He sliced his palm deeper this time, the cut deliberate and cruel. Blood spilled faster, hitting the bowl with a wet splatter. This time, as the chanting began, he infused it with something else — a power that curled at the edges of reality itself.
Soul Imprint Mark.
It slid into the blood like an invisible brand, stamping a signature that was both his… and his father's.
The bowl began to glow. Faint at first, then blinding, the light climbing into a violent red flare that painted the walls like dripping fire. Shadows writhed unnaturally, twisting into grotesque shapes.
And then — darkness. All at once. As if the light had been swallowed whole.
The black was absolute. The air felt heavy, oppressive.
"Where the hell—" Riven's voice cut through the dark. "Lyara, find a damn candle."
They both moved, feeling along the walls. The scrape of a drawer, the clink of metal. Then the sound of a match striking — a faint flicker flared to life, revealing Riven's face bathed in amber glow.
They turned toward the center of the room.
Auren sat at the table, completely still. Eyes closed. Breathing slow. Not a twitch in his muscles — like a statue carved from flesh and shadow.
Riven stepped closer, the candlelight trembling in his hand. "Auren… are you even conscious?"
For a moment, silence. Then Auren's head tilted slightly toward him, eyes still closed.
"Be ready," he said, voice low and cold, each word dripping with intent. "I have his location now."
Riven's brow furrowed. "Your father?"
Auren's eyes finally opened — burning with a light that wasn't there before. "Yes. And now…" His lip curled into something between a grin and a snarl. "He will suffer for what he made my mother endure."
The candlelight quivered again, though there was no wind.
Somewhere deep in Auren's mind, the link pulsed — a thin thread stretching across the world, tethering him to the man whose blood he shared… and whose torment he now promised.
---
Auren stood by the window of their small rented room, the morning light cutting across his face like a blade. His gaze was fixed, not on the street outside, but on a thought—a promise—that had burned inside him for years.
"Pack everything," he said suddenly, his voice cold enough to frost the air. "We're not coming back here."
Lyara looked up from the table where she was cleaning her dagger. "Master… where are we going?"
A slow, cruel smile touched his lips. "To my father's house… or rather, my house. By the time I'm done, he won't need it anymore."
Riven raised an eyebrow. "And what do you mean by not coming back?"
Auren's eyes turned sharp. "When Caius is dead, and his blood is soaking into the floor, I'll take everything he ever owned. The home he kept from me. The life he stole from my mother. It'll be mine—because he owes me far more than bricks and gold."
No one argued. They packed in silence.
When the last bag was closed, Auren stepped into the center of the room and bit his thumb. A drop of crimson fell onto the floor, his mana flaring around it. The Soul Imprint Mark pulsed once, twice—then his eyes glowed.
"He's close," Auren murmured, almost to himself. "Thirty kilometers… in the heart of Central." His voice hardened. "Hiding in plain sight, like the coward he is."
He turned to Riven. "Go. Get us a wagon. Fast."
Riven nodded and left without a word.
Minutes later, they were climbing into the back of a dark-wood wagon, the kind with heavy curtains that kept prying eyes away. The driver asked for a destination, but Auren only smirked.
"I'll tell you where to turn… when it's time."
The wheels began to roll.
Auren leaned back, his voice low but thick with venom. "When we arrive, I'll look him in the eye and remind him of my mother. I'll tell him that every night she cried herself to sleep because of him. I'll tell him she died with his name as her last curse. And then…" His fingers curled as if crushing something invisible. "…I'll make him wish he had died before I was born."
Lyara watched him from the corner of her eye, but she didn't speak. She could feel it—this wasn't just a mission. This was the kind of hatred that reshaped people.
The wagon rumbled on through the streets, carrying them closer to a meeting Auren had been waiting for his whole life.
And in his mind, there was only one ending to this journey—
Caius on his knees.
Blood on the floor.
And the sins of the father paid in full.
The wagon rattled to a halt just short of the sprawling estate. Auren stepped down first, his gaze locked on the tall, shadow-cast silhouette of the house. Without a word, he reached into his pouch and tossed the driver his pay.
"You didn't see us. You didn't bring us," Auren said flatly. The man caught the coins, nodded quickly, and drove off.
Auren turned to Riven, his voice cold, stripped of all warmth.
"This is mine. My blood debt. My father. You don't interfere. Not for anything."
Riven opened his mouth to reply, but one glance at Auren's eyes—hard and hollow as obsidian—shut him up.
They walked up the stone steps. No knocking. No hesitation. A flicker of flame bloomed in Auren's palm, its light painting the door in a feverish orange. He pressed it to the lock—metal hissed, warped, and gave way in seconds. The main gate groaned open, swallowing them into a suffocating silence.
Inside, the air was thick and still, smelling faintly of wine and old wood.
"See that sofa?" Auren asked, barely turning his head.
"Yeah," Riven said.
"Sit. Both of you. Watch." His tone made it an order, not a request.
Riven and Lyara moved to the sofa. Auren's boots thudded softly against the polished floor as he disappeared down the hall.
He found the door he wanted. Pushed it open. The dim room smelled of perfume and sweat. On the bed—Caius, and a woman Auren recognized only from memory's edges—sleeping, tangled in sheets, naked.