Kyon's First Person POV.

  Like a prophet giving a foreboding warning, Elijah pulled out a stake from the inside pocket of his tailored suit.

  It didn’t look like wood. Not even close. It shimmered with an otherworldly glow, silver-blue and metallic, almost humming as if it was vibrating against the very air. It had a carved, root-like structure, with glowing lines branching down its body like veins. The entire room seemed to shift slightly, the air heavier, quieter, more serious. Even the distant low hum of the city seemed to dull as that thing was brought into the open.

  “That… that’s not normal,” I said, blinking, stepping closer to the glass railing near Kadir. “What is that?”

  Kadir’s eyes had narrowed the moment Elijah revealed the weapon. His voice came calm, but even he couldn’t mask the caution in his tone.

  "That," he said, "is Shajarat Maat. The Tree of Truth."

  I turned to him. “Isn't that a legend?”

  “Most legends are true. That stake is a shard of a tree believed to be birthed by the world itself. A living arbiter of balance. It reveals lies. Burns through falsehood. But more than that…”

  He paused as the silver-blue stake flared just slightly when Elijah twirled it between his fingers. The soft hum it emitted almost scratched at my skull.

  “It is one of the very few things capable of killing a Vampire. Not wounding. Not slowing down. Killing. Truly. It cuts through the life-force. Through the animating will that lets their cursed bodies exist."

  I looked back at Elijah. Calm. Still. His green eyes watching Conrad with unnerving certainty.

  “That kind of thing can’t be easy to get,” I said.

  “It’s not,” Kadir answered. “The Tree of Truth is protected by a group of wanderers known as the Truth Nomads. They have no lands. No cities. And no tolerance for deception. They never stay in one place. They can feel a lie the way we feel heat.”

  Sia stepped closer, her eyes narrowing. “They wouldn’t sell something like that. Not to anyone. Especially not to a vampire."

  I turned to her. “Does Argent Sword have ties to them?”

  She shook her head. “From everything I’ve read, they avoid every kind of organization. Even the Mualim. They trust no one.”

  Then Conrad spoke.

  “Oh Elijah,” he said, his voice low, thoughtful, but edged with something... dangerous. “You’ve always been a mystery to the Council. No known sire. No real history before Sharman City. Just… appearances. Strength. Influence. Resourcefulness. That’s what kept them from putting a dagger in your back while you slept.”

  He shifted his weight, that rod still loose in his hand, but every inch of him alert.

  “But even I’m surprised. That stake... it shouldn't be in your hands. The Nomads wouldn’t even let you near one of their trees. Which means… you didn’t get it directly. But whoever got it for you? They'd need to be the best liar in the world.”

  Elijah smiled, tilting his head, voice casual. “Well, that’s a trade secret.”

  Conrad’s smile disappeared.

  “Don’t think I’d be easy to stake, boy. I haven’t even used half of my strength.”

  Elijah flicked the stake in his hand. “We won’t know if we don’t try, right?”

  And then the air shifted.

  They moved.

  Elijah stepped into Conrad’s space like a predator. Not with the elegant grace of a ballroom tactician, but with violent purpose. The stake was not flung. It wasn’t even swung. It was there. Then gone. Then near Conrad’s chest.

  But Conrad didn’t flinch. He moved his rod to block, redirecting the stake at the last second with unnatural reflexes. The clash wasn’t loud. But the impact shook the air.

  It was chaos, beautiful and brutal. Elijah moved like a whisper of death, not the kind that announces itself with thunder, but the kind you don’t realize has touched you until you’re already bleeding. The Moon Tree stake glowed in his grip, a silver-blue shimmer that pulsed against the shadows of the collapsing dining area.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  Conrad struck first—fast, crushingly fast—but Elijah didn’t resist. He softened. He let the impact roll into him, his chest sinking with the force, arms loosening like ropes. The shock of the blow rippled down his frame, traveled into his hips, his knees, into the floor—and then rebounded. Like a snapped cord, he spun, flipping Conrad over his shoulder with a movement so seamless it felt more like an inevitability than a counter.

  They slammed into the ground. Tiles cracked. Fractures webbed outward in jagged, angry lines. Dust jumped from the floor as wood splinters and steel fragments scattered around them.

  Conrad surged up, his hands moving faster than my eyes could track. The steel rod still clutched in one hand became a blur. Elijah met it not with strength, but with the strange rhythm of his form—bending, twisting, rolling with the impact. Every strike that would have broken bones was caught in that wave-like body logic, the kinetic energy pulled into his limbs, absorbed, rerouted.

  Conrad swung again. A two-handed blow. Elijah dropped low, caught it across his shoulders, his entire spine flexing with the weight. I winced. Anyone else would’ve shattered under it—but Elijah flowed, like water down a slope. He spun again, using Conrad’s momentum, and hurled him into the far wall.

  The impact echoed like a small explosion. The wall crumbled around the older vampire’s frame. A support column bent. Plaster dust filled the air, turning the light from the shattered chandelier into a white haze. Conrad emerged with a snarl, lunging. Elijah didn’t step back—he stepped in.

  They collided in the narrow space between the ruined dining table and the broken cabinetry. Bodies slammed into furniture. Chairs shattered. Glass burst into the air as they rolled across the surface of a granite counter, Elijah never releasing the stake, always circling, always staying too close for Conrad to get full momentum.

  Conrad lifted him—an unnatural feat of strength—and tried to slam him spine-first into the floor, but Elijah twisted mid-air, legs locking around Conrad’s neck. The older vampire staggered, crashing into a cabinet. Bottles and metal utensils rained down. Elijah pushed off, flipped backward, landed in a crouch, and immediately launched forward again.

  This was relentless. Unforgiving.

  Elijah’s shoulder slammed into Conrad’s torso. He twisted his waist, redirected the older vampire’s weight, and crashed him through the reinforced side panel of the island. A dent bloomed in the metal. Another thud followed as Conrad responded with a sharp elbow, catching Elijah across the face.

  But again—he softened. Took the hit. Rolled with it. His head snapped to the side, but his balance didn’t break. He wanted that energy. His foot slid across the dust-slick floor, and then—boom—he returned the energy tenfold with a spinning kick to Conrad’s ribs, the sound of impact like thunder trapped in a steel drum.

  They were in the wider area now, near the living space. The damage had cleared a path, broken furniture turned into scattered obstacles. Neither of them cared. They were slamming each other through it.

  Conrad moved to grab Elijah again. This time, Elijah let him.

  His body collapsed inward, intentionally loose, like a puppet with its strings cut. He coiled like a snake around Conrad’s limb, then twisted and dropped, dragging the elder off balance. His heel caught Conrad in the back of the knee. Conrad stumbled. Elijah spun low—another circular movement, always circular—and tripped him.

  The fall was monstrous.

  Conrad hit the floor hard enough to bounce. Elijah was already airborne, crashing down on top of him with both knees, pinning him for just a moment. The stake flashed—cutting shallow across Conrad’s shoulder. A hiss followed. Not from Elijah. From the wound. From the stake.

  The Moon Tree’s glow deepened for a breath, burning through cloth and skin, leaving a mark behind that shimmered silver even as it bled.

  That did it.

  Conrad roared. He launched upward, body snapping with ancient strength, and sent Elijah flying back through the arm of a sofa. Wood exploded. Fabric shredded. But Elijah rolled through it, came up on one knee, and lunged again, his body weaving through the wreckage like a force of nature.

  The rhythm was shifting. Every impact grew heavier. Faster. Elijah’s movements became more fluid, more brutal, each one building off the last. He let Conrad throw him—only to twist midair and bring his elbow down on Conrad’s back. He took a punch to the ribs—only to bend around it and slam his heel into the side of Conrad’s skull.

  The fight wasn’t just about strength anymore. It was about control. About control of energy.

  And Elijah had all of it.

  They crashed into a central column—again. The structure cracked, groaned, then snapped. A chunk of the ceiling above began to sag. Neither of them slowed. They rolled across the floor, grappling. Elijah’s body bent unnaturally with each shift of weight. Muscles flowed like water under his skin. It was no longer a duel—it was an event.

  And at its center, that glowing stake, flickering with silver-blue truth.

  Then—another strike. Elijah drove his forearm into Conrad’s throat, spun around his body with the grace of a dancer, and plunged the stake—not deep, but enough—into Conrad’s side.

  Not the heart. But close.

  The elder vampire froze. A brief, sharp silence.

  That’s when Harvey moved in.

  He surged forward from the side, Arkamon Flux igniting in a deep, brown-red hue around his forearms. There was no hesitation this time. No circling. Just raw intent. He grabbed for Conrad’s arm, anchoring him in place with a grunt and sheer strength, muscles bulging as the Flux hardened.

  From the other side, Lawrence shot in like a bolt, fluid and vicious, his injuries forgotten in the momentum. His hand cracked out like a whip, catching Conrad’s throat in a hold just long enough to tilt his balance off-center.

  Together, they pinned him—not fully, not perfectly—but enough.

  Enough for Elijah to reset his stance.

  Enough for that silver-blue stake to gleam again, a quiet warning in the chaos.

  Then, as the tension built, Kadir's voice cut through the air, low and commanding.

  "Stop."