House of Blood

The air grew thicker as the granite corridor sloped downward toward Sector Three’s lower foundations. A sharp chemical stench of boiled copper, sulfur, and unrefined mana salts hung heavily in the damp draft.

Valen stopped at a stone archway, holding his hand lantern low.

”The nitrogen indicator on the wall gauge reads three-point-five percent. Still within the stated safe parameters, but the air contains airborne sulfur particles.”

Mirain pulled a square piece of linen from her inner pocket, tied it over her mouth and nose, and stepped beside him.

”The laboratory ventilation ducts run directly into the Sector Three alchemy building. If sulfur is leaking down here, the distillation vats are active.”

Beyond the archway lay a vast circular chamber built from blackened basalt blocks. Four iron distillation vats, each twenty feet high, occupied the center of the room, their surfaces wrapped in thick copper heating coils. Steam hissed from rusted pipe joints, rising to collect in condensed droplets along the vaulted ceiling.

Long wooden tables lined the perimeter walls. They were covered with glass retorts, iron marrow needles, and ceramic jars filled with murky blue preservative fluid.

”There are no laboratory technicians present,” Mirain observed, her voice muffled behind the linen covering. Her right hand remained on the hilt of her crimson rapier.

”They left approximately twelve minutes ago,” Valen replied, approaching the central table. ”The glass retorts are still warm. The liquid in this beaker is sitting at sixty degrees Celsius.”

Mirain moved toward the largest iron vat.

Near the drainage grating, a thick, dark residue had pooled around the iron rim, drying into a crusty black layer. She touched its edge with a gloved finger and raised it into the lantern light.

”This is not standard mana-salt refinement,” she said, her violet eyes narrowing above the linen covering. ”This is organic distillation. They are processing animal marrow and blood samples to extract raw heritage mana.”

”Not just animal marrow.”

Valen stood at the central table, holding a heavy iron record binder secured with brass hinges. He opened it, revealing thick parchment pages covered in precise chemical formulas, extraction records, and inventory lists.

”Read the entries,” Mirain ordered, stepping beside him.

”Entry forty-two, dated three days ago.” Valen’s voice remained steady and unhurried. ”Forty ounces of blood extracted from Second-Year Cadet Kaelen. Purity rating: seven-point-two. Yield: twelve drams of refined heritage essence.”

Mirain snatched the binder from his hands, her eyes scanning the handwritten lines.

”Kaelen is from the Northern Barbarian tribes. Her blood carries the ancient frost-wolf heritage line.”

Her grip tightened around the binder.

”They are harvesting cadet bloodlines inside the Citadel.”

”Entry forty-five, dated yesterday,” Valen continued, pointing to the bottom of the page. ”Eighteen ounces of blood extracted from First-Year Cadet Solene of House Sol. Sample rejected due to low concentration. A request was submitted for higher-grade extraction needles.”

”Solene.”

Mirain’s voice dropped to a whisper.

Her breath caught behind the linen covering.

”She reported feeling lightheaded after her practical examination on Monday. She thought it was exhaustion from her frost techniques.”

She looked up, her violet eyes hardening.

”They poisoned her ration water and used the infirmary to extract her blood.”

”The operation is systematic,” Valen said. ”The ledger lists twelve cadets from the Noble, Commoner, and Beastkin factions. Each entry includes the extraction date, volume collected, purity rating, and delivery destination.”

”Where are they sending the samples?”

”Sub-Vault Seven. Two levels beneath this chamber.”

A sharp metallic clack echoed from the far side of the circular room.

Mirain turned instantly, drawing her crimson rapier. The steel sang as it cleared the sheath.

”Who’s there?”

A man stepped out from behind the second distillation vat.

He wore the dark green tunic of a senior Citadel laboratory instructor. His hair was thin and gray, his posture stooped, and his left sleeve was pinned to his chest with a brass brooch. In his right hand, he held a heavy iron lever mounted to a portable brass battery box.

”Representative Mirain,” the man said. His voice was raspy, dry from years of inhaling chemical fumes. ”You are six days early for the official inspection.”

”Instructor Alistair.”

Mirain’s voice acquired a dangerous, icy edge.

She stepped forward, her crimson mantle trailing over the stone floor.

”You are a senior faculty member of Sector Three. You signed the safety affidavits for the lower vaults.”

”I signed what the High Council required me to sign, Representative.”

Alistair tightened his grip on the battery lever.

”The Citadel demands results. Stronger cadets. Higher mana capacities. Pure bloodline activations. We are merely providing the raw material.”

”By draining first-year cadets in secret laboratories?”

”A few ounces of blood from a dozen students is a small price to pay for perfecting artificial vessel integration.”

Alistair’s yellowed eyes shifted past Mirain, settling on Valen’s dark wool coat and black linen blindfold.

”And who is your companion? The blind clerk from the administrative office?”

”Set down the lever, Alistair,” Mirain ordered.

”I cannot do that, Representative.”

He pulled the iron handle backward with a sharp, heavy thud.

The brass battery box sparked violently. Blue electrical arcs surged through two copper cables connected to the floor drains.

RUMBLE.

The stone floor shuddered.

Four iron hatches embedded in the basalt snapped open, releasing bursts of stale air from the pits below.

Four massive constructs rose from the darkness.

Unlike the wire-bound skeletal haulers in the upper corridor, these units were assembled from thick plates of preserved monster hide, reinforced with iron straps across their chests and shoulders. Heavy iron spikes protruded from their forearms, while their eyes glowed with an unnatural red light.

Blue sparks raced through the copper junctions embedded in their bodies. The distilled mana salts circulating through their internal channels powered the crude mechanisms.

”Flesh-crafted constructs,” Mirain said, lowering into a combat stance. ”Alistair, this is forbidden under Imperial law.”

”Imperial law does not run beneath Sector Three, Princess!” Alistair shouted over the hiss of the distillation vats. ”Constructs! Clear the chamber!”

All four units surged forward simultaneously.

Their heavy feet slammed against the basalt, producing a rhythmic thunder that rattled the glass retorts on the surrounding tables.

”I will handle the constructs,” Mirain declared. Her violet eyes sharpened as she drew upon the mana circulating through her Sanguis bloodline. ”Find Alistair and secure the master ledger!”

”Understood.”

Valen slipped the binder beneath his arm and moved toward the instructor.

The lead construct reached Mirain first.

Its iron-spiked arm swept horizontally toward her torso with enough force to shatter bone and crush armor.

Mirain did not retreat.

She dipped her left shoulder and slid beneath the descending spike. Her crimson rapier rose in a swift, vertical thrust.

SHING!

The blade pierced the exposed joint beneath the construct’s iron shoulder strap, severing the central mana conduit.

The red light in its eyes flickered once.

Then it died.

The massive frame collapsed onto the floor with a crash that sent loose fragments of bone and iron skittering across the flagstones.

The second and third constructs closed in from opposite sides, their spiked fists descending in a synchronized assault.

Mirain sprang backward, landing lightly on the rim of a drainage trough.

Mana surged through her legs.

She accelerated past the second construct before its weapon could recover, her rapier flashing three times across its chest. Each strike found a vulnerable seam between the iron reinforcements, slicing through exposed fluid lines and severing the connections feeding its limbs.

The construct staggered.

Its right arm locked in place, and its left knee buckled beneath its weight.

Mirain pivoted away as the third construct’s fist smashed into the floor where she had stood a heartbeat earlier.

The impact cracked the basalt.

She used the opening to thrust her rapier beneath its chest plate, aiming for the cluster of copper junctions visible between two iron straps.

The blade pierced the outer casing.

The construct jerked violently.

Its red eyes dimmed, but the light did not disappear completely.

Mirain withdrew her rapier and shifted her footing as the damaged machine swung blindly toward her.

Meanwhile, the fourth construct charged directly at Valen.

Alistair watched from behind the battery box, a thin smile touching his lips.

”A blind scribe against a three-hundred-pound flesh vessel. A swift end.”

Valen stood beside the central wooden table.

He did not draw a blade or raise his hands into a conventional guard. Instead, he held his three-copper iron stylus lightly between his right thumb and forefinger.

The construct lunged.

Both iron-spiked fists came crashing down toward his head in a crushing double hammer strike.

Valen shifted half a step to his left.

The movement was tiny—less than four inches—but it was enough.

Both spikes smashed into the wooden table beside him.

The thick oak planks shattered into splinters, sending glass retorts flying across the chamber. One struck the floor and burst, releasing a cloud of pale vapor.

Valen had already moved clear of it.

In the instant the construct’s upper body pitched forward under its own momentum, he drove the point of his iron stylus into the exposed side of its neck guard.

THWIP.

The stylus penetrated the thin protective plate covering a small brass junction housing. Beneath it, a narrow copper conduit carried the mana-salt solution toward the construct’s central core.

Valen twisted his wrist a fraction.

SPARK-CRACK!

Blue electrical mana erupted from the damaged junction.

The construct froze.

Its entire body trembled as the internal fluid channels surged under the sudden pressure imbalance. Copper fittings snapped loose, and a stream of glowing blue liquid sprayed across the basalt.

The red light in its eyes flickered rapidly.

Then the three-hundred-pound machine collapsed forward, striking the floor with a heavy thud.

It did not move again.

Alistair’s smile vanished.

His eyes widened as he stared at the fallen construct, then at the blind clerk standing calmly beside the wreckage of the table.

”What... what did you do?” he stammered, retreating toward the rear exit. ”That vessel was reinforced with three layers of dire-bear hide! An iron stylus cannot penetrate that casing!”

”The hide was reinforced,” Valen replied, turning his blindfold toward the instructor.

He stepped over the construct’s outstretched arm.

”The junction housing was not. Its brass casing was manufactured with low-grade copper solder. A lateral strike against the exposed fitting would compromise the connection.”

He glanced down at the stylus between his fingers.

”Apparently, the procurement department approved the cheaper supplier.”

Alistair stared at him.

For a moment, the only sounds in the chamber were the hiss of escaping steam and the clatter of Mirain’s rapier against the remaining construct’s iron armor.

Valen walked forward.

His scuffed leather boots made a steady, unhurried rhythm against the stone.

Alistair reached for a heavy glass beaker filled with green acid on a nearby shelf.

”Stay back! I am a senior faculty member! You are nothing but an administrative—”

Valen’s left hand shot forward.

His fingers closed around Alistair’s wrist with exact, unyielding pressure.

The instructor gasped.

Valen applied just enough force to numb the man’s fingers. The beaker slipped from Alistair’s grasp, struck the stone, and shattered. Green acid hissed across the floor.

Valen released the wrist before the spreading liquid reached either of them.

With his right hand, he reached into Alistair’s inner coat pocket and retrieved a heavy brass key ring stamped with the numeral seven.

”Sub-Vault Seven keys,” he said, slipping the ring into his coat.

Alistair stared at him, his face drained of color.

Behind them, Mirain’s rapier flashed one final time.

The damaged third construct lurched toward her, its remaining arm swinging in a clumsy arc. She stepped inside its reach and drove the crimson blade through the gap beneath its chest plate.

The weapon struck the central junction.

A burst of red sparks scattered across the floor.

The construct collapsed beside its fallen companions.

Mirain withdrew her blade and wiped a smear of black construct fluid from its surface with a silk handkerchief. Her breathing was slightly elevated, but her posture remained straight.

She crossed the chamber and stopped beside Valen.

Her violet eyes settled on Alistair.

”You are under arrest by authority of the Citadel Council,” she declared softly.

Alistair spat on the floor, coughing raspily as Valen finally released him.

”Arrest me, then! It changes nothing. The harvest is already complete!”

Mirain’s expression did not change.

”The master vessel in Sub-Vault Seven is almost fully saturated!”

”Saturated with whose blood?” she demanded.

She stepped closer, resting the flat of her rapier against his neck.

Alistair let out a dry, chilling laugh.

”The blood of the ancient lines! Sanguis, Solarian, and the wild northern tribes! All woven together to create a body fit for the Tenth Lord!”

Mirain went still.

Her eyes widened slightly before she turned her head toward Valen.

”The Tenth Lord,” she whispered. ”Xul’Gorgoth.”

Valen remained silent.

Beneath his coat, his left hand settled over the dark-mithril suppressor guard.

Deep within him, his three hidden dragonic cores stirred in response to the name.

His sovereign core tightened around its anchor. Wren’s amber core gave a faint, restless flicker, while Nox’s obsidian core settled into a cold, watchful stillness.

The reaction lasted less than a heartbeat.

Then the dark-mithril guard absorbed the fluctuation, returning the three cores to their carefully regulated equilibrium.

Valen’s expression did not change.

”Representative,” he said calmly, ”if the vessel is nearing saturation, every minute we spend here increases the likelihood that the evidence will be destroyed—or that the experiment will reach completion.”

Mirain’s gaze remained fixed on him for one brief moment.

Then she turned back to Alistair.

”Bind his hands. We will take him with us.”

She looked toward the dark passage beyond the distillation vats.

”We go down to Sub-Vault Seven.”

Her voice hardened into quiet, unyielding command.

”Right now.”