said softly, her blue eyes reflecting the amber lantern light. ”The Imperial Court thinks you’re just an exiled son building a border militia. They have no idea you’re assembling a private war-host.”

”Power is only terrifying to those who intend to oppose it, Lady Lyra,” Valerian said smoothly, taking a slow sip of his wine.

”And what about the Royal Academy?” Lyra asked, turning her head to look at him directly. ”Term starts in two months. The young prodigies of the four Grand Duchies, the Holy See, and the Imperial Family will all be gathered in the capital. Solene is already eyeing you as her chief rival.”

Valerian looked down at the courtyard, where Wren was currently engaged in an aggressive arm-wrestling match with Chief Kaelen while Aura frantically tried to stop Pollux from stealing roasted chicken off the royal table.

”The capital is full of arrogant fools who believe the world revolves around high-society tea rooms,” Valerian whispered, his slitted crimson pupils narrowing as a cold, unyielding ambition flared within his chest. ”It will be a pleasant change of pace to dismantle them.”

Lyra let out a short, quiet laugh, raising her glass toward him.

”Then I look forward to watching the carnage.”

Down in the plaza, a massive firework ignited, shooting into the pitch-black night sky and exploding into a magnificent blossom of crimson and gold light, illuminating the ancient, snow-capped peaks of Bergis—peaks that now stood quiet, submissive, and utterly conquered beneath the sovereign’s shadow.