House of Blood

The transition from the manicured, ward-protected grounds of Sector A to the jagged wilderness beyond the Citadel’s outer walls was swift and unforgiving.

By noon of the following Tuesday, four hundred first-year cadets stood assembled at the threshold of the Iron-Ridge Ravines—a vast, fog-shrouded expanse of shattered granite, ancient basalt arches, and razor-sharp pine forests six leagues northeast of the campus.

The Wilderness Survival Practicum was designed to break the comfortable illusions of academy life.

Here, student titles meant nothing to the iron-hide boars, cliff-crawlers, and unstable mana geysers that infested the terrain.

”Listen up, fresh blood!” barked Senior Scout Gareth Vance, a towering third-year upperclassman with scar tissue running from his jaw to his collarbone.

He stood atop a natural basalt pillar, his heavy broadsword resting point-down in the dirt.

”For the next seventy-two hours, your cells will survive off what you carry and what you kill. You will construct your own shelters, filter your own water, and hold your designated perimeter markers!”

Gareth’s sharp eyes swept over the crowded rows of cadets.

”The Citadel enforcers will maintain a three-league perimeter, but inside the ravine, you are on your own. If your cell ignites a distress flare, you fail the practicum immediately and forfeit fifty battle-merit points.”

He paused.

”Questions?”

Silence hung over the assembly, thick with nervous tension.

”Good.”

Gareth’s gaze shifted.

”Cell One—step forward!”

Valerian, Casper, Solene, and Lyra stepped out from the formation.

Casper wore polished steel chainmail beneath his tunic, two arming swords buckled to his waist.

Solene carried her ivory rapier with chilled elegance.

Lyra held a lightweight hardwood staff strung with spatial tracking charms.

And behind them walked Valerian.

He wore a heavy wool traveling cloak over his clerk’s coat, a canvas rucksack strapped to his shoulders, and the leather-bound logistics kit tucked beneath his arm.

Under his left sleeve, the dark-mithril suppressor guard rested snugly against his forearm, its suppression arrays working silently beneath the metal.

The guard kept all three of his dragon cores completely invisible to the Citadel’s external scanning wards.

Gareth Vance jumped down from the basalt pillar, landing with a heavy thud in front of Cell One.

His sharp gray eyes locked onto Valerian.

He took two slow steps toward the blindfolded youth, leaning in slightly.

”You’re the scribe who’s been doing Sanguis’s paperwork,” Gareth said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.

”I saw your name on the deployment ledger. What’s a clerk doing in an active wilderness sector?”

”The practicum rules require one designated quartermaster per cell to record monster core harvests and resource expenditure, Senior Scout,” Valerian answered smoothly.

His voice was flat and unbothered.

Gareth narrowed his eyes.

He leaned closer until he was barely a foot away.

”I’ve spent three years scouting the northern borders, kid. I’ve seen hardened veterans who don’t stand as still as you do.”

His eyes traveled over Valerian’s posture.

”You’re not even breathing through your chest. You’re breathing through your diaphragm. Quiet. Controlled.”

”I have weak lungs, Senior Scout,” Valerian replied without a beat of hesitation.

”Shallow breathing prevents coughing during long hours in the dusty archives.”

Gareth stared at him.

Then he let out a short, harsh bark of laughter.

His eyes remained suspicious.

”Weak lungs, huh? Right.”

He stepped back.

”Just don’t freeze when a cliff-crawler tries to bite your head off.”

He turned toward the ravine.

”Cell One—Sector Seven is your assigned quadrant. Move out!”

---

By dusk, the fog inside the Iron-Ridge Ravines had thick, damp fingers that clung to the towering pine trees.

The temperature dropped rapidly, biting through thin wool cloaks.

In a small natural clearing sheltered by a semicircular cliff wall, Cell One had established their base camp.

Casper was busily attempting to spark a campfire using a small fire-flint and dry moss, grunting in frustration every time the damp wood failed to catch.

”Allow me,” Solene said with an exasperated sigh.

She stepped forward and channeled a tiny sliver of blue frost mana into her fingers.

The air around the wood chilled instantly, drawing out the moisture through rapid condensation.

Casper struck the flint again.

A crisp orange flame erupted from the dry kindling.

”Teamwork!” Casper grinned, blowing on the flame until the pine logs caught fire.

”See? I told you my flint technique was solid!”

”Your flint technique was a disaster, Lord Sun-Gilded,” Lyra remarked.

She sat on a flat rock while unrolling a parchment map of Sector Seven.

Then she looked over at Valerian.

He was methodically setting up three small canvas tents near the cliff face, securing the wooden stakes into the hard soil with smooth, rhythmic taps of a stone.

”How are the perimeter markers looking, Valen?” Lyra asked.

”Quadrant Seven is secure,” Valerian replied.

He tossed the stone aside and brushed the dirt from his palms.

”I have set four mechanical trip-wires thirty yards out along the natural approach angles. If any beast larger than a hare breaks the wire, a small iron bell will ring near my tent.”

Casper chuckled, taking a sip from his canteen.

”Trip-wires and bells? Valen, we’re in a high-grade monster sector! Cliff-crawlers drop from the trees. They don’t walk on the trails!”

”A cliff-crawler’s body mass creates a localized air-pressure drop as it descends through pine needles,” Valerian noted flatly, pulling his counting board from his rucksack.

”The vibration of the branches will trigger the upper tension line.”

Casper stared at him, holding his canteen midway to his mouth.

”Are you... are you serious?”

”He is entirely serious,” Solene said softly.

She sat by the fire with her rapier resting across her knees.

Her icy eyes studied Valerian’s blindfolded profile.

”He has calculated the movement mechanics of every creature listed in the Citadel bestiary.”

”It is simply basic preparation,” Valerian said.

He sat down on a flat stone near the edge of the firelight.

He unbuckled his canvas rucksack, opening a small wooden box containing dry rations—hardened grain biscuits, dried salted beef, and a tin of tea leaves.

Casper stared at him for another moment.

Then he shook his head.

”You’re a strange man, Valen.”

Valerian said nothing.

---

As the night grew darker, the sounds of the ravine changed.

The distant howls of horned wolves echoed through the canyons, accompanied by the low, rhythmic thrumming of underground mana veins running through the basalt bedrock.

Deep within his spiritual realm, Aurelix stretched her golden phantom claws, her glowing tails fanning out across his inner consciousness.

”Master...” Aurelix warned.

Her voice dropped into a dangerous, velvet purr.

”Something unpleasant is crawling through the fog two leagues to the east.”

Valerian’s fingers paused over his dried beef.

”It does not smell like a natural beast,” Aurelix continued.

”Describe it.”

Valerian’s command echoed silently through their connection.

”Flesh... corrupted mana... stitched meat,” Aurelix answered, her eyes narrowing.

”The same reek as those flayed abominations we purged in the lower ruins.”

She paused.

”Small ones. Scouting units.”

Valerian’s spatial perception expanded subtly.

He kept his radius tight—resting just fifty yards beyond their campsite so as not to trigger any external detection wards planted by the upperclassmen scouts.

His passive awareness nevertheless picked up the faint, unnatural distortion in the ambient mana flow coming from the eastern ridge.

The Mad Doctor’s constructs were already operating outside the Citadel walls.

They weren’t hunting cadets yet.

They were mapping the terrain, harvesting wild beast blood, and preparing the infrastructure for something far larger.

Valerian’s fingers resumed breaking the dried beef into small pieces.

Then—

TAP.

A soft, almost imperceptible sound echoed from the pine trees sixty yards above their clearing.

It wasn’t the sound of a falling pinecone.

Nor was it the wind.

It was the sound of a heavy, multi-legged torso shifting its weight across a damp branch.

A fraction of a second before the creature initiated its leap.

Valerian didn’t stand.

He didn’t draw a weapon.

Without turning his head, he spoke in a calm, conversational tone.

”Casper.”

”Hm?”

”Draw your left sword and step two paces to your right.”

Casper blinked.

”Now.”

The absolute cold authority in Valerian’s voice made his body react before his brain could process the command.

Casper leaped to the right.

His steel arming sword cleared its scabbard with a sharp—

SHWING!

CRASH!

A massive, six-legged cliff-crawler—a chitinous monster the size of a warhorse, with dripping yellow fangs and four glowing eyes—shattered the upper pine branches and slammed violently into the exact spot where Casper had been sitting a split second earlier.

The creature released an ear-piercing screech, its razor-sharp mandibles snapping shut on empty air.

”Strike now, Solene.”

Valerian’s voice remained completely unhurried.

”Its third under-scale is exposed on the left flank.”

Solene moved like a flash of white lightning.

Her ivory rapier extended in a pristine, ice-reinforced thrust, driving directly through the gap in the creature’s armor that Valerian had specified.

THWACK!

Blue frost mana erupted from the blade’s tip, instantly freezing the cliff-crawler’s main heart organ.

The monster let out a choked hiss.

It shuddered violently.

Then collapsed sideways into the campfire, dead before its body hit the embers.

Silence fell over the clearing.

Only the crackle of the frozen monster’s carapace burning in the fire remained.

Casper stood five feet away, his breathing heavy.

His sword trembled slightly in his hand as he stared at the giant beast that had almost crushed him.

Slowly, he turned toward Valerian.

The blindfolded clerk was still sitting calmly on his stone.

He was holding the same piece of dried beef.

”You...”

Casper swallowed.

”You called that out before it even broke the tree canopy.”

His eyes widened.

”How? How did you know it was falling from that angle?”

Solene withdrew her rapier.

Her icy blue eyes burned with intense scrutiny as she stared down at the blindfolded clerk.

”The upper branches didn’t snap until the creature was halfway down,” she said.

Her voice had dropped into a dangerous, sharp register.

”You reacted to the shift in air density before the beast even detached its claws.”

She narrowed her eyes.

”A veteran scout with twenty years of field experience couldn’t have called that trajectory.”

Lyra stood from her rock, her staff held tightly in both hands.

Her spatial bubble vibrated with deep confusion.

”Valen...”

She hesitated.

”Your spatial perception isn’t small, is it?”

Valerian slowly raised his dried beef to his mouth.

He took a small, deliberate bite.

He chewed.

Swallowed.

Then picked up his iron stylus.

”The cliff-crawler species Arachnis-granite always hunts in pairs,” Valerian said softly.

His voice remained as calm as stagnant water.

”And its mate is currently positioned forty yards behind us.”

Lyra’s eyes widened.

”Preparing to drop on you.”

”Casper, front guard!” Solene barked instantly.

She spun around.

The second monster exploded from the darkness.

Cell One sprang into action.

Steel flashed.

Frost erupted.

Spatial barriers snapped into existence.

And the blindfolded clerk calmly issued instructions between bites of dried beef.

”Three steps left.”

Lyra obeyed.

”Lower.”

She ducked.

”Casper, behind you.”

Casper twisted and brought his sword upward.

The cliff-crawler’s claws slammed against steel.

CLANG!

Casper grunted as the impact drove him backward.

”Solene. Neck.”

The rapier flashed.

The monster screamed.

Within seconds, the second cliff-crawler crashed into the dirt.

Silence returned to the clearing.

This time, nobody laughed.

Nobody called Valerian strange.

They simply stared at him.

High above on a distant rocky ridge overlooking Sector Seven, Senior Scout Gareth Vance lowered his copper spyglass.

His face was pale.

His jaw was set in a hard, grim line.

”He called the drop vector three seconds early...” Gareth whispered.

His hand tightened around the hilt of his broadsword.

”No mana pulse.”

His gray eyes narrowed.

”No magical detection array.”

He looked back toward the distant campsite.

”He just... knew.”

Gareth reached into his coat and pulled out an official Citadel incident ledger.

He opened it to the section marked:

UNREGISTERED COMBAT ENTITIES

His quill hovered over the parchment.

For several seconds, he said nothing.

Then he wrote.

Subject: Clerk Valen.

Gareth stared at the words.

His expression darkened.

”You aren’t a scribe.”

The quill stopped.

”What in the seven hells did High Marshal Valerius bring into this academy?”