The night screamed.
A deep bell rang from somewhere inside House Valenson. It was slow and heavy, like a warning meant to shake the whole estate. Torches lit up all at once. Guards rushed into the halls, weapons already in hand.
Boots pounded against the floors. Shouts echoed from every direction. A healer screamed as a burned soldier stumbled by, his arm twisted and barely hanging on.
The vault had been breached.
"Protect the Sealed Wing!" one of the guards shouted. "They came through the north gate, no sign of them!"
"Ward the southern pillars, NOW!"
Three invaders had come.
Only one body was found, twisted and bloodied, a blade still buried in his chest. The other two had vanished like smoke. They had used forbidden runes, cloaking spells layered over their skin like shadows. No faces. No names.
But their target had been clear.
Cylla.
The most sacred relic of House Valenson.
Inside the vault's inner chamber was still buzzing with wild magic, the ones the invaders had used to get into the vault, the air was icy and still, like something had just died. The guards had failed. The protective spell had been broken.
And then, the light changed.
A soft silver glow spread across the high ceilings, sliding down the dark stone walls like melted moonlight. Everyone went quiet.
They had arrived.
The Night Sisters.
The silent witches who had protected House Valenson for generations. Three maidens in long silver-blue robes, their veils drifting behind them like mist.
They didn't walk. They floated. Their hands were lifted, and magic shimmered at their fingertips. When they reached the center of the vault, they didn't talk to the guards.
They spoke to the walls.
They spoke to the ancient symbols.
Then they began.
Their voices rose together, three different tones blending into one. The words they spoke were old, strange, and powerful. Only the Sisters and the first Valensons knew that language. It sounded like music made of knives.
"Luxen trevas, ferox varin, claustrae en'shaar."
("Light in darkness, fierce voice, seal the soul.")
"Fyat'ka verin, aeternos valar."
("Let the ward rise, eternal binding.")
"Cylla venar, maerinth xal'oon."
("Spirit of Cylla, remain bound.")
Magic burst out in all directions.
The vault doors glowed with bright silver light, strange symbols lit up in glowing blue, locking into place with a deep, rumbling sound like thunder underwater.
The vault was sealed again. Stronger, protected, and sacred once more.
One of the Sisters turned, her face hidden behind lace and runes. "Cylla is safe," she said. Her voice was many voices. "For now."
Uncle Zarek stepped into view from the archway, his expression carved in stone.
Another Sister stepped forward, her eyes glowing faintly behind her veil. "But balance must be restored. The bloodline weakens. A union must be made. Soon."
With that, the Sisters turned and disappeared, fading into mist as quickly as they had come.
Silence fell again.
Except for the sound of dripping blood.
Zarek's steps echoed as he approached the shaken guards who had held the night shift. His cloak dragged through ash and soot, his hands folded behind his back.
He stopped before the commander. "Point me to the incompetents who stood watch while the vault was breached."
The soldiers hesitated.
Then the commander shoved two guards forward.
One trembled so hard his armor clinked with every breath, sweat streaking down his temples despite the cold. His mouth opened, then shut again. No words, just fear.
The other stood stiff, pale as bone, his jaw clenched in silent defiance. But his eyes gave him away — wide, rimmed with shame, darting once toward the vault doors and quickly away.
Failure hung on them both like a second skin.
Zarek didn't blink. "Behead them. By dawn."
The words dropped like a blade.
A hush swept through the hall, thick and suffocating. Even the torches on the walls seemed to flicker lower, as if the fire itself feared him.
He turned, his eyes sweeping over the remaining guards like a curse.
"Let it be known," Zarek said, voice cold and even, "that in House Valenson, failure is not forgiven. It is answered. In blood."
No one moved.
Not a breath, not a sound. Just the quiet terror of men suddenly reminded of what it meant to serve the bloodline of past kings.
Zarek didn't stay to watch the men dragged away. He turned without a word. As he moved, the tip of his sword scraped along the floor, a slow, grating sound that cut through the silence like a warning.
Sparks trailed behind him.
Smoke followed as he walked.
And his eyes were already fixed on what must come next.
As Zarek stepped into the east corridor, the sound of his footsteps echoed against the bare stone walls. The hallway stretched ahead, dimly lit by wall-mounted lanterns. Behind him, the vault chamber faded into silence.
He heard a faint sound up ahead.
From the shadows, a figure stepped forward. Tall, composed, wrapped in a long linen nightgown that brushed the floor with each step. Her hair was pulled into a low, careful bun, though loose strands framed her face, her eyes sharp with questions she hadn't voiced yet.
Alana.
He didn't stop. She matched his pace, heels tapping lightly on the stone, her voice low but urgent. "What happened, Uncle?"
He stopped, turned sharply, and faced her.
"You happened!" he snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut. "Word of your foolishness must've spread through the kingdom like sickness. You rejected Simon Thorne's hand and this is the consequence."
He didn't wait for a reply. He turned and walked off, rage in every step.
Alana paced the corridor, her fingers clenched tightly around the sleeves of her nightgown. A faint chill seeped through the stone floor, but she hardly felt it. Her mind was spinning.
'You happened'
Her uncle had said. The words echoed again and again, louder than the bell that had rung through the halls.
She hadn't just refused a man. She had humiliated the House of Thorne.
The Thornes were powerful, iron-blooded men with alliances carved into old stone. For years, rumors had circled that House Thorne and House Valenson would unite. The idea alone had kept other enemies at bay, made them think twice.
But the moment she rejected Simon's hand, the illusion cracked. And when word spread quickly, as it always did, and it made them look fractured. Vulnerable. Weak.
She stopped pacing and pressed a hand to her temple.
This was the consequence.
Not just the attack. Not just the vault. But the message it sent to every rival house watching from the shadows — that Valenson could no longer hold its line.
And it was her fault.
She took a breath, sharp and sudden, then turned. Her decision already made. Quick steps carried her through the corridor, past flickering torches and wide-eyed guards. She didn't wait. She didn't hesitate.
When she reached Zarek's door, she pushed it open without knocking.
It slammed against the stone wall.
Zarek stood half-dressed, his tunic tossed over a chair, his armor laid out on the table before him. A blade rested near the edge, still stained with something darker than iron.
He didn't look surprised.
"What is it, Alana?" he muttered, not even turning. "Haven't you ruined my night enough?"
"I have a solution."
He scoffed and wiped a black smear from his hand with a cloth. "Do you now? Did your conscience finally wake up, or did you just grow tired of sulking in your own mess?"
"I'm serious," she said.
He turned slowly, the weight of exhaustion and disappointment carved into his face.
"What solution could possibly fall from your lips that doesn't end with you married to Simon Thorne, spreading your legs, and giving him heirs before winter breaks?"
Alana stood tall, chin high despite the heat rising in her cheeks.
"No," she said. "Better."
He stilled.
"I may not marry him," Alana said, standing just inside the threshold of Zarek's chambers, her voice calm but firm, "but Dahlia can."
Zarek scoffed immediately, a low, humorless sound as he tossed a blood-streaked tunic onto the table. "Of course…more foolishness."
"It's not foolishness," Alana shot back, stepping further in. Her feet sank slightly into the thick, wolf-fur rug that covered the cold stone floor. "Why not Dahlia? She's off marital age and Dahlia fancies him. I'm sure she'd marry him willingly."
Zarek turned then, wiping his hands on a stained cloth. The fire crackled behind him, casting his face in shifting gold and shadow. His eyes narrowed like drawn blades.
"How many times must I tell you?" he said, slowly, like speaking to a child who refused to learn. "This is not about feelings. Or fancy. Or convenience. Simon would never accept her. Dahlia is not of true Valensan blood."
"Don't say that," Alana snapped, her voice rising for the first time. She stepped closer, almost nose to nose with him. "Don't say that out loud."
Zarek didn't flinch. "She is Marnix daughter," he said coldly. "My adopted brother's child. That may earn her my loyalty, but not the right to carry the Valenson line. Not in a union like this."
Alana's fists clenched at her sides. "She's more Valenson than most born into this family."
Zarek turned his back on her and walked toward the far table where pieces of armor and broken weaponry lay scattered like war relics. He braced his hands against the edge, shoulders stiff with tension.
"You are the eldest daughter of House Valenson," he said without looking at her. "The only one of true standing. Dahlia cannot take your place. And my daughter—" he scoffed again "—she only just stopped suckling at her mother's breast."
Alana took a slow breath, willing herself not to shout. Her voice dropped low and sharp.
"You're supposed to be one of the most feared men in the kingdom. The Iron Strategist. The Night Reaper. And yet you're scared of convincing a twenty-year-old boy to marry someone else?"
Zarek turned sharply, his eyes burning.
"Are you truly as powerful as they say?" she added, softly, cruelly. "Or is it just that your enemies believe your stories more than you believe in yourself?"
His jaw tightened. The air in the room crackled. But she wasn't done.
"You want to protect Cylla. You want to preserve the bloodline. I'm giving you a way out. You may not like it. But it's the only one left."
She turned on her heel.
The fire flickered behind her as she walked toward the door, her nightgown trailing over the floor, the scent of soot and steel still thick in the room.
She didn't look back when she added, "If you want the union with House Thorne… you know what you have to do."
Then she was gone.
The door slammed shut behind her, and for the first time that night, Zarek said nothing.
Only the fire moved.
After Alana left, the silence in the chamber thickened.
Zarek exhaled slowly and sank into the heavy, iron-backed chair at the center of the room. He leaned back, one leg crossed over the other, and scoffed softly to himself.
Scared of Simon Thorne ?
What ridiculousness.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes shut. Alana's words rang in his head like steel striking steel. Sharp, persistent, and unforgiving.
Why was she so stubborn? So determined to challenge him at this very turn?
He had raised her like a daughter. Not just in title or duty, but in the quiet, unseen ways — the extra meat on her plate, the sword lessons in secret, the way he placed his hand on her shoulder before battle speeches. She may have never called him father, but he had given her everything a father could. Or so he thought.
Simon Thorne was not a punishment. He was a reward. A warrior. A future king. A man who would protect her, give her strong sons and beautiful daughters. Any other woman in the realm would have bled for the chance to wear his ring.
Zarek reached for the small writing box on the side table. He opened it, revealing parchment and an ink pot sealed in wax. With practiced ease, he lit the candle, dipped the quill, and began to write.
Lord Simon Thorne,
Forgive the behavior of Lady Alana Valenson this morning. It does not reflect—
He paused.
The tip of the quill hovered above the parchment, ink threatening to blot.
Should he continue with the letter?
Should he force Alana into the marriage, as planned, binding her by name, by blood, by legacy?
Or… should he take her suggestion seriously?
Offer Dahlia instead?
His jaw tightened.
One path risked legacy. The other, control. He stared down at the letter, then at the firelight flickering in the ink. And for the first time in years, Zarek hesitated.
His fingers tightened around the writing feather.
Then, with a sharp breath, he tore the parchment in half, the soft rip slicing through the silence. He reached for a new sheet, the paper crisp beneath his calloused hands.
He dipped the quill again, the ink darker this time, heavier, as if it knew what he was about to do.
Lord Simon Thorne…