House of Blood

Ten days passed in a quiet, tense blur across the neutral province of Bergis.

The administrative machinery of the Governor’s Manor ran with mechanical perfection under Wren’s vigilant oversight, but deep within the stone-walled private training chambers beneath the manor, the air remained perpetually hot, thick with the heavy scent of ozone, iron, and suppressed dragon-fire.

The heavy iron doors of the basement chamber groaned open.

Bryn stepped into the room, her small four-foot frame carrying an uncharacteristically heavy, velvet-lined steel case.

Her wild silver braids were tied back into a tight bun, and her mahogany face was smeared with dark soot and metallic dust, testifying to ten sleepless days at her forge.

Valerian stood in the center of the chamber, clad in a plain gray tunic, his black fabric blindfold securely tied across his eyes.

Sitting nearby on a stone ledge was Wren, her long platinum-gold hair framed against her dark crimson suit.

Her sharp red eyes followed the half-gnome, half-dwarf blacksmith as she set the case down onto a heavy stone workbench with a dull, resonant THUD.

”I finished it,” Bryn said, wiping sweat from her brow with her leather forearm wrap.

She looked up at Valerian, her bronze eyes gleaming with fierce pride.

”Though I should warn you, Lord Governor... this isn’t just a simple illusion trinket or a charm band.

”To chomp down on an aura as terrifying as yours, I had to build a true cage.”

Bryn flipped the steel latches.

The lid lifted, revealing a sleek, dark-mithril forearm guard resting on black velvet.

It was remarkably thin—almost like a second skin of brushed black metal—engraved with microscopic crimson runes so fine they looked like tiny veins of dried blood etched into the dark alloy.

”Put it on,” Bryn instructed.

Valerian stepped forward, picking up the dark mithril guard.

The metal felt ice-cold against his palm, almost completely inert.

He slid it onto his left forearm, bringing the subtle latching mechanism together until it clicked seamlessly against his skin.

”Focus a trace of your mana into the core line,” Bryn murmured.

Valerian complied, channeling a thin thread of his shadow-dragon arcana into the vambrace.

CLICK. SHRRR—

The microscopic crimson runes along the metal instantly ignited with a faint, crimson pulse.

A sharp, icy surge of runic force rushed backward through Valerian’s veins, surging directly into his chest.

Instantly, his internal world violently shuddered.

Deep within his soul space, where his three primordial dragon cores burned like violent, miniature stars, heavy chains of dark mithril arcana manifested out of thin air, wrapping tightly around all three cores.

The roaring torrent of dragon-fire that usually circulated through his blood was forcefully pushed down, choked back into a quiet, simmering ember.

His immense mana pool—vast as an abyss—was abruptly restricted, compressed, and locked away behind an impenetrable runic dam.

Valerian gasped quietly, taking a step back as his knees trembled slightly under the sudden, immense weight of the restriction.

When he lifted his head, his presence was completely altered.

The heavy, suffocating aura of a Prim Sanguis lord—the sharp, metallic scent of ancestral blood, death, and dragon-fire—had vanished entirely.

His dense, overwhelming mana signature dropped violently, settling at the level of a respectable, somewhat dangerous Tier-3 mercenary warrior.

Behind his blindfold, the piercing crimson glare that usually burned through fabric was totally obscured; to any onlooker or diagnostic spell, he seemed entirely, utterly mundane.

Standing near the wall, Wren shifted her stance.

The single black slit beneath each of her main red eyes—the physical remnants of her draconic black-fire crow form—twitched violently, expanding as she tried to catch a thread of his bloodline.

She blinked, a look of genuine shock crossing her pale alabaster face.

”I... I can barely sense you, Young Master,” Wren admitted, her voice dropping into an astonished whisper.

”Even looking directly at you... the Sanguis blood-scent is gone.

”You smell of iron, sweat, and standard martial mana.

”If I did not know you were standing there, my sensory arcana would brush over you as if you were just another hired blade.”

”That’s the point,” Bryn smirked, leaning against the stone table with her arms crossed.

”It doesn’t just hide your aura, Valerian.

”It restricts your connection to your dragon cores.

”So long as you wear that gauntlet, you genuinely cannot unleash your full power.

”You’ll be forced to fight like a common high-tier sellsword.

”If you want to unleash the dragon... you’ll have to unlatch it manually.”

Valerian flexed his gloved fingers, feeling the heavy, artificial limit settling over his body.

A slow, thoroughly satisfied smile cut across his lips.

”It is perfect, Master Blacksmith,” Valerian said softly.

”A true cage for a true disguise.”

”Good,” Bryn chuckled, slinging her tool belt back over her shoulder.

”Keep it clean.

”I’d hate for my best piece of work to get ruined before I get to watch you use it.”

Valerian raised an eyebrow beneath his blindfold.

”Watch me?

”Are you attending the examinations as an observer for the Merchant Guild?”

Bryn burst into a sharp, loud laugh, slapping her knee.

”Observer?

”Lord Governor, I’m a third-year student at the Royal Academy!

”Department of Arcane Metallurgy and Magic Artifact Design.

”I’ve only got one year left before I graduate!”

Valerian paused, genuinely caught off guard.

”You are an Academy student?”

”Top of my class, boy,” Bryn grinned, winking as she headed for the chamber door.

”I’ll see you on campus, ’Valen’.

”Try not to fail the written exam!”

Two days later, the grand carriage from Bergis stopped three leagues outside the capital district of the Solian Empire.

The roads leading toward the Royal Academy were choked with an overwhelming sea of people.

Ornate, gold-leafed carriages bearing the crests of high imperial lords, ducal houses, and wealthy foreign merchants moved slowly down the cobblestone thoroughfare, flanked by armored guards and private mercenary escorts.

Thousands of hopeful young applicants—noble scions, scholarship prodigies, and sponsored martial artists—flocked toward the massive white marble gates rising in the distance.

Inside a secluded, private carriage parked beneath the shade of an ancient oak tree, Valerian sat across from two familiar figures.

Castor and Pollux Ter Sangius.

The Terza twins sat side by side.

Castor, wearing dark blue scholar’s robes embroidered with array lines, was obsessively drawing intricate mathematical geometric formulas on a small slate board with a piece of chalk.

Beside him, Pollux sat in black leather light armor, her twin silver daggers resting loosely across her lap, her sharp red eyes darting around the carriage with unhinged, predatory excitement.

”Listen to me carefully,” Valerian commanded, his voice cold, flat, and absolute beneath his black blindfold and dark leather mercenary tunic.

”We enter the Academy grounds separately.

”From this moment on, I am not Lord Governor Valerian Prim Sanguis.

”I am Valen, an independent mercenary guard sponsored by Guildmaster Garren.”

”Understood, Young Master,” Castor murmured without looking up from his slate board, his chalk scratching rapidly against the stone.

”Your cover identity creates a 98.4% reduction in political scrutiny from House Sol and the High Archmages.

”It is mathematically the most optimal route.”

Valerian turned his blindfold toward Castor, his tone darkening.

”Castor.

”You are the elder twin.

”I am placing the responsibility of controlling your sister directly on your shoulders.”

Pollux let out a sharp, giggling snort, twirling one of her daggers between her slender fingers.

”Oh, come on, My Lord!

”You know I’m always on my best behavior!”

”You nearly gutted an imperial tax collector last week because his boots squeaked,” Valerian reminded her flatly.

”If either of you blow my cover or draw unnecessary attention to our connection, I will personally assign you to border patrol in the Ashen Marches for the next three years.

”If you must contact me, do it through shadow communications or secret array drops.

”Am I clear?”

Castor sighed, snapping his chalk in half and slipping it into his sleeve.

”Understood, My Lord.

”I shall keep Pollux’s leash tight.”

”Hey! Who’s a dog?!” Pollux pouted, though her crimson eyes gleamed with dark obedience.

”Good,” Valerian said, opening the carriage door and stepping down into the dusty road.

”I will see you inside.”

The registration plaza before the Royal Academy’s outer gates was a chaotic, crowded expanse of white stone and fluttering banners.

Hundreds of applicants stood in long, organized queues waiting for initial identity verification and mana appraisal stone testing.

High above the plaza, atop the massive marble towers of the central academy building, imperial guards stood watch, their armor gleaming in the afternoon sun.

Castor and Pollux walked casually toward the side line reserved for mid-tier noble branch families and specialized array applicants.

Castor carried a heavy leather book under his arm, his mind still spinning with calculation vectors, while Pollux walked beside him, her hands tucked casually behind her head, whistling a low, eerie tune.

”Hey! Watch where you’re going, chalk-boy!”

A sudden, harsh shove sent Castor stumbling sideways, his slate board clattering onto the hard stone floor.

A group of four young men dressed in lavish, velvet-trimmed coats—scions of a prominent imperial vassal house—stepped into their path, sneering arrogantly.

The leader, a tall, broad-shouldered youth carrying a high-grade silver rapier at his hip, looked down at Castor’s plain robes with open disdain.

”Look at this pathetic math-nerd,” the lead noble laughed, kicking Castor’s slate board across the dirt.

”This line is for true nobility, not budget scholars who smell like ink and cheap chalk.

”Pick it up and get to the back of the line!”

His three cronies chuckled, stepping forward to surround Castor, completely ignoring the small, dark-haired girl standing right beside him.

Castor slowly crouched down, dusting off his robes.

He didn’t look angry; in fact, his expression was entirely devoid of fear, his eyes simply analyzing the trajectory of the kick.

”Distance: two paces.

”Angle of attack: sloppy.

”Target center of gravity: heavily unbalanced.”

”What did you say, trash?!” the noble leader snapped, reaching out a hand to grab Castor’s collar.

He never finished the movement.

CRACK!

A blinding flash of silver movement cut through the air.

Before the noble could even process what was happening, Pollux appeared directly in front of him.

Her hand moved like a striking viper, seizing the noble’s extended wrist, breaking it backward with a terrifying, sickening snap.

”AAAGGHHH!” the noble screamed, dropping to his knees.

Before his three cronies could draw their blades, Pollux spun gracefully on her heel.

Her left boot struck the second noble full in the face, shattering his nose in a spray of blood, while Castor calmly stepped forward, drawing a small, array-inscribed wooden ruler from his sleeve.

With a single, precise mathematical thrust, Castor struck the third noble’s pressure point along his neck, causing the boy’s eyes to roll back as he collapsed instantly to the cobblestones.

The fourth noble turned to run, but Pollux leaped onto his back like a feral beast, driving the blunt pommel of her dagger into the back of his skull with a dull THUD.

The entire confrontation lasted less than six seconds.

Silence fell over the immediate crowd.

Dozens of surrounding applicants, guards, and merchants gasped, stepping backward in terror as the four arrogant nobles lay battered, bleeding, and unconscious in a broken heap on the marble floor.

Pollux dusted off her leather pants, a wide, thoroughly unhinged grin spreading across her face.

She casually walked over to the groaning noble leader, grabbing him by his hair, and sat directly on his back, resting her chin on her hands like he was nothing more than a comfortable stool.

Castor picked up his slate board, wiped the dust off the surface with his sleeve, and calmly sat down right on top of another unconscious noble’s chest, pulling a fresh piece of chalk from his pocket.

”Calculations complete,” Castor murmured softly, resuming his writing.

The surrounding nobles and scions stared at the pair, horror creeping across their faces as someone in the crowd suddenly recognized the distinct, terrifying style of their combat arcana and the crimson gleam in their eyes.

”That... that array combat...” a young scion whispered, his voice trembling violently.

”The silver daggers... the absolute ruthlessness...”

”It’s the Terza twins!” another applicant shouted, taking three steps back in absolute panic.

”Castor Ter Sangius and Pollux Ter Sangius!

”The blood maniacs from the Ter branch!”

”Why are they here?!”

Terror spread through the queue like wildfire.

Applicants scrambled backward, giving the sitting twins a fifty-foot wide berth of empty stone.

Standing fifty yards away in the mercenary queue, clad in his plain leather armor, his new mithril suppressor securely fastened to his forearm, ’Valen’ watched the chaos unfold.

Behind his black blindfold, Valerian pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a long, quiet, exhausted sigh.

So much for keeping a low profile, Valerian thought to himself, a tiny, dark smile twitching at the corner of his lips.