House of Blood

The air in Sector Six smelled of ancient ash and sulfur.

Unlike the wet stone aqueducts of Sector Four, the Black-Glass Canyon was a massive volcanic fissure carved into the southern flank of the Citadel’s mountain range. Its towering walls were made of pure obsidian, smoothed over centuries by high-heat geothermal vents into mirror-like sheets of black glass.

Under the glaring midday sun, the canyon reflected blinding rays of black and silver light, making standard spatial perception difficult and visual tracking almost impossible for ordinary cadets.

Cell One stood on a basalt ledge overlooking the canyon’s entrance.

Casper von Valerius leaned against his greatsword, his blue-and-silver House Valerius cloak billowing in the hot wind rising from the fissure. He adjusted the leather grips of his twin arming swords, his eyes scanning the narrow obsidian causeways stretching across the chasm below.

”The thermal drafts down there are insane,” Casper shouted over the roaring wind. ”My blademaster always said fighting on black glass is like dueling on greased ice. One bad foot placement and you slide straight into a sulfur vent.”

”Which is why you will not rely on aggressive footwork,” Lyra said.

Her hands were busy adjusting the focus gems on her spatial staff. She glanced down at a piece of parchment covered in Valerian’s precise handwriting.

”Valen’s environmental map shows that the obsidian sheets have an average friction coefficient of less than 0.12. But the sulfur deposits along the seams provide traction—if you stay within two feet of the structural fissures.”

Solene Sol stood at the edge of the precipice, her ivory rapier sheathed at her hip and her white cape snapping against the hot breeze. Her icy blue eyes were fixed on the opposite side of the chasm, where three other cell flags were already planted on rocky outcrops.

”Lord Julian hasn’t shown his face,” Solene noted coolly. ”He sent Cell Four and Cell Nine as his proxies. They’ve brought heavy shield-bearers and long-range fire-weavers.”

She turned her gaze toward Valerian, who stood half a pace behind her.

He wore his usual scuffed wool coat, his dark linen blindfold tied tightly across his eyes, and his leather ledger tucked securely under one arm.

Beneath his left sleeve, the dark-mithril suppressor guard was cold and quiet, absorbing the ambient geothermal vibrations without allowing even a whisper of his three hidden dragonic cores to leak into the air.

”What is our vector, clerk?” Solene asked, her tone carrying the subtle razor-sharp edge that had become her default whenever she addressed him.

Valerian did not shift his stance.

His spatial perception mapped the entire three-mile expanse of the Black-Glass Canyon in stark, crystalline clarity.

Every jagged ridge.

Every superheated steam vent.

Every heat-shimmering shadow clinging to the obsidian walls.

”The objective of the second-tier trial is the capture of the Primary Obsidian Beacon located at the central mesa,” Valerian stated smoothly.

”Cells Four and Nine will attempt a twin-flank compression strategy. They intend to force us toward the central causeway, where their fire-weavers can ignite the sulfur vents beneath our feet.”

”A classic pincer,” Casper grunted. ”Standard Imperial military doctrine.”

”Standard, and highly predictable.”

Valerian dipped his iron stylus into the small inkwell attached to his ledger and marked a line across the field map.

”However, their plan contains a critical administrative error. They evaluated the sulfur vents as environmental hazards rather than pressurized kinetic outlets.”

Solene tilted her head, her blue eyes narrowing.

”You intend to weaponize the vents?”

”I intend to regulate the pressure,” Valerian corrected calmly.

”Lyra, you will deploy three narrow force-ribbons over the vent mouths along the eastern causeway. When Cell Four’s fire-weavers cast their ignition spells, the back-pressure will redirect the thermal blast backward into their own vanguard.”

Casper let out a booming laugh.

”They’re going to blow themselves off the causeway!”

”Precisely thirty-four yards off the causeway,” Valerian added without a trace of humor. ”Which falls neatly into the designated safety-net zone for disqualified cadets.”

Before Solene could probe further, a deep horn echoed across the canyon.

The heavy brass war horn of the Citadel heralded the official commencement of the Second-Tier Trials.

”Move out,” Solene commanded.

Her rapier drew clear with a sound like a cracking glacier.

---

High above the canyon floor, on a shaded observation platform carved directly into the towering obsidian cliff, Representative Mirain Sec Sanguis stood alongside Senior Scout Gareth Vance.

Mirain held a silver-framed scrying glass to her eye, watching Cell One move down the narrow basalt trail with frightening mechanical synchronization.

”Julian’s proxies are moving into position,” Gareth reported, his leather armor creaking as he folded his arms.

”Cell Four has deployed six fire-weavers on the upper ledge. They’re preparing a synchronized flame arc.”

”They are firing into a sulfur-saturated rift,” Mirain Sec Sanguis said softly, her violet eyes gleaming with anticipation.

”They think they are trapping a mouse. They don’t realize Scribe Valen has already calculated the cubic volume of the air inside that rift.”

Gareth grunted and took a long drink from his canteen.

”I ran the records again, Representative. The High Marshal’s private ledger from six years ago—the Red-Ink files—has thirty pages missing. All of them cover the campaign in the Black-Glass Basin.”

Mirain didn’t lower her glass.

”The High Marshal didn’t delete those pages to hide a defeat, Gareth.”

Her voice became quieter.

”He deleted them to hide an execution.”

---

Down in the canyon, the battle erupted.

Cell Four’s lead fire-weaver raised his staff, a blinding orb of crimson fire expanding above his head.

”Ignite the rift! Burn Cell One off the glass!”

Six fiery lances shot downward, plunging straight into the dark fissure running parallel to the causeway.

BOOM!

The expected wall of flame did not erupt forward to consume Cell One.

Instead, the moment the fire struck the sulfur gas, Lyra’s razor-thin spatial ribbons sealed the forward relief vents.

The explosive ignition had nowhere to expand except backward along the thermal conduit.

A massive, roaring geyser of superheated steam and sulfur erupted directly beneath the feet of Cell Four’s firing line.

Screams echoed off the black mirror walls as six fire-weavers were launched backward into the air, tumbling neatly into the safety nets suspended over the canyon floor.

”Flawless pressure distribution!” Casper shouted.

He swept his arming sword in a wide arc, shattering the shield of an incoming Imperial vanguard soldier who had managed to cross the causeway.

”Who’s next?!”

Solene moved like a phantom of ice across the slick obsidian floor.

Her boots glided over the frictionless black glass as if it were a polished ballroom, her rapier leaving thin trails of frost that provided instant, perfect traction for her next strike.

With three swift, disarming thrusts, she neutralized Cell Nine’s lead swordsmen, leaving them disarmed and pinned against the rock face.

In less than four minutes, the twin-flank pincer of the Imperial Faction was shattered into disorganized remnants.

Yet, as the smoke cleared from the causeway, Valerian did not celebrate.

He stood near the base of the central mesa, his blindfolded head turned toward the deep shadow cast by the northern cliff wall.

Beneath his left sleeve, the dark-mithril guard suddenly grew scalding hot.

Deep within his spiritual realm, the three dragonic cores pulsed in sharp, unified warning.

His own original core flared.

Wren’s amber core hummed like a struck bell.

And Nox’s obsidian core vibrated with a cold, void-like resonance.

”Master!”

Aurelix’s voice echoed sharply through his mind, her nine golden tails fanning outward as she reinforced the soul-seals.

”It’s not the Doctor this time! Something heavy is moving under the glass!”

The obsidian ground beneath Valerian’s feet gave a sickening metallic groan.

CRACK.

A fifty-foot fissure opened in the smooth black glass thirty yards ahead.

From the dark depths of the fissure, three massive figures rose into the harsh sunlight.

They were not cadets.

Nor were they crude flesh constructs like the Mad Doctor’s newly awakened vessel.

They were seven-foot-tall suits of ancient dark-iron plate armor, etched with deep, glowing crimson runes that pulsed with violent, unrefined dragonic energy.

Their helmets were solid iron visors with single vertical slits glowing like burning coal.

Each carried a nine-foot executioner’s halberd forged from black-mithril.

”The Obsidian Vanguard...” Solene whispered.

Her rapier lowered slightly as she stared in shock.

”Those are ancient Imperial automaton units from the Second Era! They were decommissioned eighty years ago!”

”They weren’t decommissioned, Princess,” Valerian said calmly, stepping out in front of Cell One.

”They were buried because their soul-cores were corrupted by dark ley-line salts.”

Behind the three iron constructs, a dark shadow detached itself from the cliff face.

It was not the Mad Doctor.

It was a tall, lean figure clad in the formal, high-collared robes of an Imperial Senior Inquisitor.

He held a silver control rod topped with a glowing red dragon-kin gemstone.

”Scribe Valen.”

The Inquisitor’s voice echoed across the canyon, cold, metallic, and amplified by mana.

”By order of the High Council’s Secret Commission, you are declared a living hazard to the Imperial Realm. Your file is revoked. Your soul-seal is to be extracted.”

Casper stepped beside Valerian, his face white but his grip on his swords absolute.

”An Inquisitor?! Here?! What in the gods’ names is going to happen?!”

”He is executing a black-budget purge, Casper,” Valerian said softly.

The three iron automatons raised their massive halberds in unison.

The crimson runes across their armor flared with blinding, terrifying intensity, releasing a wave of ancient dragonic suppression that instantly brought Lyra to her knees, choking for air.

”Their armor is three inches of dark-mithril,” Solene warned, her face drained of color as she raised her rapier into a high guard.

”We can’t pierce that with standard steel or frost magic!”

”You do not need to pierce it, Princess,” Valerian said.

He reached up with his right hand and slowly unbuttoned the top two brass buttons of his scuffed wool coat.

He did not draw a silver dagger.

He did not unclamp the dark-mithril guard on his left arm.

Instead, he reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a single, heavily worn sheet of thick, dark vellum.

The Red-Ink Execution Protocol.

Signed sixty years ago by the founding High Marshal.

”Solene, Casper, Lyra,” Valerian said.

His voice dropped into a tone of such absolute, ancient authority that even the hot wind seemed to freeze within the chasm.

”Fall back six paces.”

He paused.

”This is an administrative audit.”

The lead automaton lunged forward.

Its massive black-mithril halberd came down with enough kinetic force to split a stone house in half.

Valerian did not slide.

He did not dodge.

He took a single, deliberate step forward onto the black glass.

With his left hand, he raised his dark-mithril-clad forearm directly into the path of the falling nine-foot halberd.

CLANG!

A deafening metallic shockwave thundered through the canyon, shattering the surrounding obsidian glass into millions of glittering shards.

The three-hundred-pound automaton’s strike came to a dead, absolute halt against Valerian’s forearm.

The dark-mithril guard on his arm did not dent.

Did not crack.

Did not bend.

Instead, a thin, razor-sharp line of pitch-black Blood Shadow mana erupted from the seam of his sleeve, drawn from Nox’s obsidian core.

It raced up the length of the automaton’s halberd like a streak of dark lightning.

CRACK—THUD.

The nine-foot black-mithril halberd shattered into dust.

Before the Inquisitor or the remaining automatons could process what had happened, Valerian stepped inside the construct’s guard.

His iron stylus—the cheap, three-copper writing tool he used every day—was held firmly in his right hand.

He drove the tip directly into the central neck seam of the dark-iron armor, precisely where the dragonic soul-core rested.

He didn’t channel mana.

He simply pressed the tip against the internal brass tumbler, applying three pounds of torque.

CLICK.

The deep, glowing crimson runes across the three-hundred-pound automaton flickered once.

Twice.

Then died.

The massive iron construct collapsed onto the black glass like an empty suit of clothes, completely lifeless.

Valerian turned his blindfolded head toward the remaining two automatons and the paralyzed Inquisitor.

His face remained completely calm beneath the dark linen wrapping.

”Unit One decommissioned due to lack of proper maintenance logs,” Valerian announced, his voice echoing flatly across the silent canyon.

”Units Two and Three...”

He lowered the Red-Ink Protocol.

”...you are next on the ledger.”