House of Blood

The central terrace of the grand estate grew dead silent.

The warm, ambient chatter of the festival below seemed to fade into a muted background buzz as the high-society guests, barbarian chiefs, Lumerian knights, and imperial guards parted to form a wide, expectant circle on the polished stone floor.

Below the terrace, five thousand citizens continued to sing, drink, and roast meat over towering bonfires, completely unaware that directly above their heads, the political balance of the feast was dangling on the edge of a blade.

Lord Julian twirled his ornate rapier with a flashy, dramatic flourish, his blade whistling through the air in sharp, rhythmic loops.

He settled into a textbook southern fencing stance—side profile narrow, lead foot planted forward at a precise forty-five-degree angle, knees bent, and the gleaming tip of his rapier hovering right at Valerian’s eye level.

His gilded blue-and-gold armor caught the light of the festival braziers, making him look every bit the pampered champion of the southern dueling halls.

”Remember the terms, Lord Valerian,” Julian sneered, his chest puffing out beneath his breastplate as he wiped a smear of spilled wine from his jaw. ”No mana amplification. No spatial micro-shifts. No dragon-blood fire. No shadow spirits. Pure physical technique, reflexes, and raw sword mastery. Unless, of course, the great hero of Bergis wishes to retract his acceptance?”

Valerian stood twenty paces away.

He wore no armor—just his fitted trousers, polished boots, and the newly tailored dark coat embroidered with subtle crimson dragon-scales along the high collar and cuffs.

He held the simple, un-enchanted iron training sword loosely in his right hand, the tip pointed casually toward the cold marble floor.

His slitted crimson eyes were entirely devoid of emotion.

He didn’t check his grip.

He didn’t adjust his balance.

He simply stood there, his gaze tracing the outline of Julian’s frame—evaluating his tight shoulder muscles, his over-extended front knee, the slight tremor in his right wrist, and the subtle, telltale shifting of his weight that telegraphed his intent seconds before his body could execute it.

”You may begin whenever you are ready, Lord Julian,” Valerian said, his voice quiet, flat, and chillingly serene.

Julian’s face flushed at the casual dismissal, his teeth grinding together.

”Arrogant child!”

TAP-TAP-THRUST!

Julian lunged forward, his boots snapping against the polished stone with practiced cadence.

His rapier whistled like a striking viper, extending into a textbook, high-speed thrust aimed straight for Valerian’s left shoulder.

It was fast, remarkably precise, and honed by years of private instruction from the most expensive fencing masters in the southern duchies.

Against an ordinary teenage noble, it would have drawn blood before they could even draw their breath.

Valerian didn’t raise his blade to block.

He didn’t even step back.

With a movement so minimal it seemed lazy, Valerian tilted his upper torso three inches to the right.

The razor-sharp tip of Julian’s rapier passed through empty air, brushing harmlessly against the dark silk of Valerian’s sleeve.

Before Julian could retract his arm to reset his guard, Valerian’s left hand flicked out like a striking whip.

His bare, un-armored palm slapped the flat side of Julian’s blade with a loud, ringing SNAP!

The sudden lateral force completely hijacked Julian’s forward momentum.

His lead foot skidded across the smooth stone, his arms flailing wildly as his center of gravity collapsed.

He stumbled forward three awkward steps, barely keeping himself from tumbling face-first onto the marble.

Laughter rippled through the surrounding crowd.

Down near the fountain, Chief Kaelen let out a deep, rolling chuckle into his wooden mug, shaking his braided head in amusement.

”First lesson,” Valerian murmured, his smooth voice cutting cleanly through the humiliation.

He hadn’t moved from his original spot; his boots remained rooted to the exact same stone tiles.

”A blade is an extension of your intent. Yours is loud, sloppy, and entirely predictable.”

Julian spun around, his face burning a deep, furious shade of crimson.

The laughter of the barbarian warriors and the amused smiles of the Lumerian holy knights felt like hot needles pressing into his pride.

”That was a fluke!” Julian spat, his knuckles turning white around the wire-wrapped hilt of his rapier. ”You got lucky with a desperate dodge! Stand still and fight me like a nobleman!”

”As you wish,” Valerian replied softly.

Without breaking eye contact, Valerian flipped the iron training sword in his grip.

The blade reversed in an instant, resting along the back of his forearm in a tight, double-dagger assassination hold.

”What in the gods’ names is that ridiculous stance?!” Julian sneered, stepping forward again. ”That isn’t fencing! That’s butcher work!”

Julian didn’t wait for an answer.

He lunged forward again, this time abandoning the single thrust for a rapid, three-point dueling combination—a blinding dart toward Valerian’s throat, a swift dip toward his liver, and a rising slash aimed at his heart.

Valerian didn’t retreat.

Instead, he stepped directly into the dead space of Julian’s reach.

He didn’t use heavy blocks that required muscle or mana.

He used redirection.

Using the flat iron back-edge of his reversed blade, Valerian tapped the tip of Julian’s rapier away with lightning-fast micro-parries—

CLINK! CLINK! CLINK!

Every single thrust from Julian was deflected by a fraction of an inch, the steel whistling past Valerian’s skin by hair-widths.

The visual was terrifying; Valerian moved with robotic, eerie calm, weaving through a rain of lethal steel as if he were simply taking a stroll through a quiet garden.

On the third thrust, as Julian’s rapier over-extended past Valerian’s left hip, Valerian closed the final distance.

He slipped past Julian’s guard, his left foot pivoting cleanly behind Julian’s heel.

With a sharp, sudden movement, Valerian drove the heavy iron-hilted pommel of his reversed sword directly into Julian’s nose.

CRACK!

”AAAGH!” Julian shrieked, a sickening crunch echoing off the terrace walls.

The force of the blow snapped Julian’s head back.

Blood spurted from his broken nose, spraying across his ornate chest plate as he stumbled backward, his vision swimming with white sparks as he clutched his face with his off-hand.

Valerian smoothly slid back into a neutral position, his breathing completely even, not a single strand of his silver-laced dark hair out of place.

”Second lesson,” Valerian said, his tone resembling a scholar delivering a mundane lecture.

”Fencing is a sport designed for warm dueling halls and polite rules. Real combat takes place inside the breath of your enemy. When you leave your guard open to display your speed, you give away your life.”

”I’ll kill you! I’ll tear you apart!” Julian screamed, his voice nasal and choked with blood.

The embarrassment had completely shattered whatever remained of his aristocratic training.

Abandoning all pretense of southern fencing, Julian gripped his rapier with both hands like a broadsword, his eyes wide, bloodshot, and wild.

He charged forward, swinging a desperate, horizontal executioner’s arc aimed straight at Valerian’s neck.

It was a move born of pure, hysterical rage—heavy, reckless, and carrying the full weight of his body.

Valerian’s crimson eyes didn’t even flicker.

As the heavy blade swept toward him, Valerian didn’t duck or parry.

Instead, he casually tossed the iron training sword two feet into the air above his head.

While the iron blade spun lazily in mid-air, Valerian slid beneath Julian’s wild, high swing.

His right hand reached out to the weapon rack standing along the terrace wall, his fingers wrapping around the smooth hickory wood of a two-handed iron-capped quarterstaff.

In a single, fluid, breathtaking motion, Valerian drew the staff from the rack, spun on his heel, and swept the heavy wooden pole low across the floor.

THWACK!

The iron-capped staff struck the back of Julian’s knees with absolute, bone-jarring accuracy.

”GAH!”

Julian’s legs folded instantly.

The momentum of his wild charge, combined with the brutal sweep, sent him flying forward.

His body slammed face-first onto the hard marble floor with a heavy, metallic crash that vibrated through the stone.

His rapier slipped from his numbed fingers, clattering uselessly across the terrace before coming to a stop near the edge of the fountain.

Before Julian could even attempt to push his bloodied frame off the ground, a shadow fell over him.

Valerian stood over the fallen noble.

With a casual, effortless extension of his left hand, he caught the falling iron sword as it descended from the air, gripping the hilt without even looking up.

Simultaneously, he lowered his right hand, resting the blunt, iron tip of the heavy quarterstaff lightly against the back of Julian’s neck.

The pressure was tiny, but the message was absolute.

If Julian moved an inch, his neck would snap.

Over in the shadow of the stone archway, Wren leaned against the wall, taking another quiet bite of her roasted chicken leg.

Her golden dragon eyes gleamed with pure, unadulterated delight, a slow, wicked smirk spreading across her sharp features.

”Spear-to-sword transition,” Wren whispered softly, turning her head toward the floating shadow ball beside her. ”Form First into Form Second, executed through mundane training weapons. The kid’s literally practicing his secret realm weapon shifts on the poor bastard.”

”And without a single drop of mana or spatial arcana,” Nox’Aethel rasped in return, his floating form pulsing with dark, silent giggles.

”Pure physical mechanics, leverage, and spatial awareness. The young southern fool believed he was challenging a mage. He didn’t realize he was stepping into a ring with a sovereign weapon master.”

Up on the high balcony overlooking the terrace, Princess Solene Sol leaned her elbows against the carved stone railing, her sharp, vivid violet eyes tracking Valerian’s every micro-movement with intense scrutiny.

Beside her, Lady Lyra Medeis took a slow, deliberate sip of her fruit juice, a subtle, highly entertained smirk playing on her lips.

”He didn’t just beat him,” Solene observed softly, her voice carrying the cold, analytical weight of imperial royal training.

”He didn’t even use ten percent of his physical strength. He systematically dismantled the boy’s confidence in front of three different political factions, proving that even stripped of his bloodline, he is superior.”

”That’s Valerian for you,” Lyra replied, her blue eyes twinkling under the lantern light.

”He never wastes an opportunity to send a message. House Vane was thinking of contesting the northern trade tariffs next month. I doubt Lord Julian’s father will bring up the subject now.”

Down in the center of the terrace, Julian lay grovelling on the cold stone, coughing up a mixture of blood, saliva, and floor dust.

He looked up sideways at Valerian, his face bruised, his nose shattered, and his eyes wide with absolute, soul-crushing humiliation.

”You... you monster...” Julian wheezed, his voice trembling uncontrollably. ”You’re... you’re not human...”

Valerian slowly lifted the quarterstaff from Julian’s neck.

He walked over to the weapon rack, placing the staff back into its slot, before setting the iron training sword back onto its hooks with a soft CLATTER.

He pulled a crisp, white silk handkerchief from his coat pocket.

With slow, meticulous precision, Valerian wiped a single, stray drop of Julian’s blood from his left thumb, his expression as serene as a still lake.

When he was finished, he tossed the stained silk handkerchief onto Julian’s trembling chest.

”Third lesson, Lord Julian,” Valerian said softly, his slitted crimson eyes looking down at the sprawling noble as if he were nothing more than an unpleasant smudge of dirt on an otherwise clean floor.

”Do not confuse the comfort of southern dueling halls with true strength. You came here believing that bloodlines and magic are cheats used by those who cannot fight. In reality, they are merely tools. If this were a real battlefield, you would have died four times before your blade even cleared its scabbard.”

Valerian turned his back on the broken noble, walking calmly away without giving him another glance.

He approached the grand banquet table where his mother, Lady Vesperia, stood waiting.

Her pale, elegant face was lit up with a calm, thoroughly approving smile as she offered him a fresh glass of plum wine.

”Sir Van Liondale,” Valerian called out, his voice carrying smoothly across the terrace.

”My Lord!” the old knight replied, stepping forward instantly.

”Escort Lord Julian to the guest quarters and have a chirurgeon tend to his face,” Valerian instructed calmly, taking a slow sip of his wine.

”It seems the climate of Bergis is a bit too harsh for his southern constitution.”

”Right away, my Lord!” Van Liondale signaled to two heavy militia guards, who promptly grabbed Julian by his armpits, dragging the groaning, bloodied southern heir off the terrace as his boots scraped helplessly against the stone.

The suffocating tension that had gripped the upper balcony melted away instantly.

Kaelen let out a booming laugh, slamming her heavy fist onto the wooden table so hard the plates rattled.

”BY THE ANCESTORS! That was a proper beating! No magic, just good old-fashioned steel to the nose!”

The barbarian warriors roared in approval, raising their wooden mugs, while the Lumerian holy knights offered respectful nods toward Valerian, thoroughly impressed by the absolute discipline of his martial form.

The minstrels, sensing the shift in the air, struck up their lively winter tunes once more, their lutes and drums filling the night.

Valerian walked back to the edge of the high balcony, leaning against the cold stone railing.

Beside him, Saintess Seraphina, Princess Solene, and Lady Lyra stepped up to the ledge, all four of them looking out over the grand, illuminated city of Bergis.

Below, the fireworks continued to burst in brilliant blossoms of crimson, gold, and vibrant violet against the dark winter sky.

The city was alive, safe, and prosperous—a fortress forged in blood and iron, now standing absolute against the wilderness.

Valerian swirled the dark plum wine in his glass, his slitted crimson pupils tracking the glowing embers as they drifted up into the night air toward the southern horizon, where the Imperial Capital, the Royal Academy, and a continent full of unsuspecting rivals awaited his arrival.