The fight ended in an instant.
With one last screech, the green-scaled lizard combusted into flames, its body reduced to nothing but ash in a matter of seconds. The black lizard let out a triumphant hiss, its glowing red eyes narrowing as it stood victorious. The men surrounding the circle reacted immediately—half of them groaned in frustration, some even cursing under their breath, while the rest erupted into cheers.
Coin exchanged hands, gold and silver clinking against rough palms as the unlucky men begrudgingly paid their dues. Some shook their heads in disbelief, while others clapped their winning comrades on the back, grinning with satisfaction.
Vul had seen enough.
She turned to leave, slipping through the gaps in the crowd, but just as she was about to head back to her seat, something caught her eye.
Across the tavern, near the musicians, a group of women danced.
They were beautiful, their bodies moving with effortless grace as they twirled and swayed in time with the lively music. Their clothes were revealing—draped in flowing silks and sheer fabrics that shimmered under the candlelight. Gold and silver bangles clinked softly around their wrists and ankles, and delicate chains adorned their waists, jingling with each step.
Their movements were fluid, hypnotic. Hips rolling, arms rising like waves, their hands twisting elegantly in the air. Some danced with scarves, vibrant and feather-light, twirling them in mesmerizing patterns. Others moved in pairs, their bodies weaving together in perfect harmony, spinning and dipping in an intricate display of rhythm and control.
The flickering light of the tavern cast warm hues across their skin, highlighting the smooth curves of their toned figures. Their eyes were lined with kohl, their lips painted deep reds and rich berry shades. Some smiled, playful and inviting, while others remained alluringly mysterious, their gazes lowered as they let their bodies speak instead.
The men around them were entranced, watching with greedy eyes, some clapping along with the music, others leaning in, captivated by the intoxicating sight.
Vul stood still, watching.
She wasn’t sure what she felt—curiosity, admiration, something else entirely. But her eyes remained fixed on them, following every flick of their wrists, every graceful turn of their feet.
She had never seen anything like this before.
Meanwhile...
Stefan dreamt of a sword.
A white sword, its blade pure and gleaming like freshly fallen snow, thrust deep into the blood-soaked earth. Despite its untouched surface, the weapon carried an eerie presence—ancient, solemn, and heavy with grief. The hilt was wrapped in ivory leather, once pristine but now darkened by time and battle. Intricate carvings of unfamiliar symbols ran along the blade, pulsing faintly, as if whispering secrets meant only for him.
It was calling his name.
But he couldn’t move.
Because around the sword, their bodies lay.
Piles of them.
His family.
The corpses were mangled, twisted, and torn apart in ways that didn’t seem real. Flesh flayed open, bones snapped and sticking out at unnatural angles. Pools of thick, dark blood soaked into the ground, filling the air with the sharp, metallic stench of death. His mother’s lifeless eyes were frozen wide in terror, her throat slit so deeply that her head barely clung to her shoulders. His father—strong, fearless—was reduced to an unrecognizable heap of flesh, his body shredded as if wild beasts had feasted upon him. His siblings, so small, so fragile, lay broken and limp, their tiny hands still reaching for something… someone…
Reaching for him.
Stefan trembled.
“No…” His voice barely came out. His throat felt raw, as if he had been screaming for hours.
The sword kept calling. Its glow flickered, as if urging him to come closer.
But he couldn’t.
His legs refused to move. His chest tightened with overwhelming terror, and his breath came in shallow, panicked gasps.
“I… I can’t.” His voice cracked. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. “I ran. I ran away. I left them.”
The corpses didn’t respond. They simply lay there, a sea of blood and agony, trapping him in their endless, suffocating presence.
A hand—small, lifeless—brushed against his ankle.
Stefan jolted awake.
He shot upright, gasping for air as though he had been drowning. Cold sweat clung to his skin, his hands shaking uncontrollably. His heart pounded so violently against his ribs that he thought it might burst.
The room was dark, silent, safe. But he didn’t feel safe.
He hated these dreams.
They never stopped. Never faded. No matter how many years had passed, that night still hunted him down, sinking its claws deep into his mind and tearing him apart from the inside.
His breath hitched. He tried to calm himself, squeezing his hands into fists and exhaling through gritted teeth. But it wasn’t working. His body wouldn’t stop trembling, his mind still trapped in the past, surrounded by the blood and the corpses and the sword that wouldn’t stop calling his name—
The door opened.
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Vul stepped inside, her leather bag in hand, but the moment she saw him—saw his state—she dropped it.
She rushed to him, kneeling beside the bed in an instant, eyes wide with something that looked like… worry? But she didn’t say anything. She didn’t know what to say.
She didn’t understand what was happening.
She didn’t understand him.
Vul’s fingers curled slightly, her mind scrambling for an answer, for something, anything to do. It was difficult, trying to make sense of what she was seeing, the way Stefan shook and gasped for breath, the way he looked so… lost.
Then—
She remembered.
She remembered that night, the way Angeline had held her when she, too, had been afraid.
Vul hesitated, unsure if this was the right thing to do, unsure if she should even be touching him. But she couldn’t just sit there.
Slowly, she reached forward.
Her arms wrapped around Stefan, gently, carefully, as if he might shatter beneath her touch. She rested her forehead lightly against his shoulder and whispered the only thing she could think of.
“I’m here.”
She didn’t know if it would help.
She didn’t know if she was doing this right.
But she had to do something.
Inside the Midnight Palace, past its towering obsidian gates and endless halls bathed in flickering violet torches, the Shadow Council gathered.
They sat around a massive, roundtable carved from black marble, its edges adorned with twisted engravings of ancient beasts and forgotten gods. Each of the council members took their seats—humanoid in shape, monstrous in essence.
A gaunt man with ashen skin and elongated, clawed fingers sat hunched over, absentmindedly tapping his nails against the table. His eyes were sunken, glowing dimly like embers within a dying fire. Across from him, a woman draped in dark silks sat upright, unnaturally still, her golden snake-like pupils lazily shifting from one member to another. Next to her, a burly figure with thick, charcoal-colored skin and curved horns protruding from his forehead let out a deep, impatient sigh, his fingers interlocked as he leaned forward. A long, reptilian tail swayed behind him, thumping against the stone floor.
But the most unsettling presence belonged to the masked woman.
She sat with perfect posture, hands delicately folded together atop the table. Her face remained hidden beneath a smooth, featureless mask, save for the elegant carvings running down its surface—symbols of a long-forgotten language. A faint whispering sound, almost like a distant echo, emanated from her as if the mask itself breathed.
Every seat was taken, except for one—the very center of the table remained empty.
The council’s discussion had already begun, though it was hardly productive.
“This is pointless,” the horned man growled. “We were summoned without warning, yet there’s no sign of Val himself?”
“I agree,” the snake-eyed woman muttered, her voice like silk against steel. “We have better things to do than sit here like dogs awaiting scraps.”
“We are the Shadow Council,” the gaunt man rasped, fingers tapping against the table again. “Not servants to be beckoned at a whim.”
“Tch.” The horned man scowled. “I doubt there’s anything urgent enough to—”
The heavy doors creaked open.
Oculina entered.
She strode inside with calm, deliberate steps, her long white cloak billowing behind her. Her golden hair cascaded over her shoulders, black staff she carried in her hand—twisted wood entwined with silver veins that pulsed with eerie light.
The council fell silent.
She stopped beside the empty seat, gripping her staff lightly.
A moment passed before the horned man scoffed, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed. “Well? Are you going to tell us why we were dragged here on such short notice?”
Oculina turned her head towards the sound of his voice.
“Apologies for the sudden gathering,” she said smoothly. “But we have received… urgent news.”
The council exchanged wary glances.
“What kind of news?” the snake-eyed woman asked, her interest piqued.
“A Blanc has surfaced.”
The room shifted.
The air grew tense as the words settled into their minds. The masked woman, who had been still as stone, suddenly tilted her head.
A Blanc?” Her fingers twitched against the table. “You expect me to believe that? The Blancs were slaughtered. Erased. There shouldn’t be a single one left breathing.”
Oculina’s voice remained steady. “And yet, one remains.” She turned slightly, letting her words settle before continuing, “We have reason to believe he is heading for Yro-Ei. And he is not alone.”
The masked woman’s shoulders stiffened. “Not alone?”
“He travels with a dragon witch.”
The murmurs turned into hushed discussions.
The masked woman leaned forward slightly, fingers brushing against the polished surface of the table. “If a Blanc survived the massacre… then shouldn’t we observe the Blanc Mansion?”
The gaunt man scoffed. “Why?”
The masked woman slammed her palms against the table, causing several members to jolt in surprise. Her voice was no longer calm—it was sharp, dripping with frustration.
“Because the Blancs hunted the likes of us for generations!” she snapped. “They created weaponries that could kill gods! And if the prophecy is true…” Her masked gaze swept across the room. “Then we cannot afford to let a single Blanc get near the Sword of White.”
Then, the horned man exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. “That would be a great plan and all, but there’s one problem…” He looked around at the others before finally stating, “We can’t. The mansion is under a blessing. None of us can enter that place ever again.”
The masked woman clenched her fists. “Then we must do something. We cannot just sit here while history threatens to repeat itself.”
The arguments reignited. Voices overlapped, tempers flared, and tension boiled over into a chaotic mess of frustration and clashing opinions. Some members debated strategies, others dismissed them as futile, and a few simply bickered out of spite.
Then—
A voice cut through the noise.
It wasn’t from within the room.
It came from everywhere.
Low. Commanding. Unshakable.
“My wives have already come up with a plan.”
The council fell deathly silent.
Val Umbra had spoken.
A scoff broke the silence.
The horned man, a broad-shouldered figure draped in heavy robes adorned with ancient runes, leaned back in his seat. His curved horns glinted under the dim light, and his sharp, reptilian eyes gleamed with arrogance. He exhaled through his nose, unimpressed.
"Your wives have a plan?" he muttered, his deep voice laced with skepticism. "And we’re supposed to put our faith in that? Pardon my doubts, but haven't we relied on empty promises before?" He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "No offense, of course."
Then—
His breath hitched.
His body jolted as if something had gripped him—something unseen, something cold. His hands flew to his throat, fingers clawing desperately at air, at nothing. His smirk twisted into a grimace, then into panic as his throat constricted, his lungs burning for air.
A rattling sound filled the room.
Invisible chains, though unseen by the naked eye, coiled tighter around his neck. The pressure was suffocating, crushing. He let out a strangled, wet gasp, his heels kicking against the floor as he writhed.
The council froze.
No one moved. No one dared to move.
The masked woman tilted her head, watching with unreadable amusement. The snake-eyed woman leaned forward slightly, observing his struggle like a scholar studying an insect. Others averted their gazes, stiff with unease.
Then—
The air shifted.
The temperature plummeted, and shadows bled from the cracks of the chamber.
Tendrils of darkness twisted and curled above the empty chair, writhing like living smoke.
A pulse of energy—cold, suffocating—rippled through the room.
And from the void, he emerged.
Val Umbra.
His form materialized from the swirling darkness, as though the very shadows had sculpted him into existence.
His eyes—deep, endless pits of abyss—swept over the council, and a slow, amused smile curved his lips.
“I trust that it will work,” he said, "But if it does not…" His head tilted slightly,
“…then we will have an army waiting for them.”
The chains loosened.
The horned man collapsed onto the table, gasping for breath. His thick fingers trembled as he clutched his throat, his massive chest heaving with ragged gulps of air. Dark bruises bloomed across his neck—marks left by something that had never physically touched him.
Val Umbra’s smile remained.
He had made his point.
