Lilith
Holly Palace
Raider city
Ardonia Region
Kingdom of Ashtarium
April 6th 6415
Months had passed.
Our training was nearly complete, and now we found ourselves gathered once more in the same grand dining hall we'd first entered upon arriving at Holly Palace. The long table was laden with dishes that filled the room with rich, mouthwatering aromas—spiced meats, buttered vegetables, soft rolls steaming in baskets. The mood was warmer now, lighter. A far cry from when we'd first sat here, weighed down by uncertainty and shadows.
Jack was already halfway through his plate, eating with the enthusiasm of a man who hadn't tasted good food in weeks. The pleased look on his face was almost comical. I couldn't blame him—the food was incredible. Back then, I hadn't paid attention to flavor or texture. The storm brewing inside me had made everything taste like ash. But now… now I could savor it.
Across from me, Ariella cut into her steak with quiet precision. Her face gave little away. Once, I could read her like an open book—feel her emotions flickering beneath the surface. Now, her mind was stronger, more guarded. Her aura had matured, sharpened with training. I could sense her strength, but not her thoughts.
Ben and Eduardo sat further down the table. Both looked stronger—more composed. Ben, especially, radiated a new depth. He had reached the threshold of the Warrior Realm, and the way his aura pressed against the edges of the room made it clear he was close to breaking into Master. Eduardo too had changed—his presence was heavier now, more focused. Gone was the cocky edge I remembered; in its place was something far more dangerous.
Good, I thought. They'll need that strength.
At the far end of the table, opposite from Jack, sat Greta. She looked completely at ease, sipping from a glass of wine, eyes half-lidded in contentment. Every so often, she glanced my way and gave me a small, knowing smile. I caught one and returned it without thinking. There was a quiet warmth in the exchange—unspoken, but understood.
Greta had been a better mentor than I could have hoped for. Under her guidance, I hadn't just learned how to forge—I'd found direction. Purpose. For that, my gratitude ran deep.
I felt Ella's gaze before I saw it. She looked up from her food, eyes flicking from Greta to me, then back. Her brow twitched, and she cleared her throat pointedly before dropping her utensils with a soft clink.
"So," she said, turning toward Jack, "the four months you gave us have passed. What happens next?"
There was something new in her tone—confidence, steadiness. She and Jack had grown close over the last few months, their bond forged through countless hours of training. At this point, she treated him like family. Which, in a way… he was.
Jack leaned back in his chair, dabbing his mouth with a cloth as the room quieted.
He smiled.
And just like that, the mood shifted.
"Ella, if you want to reclaim your throne," Jack said, his tone calm but firm, "you'll need the support of the Aristocrats of the Kingdom."
Ella's brow furrowed. "The aristocrats…"
"Shouldn't they already be on her side?" I asked, frustration rising in my voice. "She's the rightful heir, isn't she?"
Jack shook his head slowly. "Unfortunately, it doesn't work like that. You're thinking like a human. Firstborn inheritance might be law in your kingdoms, but the vampire houses follow a different logic—one rooted in power, not bloodline."
Ella nodded quietly. "Only the one who possesses the House's Blood Soul has the right to rule Ahstarium."
"The Blood Soul," I echoed, the weight of it settling in my thoughts. I'd heard of them—legends whispered even among human scholars.
A Blood Soul wasn't just a symbol of rule. It was a core—a condensed crystallization of the original progenitor's essence. Each of the seven royal vampire houses had one. It carried not only power, but memories, skills, and the residual will of its previous bearers. In a way, it was the throne—embodied. To wield a Blood Soul was to inherit everything the line had passed down since the beginning.
When Nehemiah murdered the previous king—Ella's father—he didn't just seize the throne. He took the Blood Soul, and with it, the right to rule. It was recognized by every noble House of Ahstarium, binding by both ancient law and divine blessing.
For Ella to become Queen… she'd have to take it back.
I turned to Jack, eyes narrowing. "Are you insane? How is she supposed to rule if she doesn't have the Blood Soul? Nehemiah has it now—he is the king, like it or not."
"There is a way," Jack said, voice low, steady.
Ella looked at him. "You mean…"
He nodded. "You can claim it through trial by combat."
I froze. "A trial by combat?"
"It's the only other path to rightful ownership," Eduardo chimed in, his voice uncharacteristically serious. "A Blood Soul can only be passed down in two ways: willingly by the current bearer to a chosen heir… or taken through ritual combat sanctioned by Lilith, the Divine Mother of the Night."
Ella's expression darkened, but there was no fear in her eyes—only a quiet, growing resolve.
"That's suicide," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "Nehemiah's strength… it's on another level. Even with your training, Ella, you're not—"
"I don't need to defeat him tomorrow," she said softly, her voice sharp as a blade drawn in moonlight. "I just need to be strong enough by the time it matters."
We all looked at her in silence.
Somewhere deep in the halls of Holly Palace, a bell tolled—a faint, somber sound, like a warning whispered across the dark.
The clock had started ticking.
"While I do believe Ella's potential is great enough that one day she will be able to defeat Nehemiah—even with the Blood Soul in his possession," Jack said slowly, "...I also believe there's still a chance she could win now."
I turned to him, incredulous. "How?"
Jack leaned forward, his gaze sharp. "During the ritual combat, all cultivation-based powers are stripped away. The Blood Soul's enhancements, mana manipulation, bloodline techniques—all neutralized. The duel becomes something else entirely: a test of raw strength, skill, and instinct. Nothing more."
"That still favors Nehemiah," I said. "He's over a thousand years old. His natural strength alone should be monstrous."
"True," Jack admitted. "He's stronger than most Old Bloods because of his age, and his experience in the Long War gives him a tactical edge. But Nehemiah is a New Blood Vampire—he wasn't born of the original progenitor's line. His strength is cultivated, extended, and shaped through time. Impressive, yes—but not absolute."
He looked at Ella then, and his tone deepened.
"Ella, on the other hand, is an Old Blood. A direct descendant of the Ashtarmel line. That alone gives her an edge in raw physical power. But more importantly… she's also a Lionheart."
A flicker of pride passed through Ella's eyes.
"Lionhearts weren't bred to rule," Jack continued. "They were bred for war. Your blood carries the instincts of generations of battlefield champions. That's not something time can teach. It's something born into you."
"She still has less experience," I said, but my voice lacked conviction now. "That has to count for something."
"It does," Jack said. "But experience only matters when there's time to use it. In the chaos of a blood duel, instincts rule. And no one… no one learns faster under pressure than a Lionheart."
Ella didn't speak, but her eyes burned with something fierce, unyielding.
For the first time since the subject had come up, I could tell she had begun to believe this wasn't a suicide mission. It was a challenge. One, she might win.
"So… why do we need the aristocrats again?" I asked, still trying to wrap my head around the politics of vampire royalty.
"For the ritual to be sanctioned, you need noble support," Jack explained. "Especially from the royal houses."
"All seven royal houses?" I asked.
Jack shook his head. "No—just the ones within Ashtarium. There are three: the Ashtarmel, the Mircalla, and the Varnae. Together, they form the royal triumvirate of the region, with the Ashtarmel traditionally serving as the ruling line. Without the backing of at least two of these houses, the ritual won't be approved. Their recognition is essential."
He turned to Ella. "That means you need to travel to Zellux. Meet with the Mircalla and bring Matriarch Patricia back to the fold."
Ella frowned. "Wait… aren't we in Ardonia right now? That's the territory of Grand Duke Nox Varnae. Shouldn't we be focusing on the Varnae first?"
Jack leaned back in his chair and smiled, completely at ease. "Don't worry about the Varnae."
Ella narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean?"
Jack gestured to the palace around us with a casual wave. "As you can probably tell by my presence here… I've already taken care of it."
I blinked. "You mean… you control the Varnae House?"
He smiled again, almost amused. "This palace—we're in their domain. But the question is, whose palace is it really?"
There was a pause.
"Who does it belong to?" I asked warily.
Jack's expression shifted into something mischievous. "Edward Varnae."
The name hit the table like a thunderclap.
We all froze.
Someone coughed. Ben actually choked on his drink.
Edward Varnae. That name wasn't just aristocracy. It was pop culture legend.
The Edward Varnae—world-famous celebrity, actor of the century, star of half a dozen critically acclaimed dramas, the man whose face was on billboards and hologram ads across the planet.
"The… The Edward Varnae?" Ella said, stunned.
Jack casually waved toward himself. "Yes. The one and only."
Ben, of all people, spoke up next. "You don't look like him."
So even Ben watched those soap-operas, huh?
Jack gave a sly smirk. "You mean this?"
He lifted his right hand and waved it across his face. The change was instantaneous. His dark skin, violet eyes, and silver hair shimmered—shifting like molten glass. In their place appeared dark hair, flawless fair skin, and those unmistakable turquoise eyes. The exact, perfectly sculpted face of Edward Varnae.
We all stared.
"…How?" I asked, still trying to pick my jaw off the floor. "Is this shapeshifting? I've heard some Vampires can do that, but this…"
Jack chuckled. "Most vampires use illusion magic to simulate shapeshifting. And while some Mages and true Shifters can alter their form, it's rare."
He tapped his temple. "This isn't magic. It's my Ability Factor. I call it Acting."
"Acting?" we all echoed in unison.
Jack grinned. "Yes. I can assume the appearance, voice, memories, and presence of anyone I've… let's say, studied. I don't just copy them—I become them."
A pause followed.
He leaned forward, lowering his voice slightly. "Edward Varnae did exist. But he annoyed me... so I killed him."
Silence.
"That was before he became an actor," Jack added with a satisfied smirk. "All those performances? The award-winning films? The drama series with the tearful season finale? That was all me."
We all stared at him like he'd grown two heads.
"You're telling me… You starred in Blood Hearts and Broken Vows?" Ben whispered.
Jack tilted his head. "Best monologue I've ever delivered. Episode 9, right before the betrayal?"
Ben looked like he was rethinking his entire life.
I slumped back in my chair. "We're so screwed."
****
After the dinner, a day was finally set for our departure. Until then, we waited—resting, preparing, gathering our strength.
I chose to spend my time inside the Codex—within the white expanse of the simulation chamber, a featureless space designed for focus and refinement. Seated in the center, I meditated, drawing my awareness inward, reviewing everything I had learned since the day I awakened as an Ascendant.
Thanks to Greta's tireless instruction, my mana core had finally reached the threshold of the Master Realm. The dense, crystalline structure at the heart of my energy system now thrummed with stability and potential. With it, I could easily cast tier one through tier four spells—basic to advanced single-element techniques.
These spells, though categorized as lower-tier, had immense versatility. Tier one spells controlled subtle manifestations: sparks, gusts, ripples. By tier four, they could tear through stone or sear the air with lightning. Each tier amplified the element's power and scale, but soon, I would reach beyond them.
Tier Five. That was my next threshold.
Tier five spells demanded more than just power—they required synthesis. The fusion of two or more elemental affinities. They birthed deviant elements—combinations like magma, stormlight, or icefire. They also included physical magic, tapping into the natural laws of the universe: motion, gravity, electromagnetism, and even dimensional forces like space and time.
I was close. I could feel it.
As I breathed, I applied everything Greta had drilled into me. My mana stirred within my core—no longer a wild tide, but a responsive river. It flowed outward into my mana lattice network—the interconnected circuit of mana within my body, interwoven with my nerves, muscles, and meridians. This was Awakening, the first foundational stage of mana application.
I guided the flow with intention, moving it through every internal system—both biological and energetic. This was Infusion—the second foundational stage of mana application. With each breath, I refined the process, syncing mana flow with my heartbeat and respiration.
Then came Reinforcement. I willed the mana deeper, strengthening every fiber of my being. My muscles tightened, tendons flexed, and bones solidified beyond their natural limits. My body pulsed with condensed energy, as if forged under pressure.
Next, I activated the Mantle phase. My mana began to radiate outward from my mana nodes, wrapping around my form like a second skin. A combat aura formed—shimmering, visible, and alive. It wasn't just a shield; it was an extension of my will. Using the mana comprehension drills Greta had taught me, I condensed the shroud, sharpening its edge. It augmented my strength, speed, perception, and magical resilience.
And now… it was time for the next stage I had yet to master.
Manifestation.
The art of solidifying mana into physical constructs.
I focused, drawing elemental mana from my environment, carefully separating fire and earth element, weaving them together. I visualized a weapon: a short spear, lightweight but durable. The mana spiraled between my hands, vibrating with tension.
This step wasn't just about control—it was about form and function. As a mage and a body cultivator, Manifestation would allow me to summon weapons, shields, or armor on command, tailored to my fighting style. It would also let me control spells at range—create turrets, floating glyphs, or layered barriers mid-battle.
More importantly, it would serve as the key to casting multi-elemental spells—my path to tier five spells. The mana pulsed, resisting slightly. I narrowed my focus. Breathed in.
And then, the form took shape—flickering, half-born. Not perfect… but real. The first step toward Manifestation had been taken.
"Perfect," came Greta's voice from behind me.
I opened my eyes and smiled, already knowing she had been watching. Of course she had. This whole exercise had been her idea—revisiting everything I'd learned since awakening, tracing the path of my growth with deliberate focus. And it worked. I could feel it in every breath, every motion. I was stronger now. Sharper. More attuned to my mana and body than ever before.
The difference was undeniable.
Still… I wasn't sure I could beat her.
Even at the Master realm, Jen's power had once felt far beyond my reach. And Greta? Greta felt even stronger than Jen. Her presence was always composed, veiled—but something told me she could crush me in an instant if she wanted to.
I still couldn't sense what realm she was in. Only one thing was clear—she was far, far beyond Awakening.
"So…" Greta's voice was almost playful. "Should we spar?"
Before I could answer, she extended one hand, and with a flourish, a staff coalesced in her grasp—formed from ash. It took the shape of a long, elegant bo staff, but its surface pulsed with crimson cracks, like veins of molten fire barely restrained.
I instinctively shifted my stance. The weapon radiated power, but not like a spell construct. No—it wasn't born of magic.
It felt like… an Ability Factor.
"You're a Wytch, right?" I asked slowly, eyes narrowing.
Greta twirled the staff once, smirking. "Yes."
"But Wytches usually don't bother with Ability Factors. They prefer Wytchcraft—curses, sigils, elemental bargains, that kind of thing."
I summoned Heartbeat with a flick of my wrist. Not one, but two hammers appeared in my hands. Aeternum had recently forged a perfect replica within the Codex's forge lab—same structure, same core, same resonance. Twin hammers. Twin focuses. My style was evolving.
Greta's smirk deepened. "I'm not your average Wytch."
Her brown eyes glittered with something between mischief and quiet menace.
"I take it," she continued, tone sharpening, "you're at least aware of the Ninefold Paths of the Arcana Principle?"
I paused, hammers in hand. My heart ticked a little faster.
"…I've heard of them."
Greta spun her staff slowly, the ash trailing embers in the simulation chamber's white air. "Then let's see how much you've learned."
Greta pounced. So fast, so sudden, I barely had time to react. Her foot came flying toward me—a spinning heel kick aimed with terrifying precision. I barely managed to cross my hammers in time to block, the impact ringing through my bones like thunder. Even with the defense, the sheer force launched me backward.
I hit the ground hard, rolled, and came up on my feet just in time to see her spinning again—her ashen staff whirling in her grip like a flaming wheel. Sparks flew from the motion, trailing glowing embers that detonated mid-air as they closed in.
I threw up my combat aura, reinforcing the mana shroud over my body. But it was like shielding myself with paper.
The embers detonated on contact, tearing through my mantle like it was smoke. The flames licked at my arms, burning through my defense with heat that felt almost alive.
This… This power…
That single exchange told me everything I needed to know. If Greta had faced the Armored Knight back in Thornhill, she would've reduced it to slag in moments. There was no longer any doubt. Greta wasn't just beyond the Awakening stage—she was a Great Sage Ascendant.
She circled me now, slow and steady, a playful smile tugging at the edge of her lips, eyes gleaming with challenge. I clenched my jaw and growled low in my throat. I channeled Primal Harmonics, drawing the fire clinging to my skin into myself. The flames vanished into a swirling mist of dark purple energy that pulsed around me. I infused it into Heartbeat, both hammers glowing faintly as my Ability Factor surged through the weapons.
The air trembled. I stepped forward—then vanished.
Rapid Step.
In a blink, I closed the distance between us, my hammers swinging in a cross-strike aimed at her flank. But Greta was already moving.
A single twist of her body, a graceful pivot—and she swept her staff in a wide arc. The motion alone unleashed a gale—a whirling burst of wind laced with invisible blades that carved toward me with razor force.
I gasped.
There had been no incantation. No spell matrix. No mana circle. She had triggered the spell through pure motion—through flow, through rhythm. It wasn't ordinary elemental casting. This was something else.
I gritted my teeth as the gale slammed into me, cutting across my aura and throwing me off-balance. Blood dotted my arm where one of the wind blades had sliced through my defense.
This isn't just high-tier magic…
I knew what I was witnessing now.
This was one of the Ninefold Paths of the Arcana Principle—the hidden disciplines of advanced spellcraft. And Greta wasn't just using it. She had mastered it. I remember reading about it from one of Aeternum's books, but I hadn't paid attention to it.
The wind died down, but the tension didn't.
I skidded to a halt, blood trailing down my forearm, smoke rising faintly from the hem of my cloak. Greta stood just ahead, staff planted into the cracked earth, her smile now more curious than mocking.
"You felt it, didn't you?" she asked, tilting her head. Her golden hair caught the embers still hanging in the air.
I didn't answer. I didn't need to.
"That wasn't just a wind spell," she said, lifting the staff with one hand and spinning it again—casually this time. The wind stirred with her motion, like it wanted to follow. "You're used to spell matrices, incantations, and channeling frameworks. All that structured casting. Pretty, but slow."
Her staff stopped mid-spin and pointed directly at me.
"This… is the Path of Conduction—the Living Channel."
I narrowed my eyes. I had heard whispers of the Ninefold Paths. Esoteric, powerful, and supposedly only taught to elite Arcanists or born Wytches.
Greta tapped her chest. "Power flows through me, not from me. I don't cast magic. I become the channel for it."
A subtle ripple of fire sparked along her arm, wrapping around her staff like a snake made of molten silk.
"The moment I move with intent, the elements respond. There's no delay, no resistance. No permission needed. I'm already open. Already flowing."
I could feel it now—the rhythm in her every step, the pulse in her grip. The way the flames danced around her didn't seem summoned—they felt attracted, like the world wanted to follow her will.
"This path isn't about memorizing spells or perfecting circles," she said. "It's about synchronization. I attune my body to fire, wind, lightning, ether—whatever force I need—and then I move."
Greta stepped forward, and the ground beneath her hissed with steam as fire rolled off her boots. She raised her staff slowly, and thunder cracked in the distance, though the sky was clear.
"Pulsecasting, Elemental Wraths, Stormbind—these are my tools. But the real weapon… is flow."
Her eyes narrowed, and her smile sharpened just a little.
"So tell me, hammer-girl—" she lowered into a stance again, fire and wind circling her like eager familiars, "—can you keep up with a living storm?"
I barely had time to reset my stance before Greta surged forward.
But this time, she wasn't just channeling wind or fire. She was binding them.
The staff spun above her like a blazing turbine, igniting a vortex around her as the air itself screamed. Flames spiraled along the current, wrapping around her body and weapon in a violent dance. Her voice was a whisper drowned beneath the roar—but I heard the name of the spell clear as thunder:
[Stormbind: Crimson Tempest.]
The world tilted.
She struck the ground with her staff, and the explosion wasn't just fire or wind—it was a fusion. A detonating gale of white-hot air, superheated and sharpened, lashed outward in a circular arc. The terrain fractured. My shroud of mana cracked like brittle glass.
I twisted away, but the shockwave still clipped me. My shoulder went numb from the impact—no flame, no blade, just pressure, blistering and heavy, like I'd been slapped by a god's furnace.
Greta appeared through the rising smoke like a meteor wrapped in flame. Her body rode the spiraling storm she'd conjured, hair whipping like a banner of fire, eyes glowing amber-red.
"Stormbind," she called mid-leap, spinning her staff behind her as a second vortex took shape.
"It's not just a spell," she grinned. "It's a state."
She landed with a stomp, and the Crimson Tempest collapsed inward, pulling debris, fire, and air into a compressed whorl—then exploded again, this time with surgical precision. The shockwave targeted my legs—air sharpened into slicing crescents, fire hissing like living blades.
I slammed my hammers into the ground and triggered a rapid burst of Primal Harmonics—absorbing the heat and dispersing the pressure just in time to avoid being cut in half. But the moment I looked up, Greta was already gone.
A flicker of movement—then she was above me. Spinning. Ashen Staff descending. I crossed my hammers again and blocked. This time, it didn't just burn. It sang. The air around the impact vibrated, and for a brief moment, I felt as if my entire nervous system had been strummed like an instrument. She backflipped off the impact, landing lightly, twirling her staff with practiced ease.
"You see now?" she said, panting slightly, grinning wider. "Fire fuels, wind moves. Bind them together—and the battlefield becomes my instrument."
Smoke curled between us, rippling with residual heat. I was still catching my breath, shoulder throbbing, when Greta stood tall with her staff planted into the ground.
"That," she said, brushing soot off her coat, "was Stormbind—but not its base form."
I blinked at her, warily raising one hammer in case she moved again.
Greta grinned. "Relax. Lesson break."
She twirled her staff behind her back and stretched one arm outward. As she did, motes of glowing wind spiraled around her palm, kissed by residual flame. "You noticed how the spell reacted to my voice, right?"
I nodded slowly.
"That's because I didn't just use the Path of Conduction. I invoked something more. I fused it with the Path of Invocation—the Voice of Authority." Her voice deepened slightly with the weight of her words, and for a second, the mana in the air obeyed, shuddering toward her like iron filings to a magnet.
"The Path of Conduction is flow," she continued. "I open my body as a vessel, let fire and wind pass through, shape it with movement and breath. But Invocation? That path turns words into commands. It makes the world listen. My fire doesn't just burn because I channel it—it burns because I tell it to burn."
She raised a finger and spoke:
"Kindle."
A flicker of flame bloomed at her fingertip—small, but intense. She didn't gesture, didn't gather mana. The fire answered her will directly.
"I don't shout orders into the world and hope it listens," she said. "I name what I want, and it becomes law. That's Invocation. When combined with the elemental surge of Conduction, it turns each spell into a living force of intent."
She stepped forward, dragging her staff lightly across the ground. Sparks danced in its wake, curling into ancient runes.
"I call it Command Conduction—a hybrid style I developed after mastering both paths. Fire moves like breath, wind dances like instinct, but my voice becomes the binding thread."
I swallowed hard, heart pounding with awe.
"You want to be a Forgemaster, Lil?" she asked suddenly, serious now. "Then you'll need more than strength and instinct. You'll need command. You'll need to conduct. You'll need to know how to make the world answer not just to your tools, but to your will."
Then, without warning, she flared the flame from her fingertip—and the runes on the ground ignited into a spiraling helix of fire and wind, forming a temporary glyph circle beneath her.
"This is where we start," Greta said, eyes blazing. "Understanding how magic breathes. Then learning to make it sing."
-
Royal Palace,
Pandemonium City, Royal capital
Hudsonia Region
Kingdom of Ashtarium
April 17th 6412
Lilith stood quietly outside the chamber doors, the murmured voices of Ariella and Queen Marie just audible beyond the gilded wood. Though trained to ignore private conversations, Lilith found herself lingering, listening.
There was something in Ariella's voice. A hesitation. A weight. The kind of quiet that revealed more than words ever could. Engaged to someone she doesn't love.
Lilith clenched her gloved hands at her sides. She hadn't even met this Prince of Xibalba, yet already, a slow, simmering disdain stirred within her. Not for what he had done—but for what he might represent: another cage, another chain. And that, Lilith could not stand.
The door opened with a soft creak of magic and hinges.
Lilith stepped back, then bowed deeply as Queen Marie emerged.
The Queen regarded her with a poised smile—elegant, as always—but there was a distinct edge to it. Not cold, but sharp, as though honed by unknown knowledge.
"Lilith," she said, with the grace of a sovereign addressing a favored blade. "I trust the banquet hall is secured?"
Lilith straightened, her expression perfectly measured. "It is, Your Majesty. The final sweep was completed moments ago."
Marie's smile lingered. Not unkind, but unreadable.
"Good," she said softly. "Stay close to her tonight."
With that, she walked past, her gown whispering against the floor like silk and shadow. Lilith remained where she stood for a breath longer, her gaze drawn toward the now-open door. Ariella stepped through looking beautiful, radiant, and bound.
Lilith couldn't help but be charmed—Ariella was radiant. Draped in regal elegance, her hair done in soft waves that framed her face like a painting come to life, she still smiled with the warmth of the girl Lilith remembered.
When Ariella stepped out of her room and saw her, she lit up, grabbing Lilith's arm with affection.
"There you are," she said.
Lilith cleared her throat, her composure faltering just slightly. "Here I am."
Together, they followed Queen Marie down the corridor leading to the grand banquet hall. At its end, the rest of the Ashtarmel family had already gathered. Royal Guards stood stationed at key points—silent and vigilant—led by Sanders, ever the hawk-eyed commander.
At the front of the hall, King Rafael stood deep in conversation with his brother, General Nehemiah, the iron-willed director of both the Royal Military and R.E.T.U. Beside him was Yolanda, his wife, cradling their youngest, Chloe Ashtarmel, a ten-year-old girl with large curious eyes.
To the side, Delilah—in an elegant white tunic suit that floated like silk around her—turned and smiled as she saw Ariella. Without hesitation, she embraced her tightly, ignoring Lilith entirely.
Lilith stepped back, letting them have their moment. She was used to being overlooked by most of the family.
Isaiah smirked as his gaze met hers, but Lilith dismissed him with a calm indifference. She had no interest in whatever game he was playing.
Near the front stood Elijah Ashtarmel, the King's firstborn, quietly dignified in his royal attire as he spoke with his father and uncle. Just behind him were the twins, Quincy and Adam, draped in crimson-and-black robes, both looking thoroughly bored—though it was hard to tell if they were just playing the part.
When Queen Marie approached her husband, General Nehemiah respectfully bowed his head and stepped aside, granting her the space beside the King.
Lilith slipped into position among the Royal Guard, feeling Sanders' crimson eyes flick toward her with a weighty glance. She gave him a subtle nod.
"So this is all the family that could make it?" King Rafael asked, his voice echoing slightly beneath the high ceilings.
"You know the family," Nehemiah said with a small, dry laugh. "Too busy for an event they can attend anytime."
Lilith couldn't help but agree. It was easy to forget that this was only a portion of the vast House of Ashtarmel. Despite the grandeur of tonight's gathering, the family was far larger—spread across the New World and even beyond, into the Old World.
Cousins, nephews, nieces, aunts, uncles… There were enough of them to fill kingdoms. The ones gathered here tonight? They might as well be called the Main Family, for they were the ones closest to the throne.
And Lilith—though merely a Royal Guard—stood among them. Watching. Listening. Guarding.
The heavy twin doors of the banquet hall opened fully, revealing a grand chamber adorned in twilight-hued velvet and obsidian-crystal chandeliers. At the far end, the great crescent table awaited, set with silver and onyx, glimmering with mana-light.
A line of Royal Heralds stood poised at the entrance. At their signal, the horns blared—a somber, rich note that echoed with dignity and weight.
"Announcing His Majesty King Rafael Ashtarmel of the New World Dominion, Sovereign of the Ashtarmel Lineage, and Queen Marie Lionheart-Ashtarmel, Matron of the Crimson Reign."
King Rafael entered first with Queen Marie at his side, regally composed, their presence commanding every eye in the room. Behind them, the royal family followed in a procession of tailored elegance and quiet authority.
"His Highness Elijah Ashtarmel, Crown Prince and Heir to the New World Throne. Their Highnesses Prince Quincy Ashtarmel, Adam Ashtarmel, and Isaiah Ashtarmel of the Crimson Dawn court. Her Highness, Princess Delilah Ashtarmel, Lady of the Crimson Dawn Court. Her Grace, Princess consort Yolanda Ashtarmel and her daughter, Princess Chloe Ashtarmel. And General Nehemiah Ashtarmel, Director of Royal Forces and R.E.T.U. and Prince of the Kingdom."
Each was announced with precision and poise. Elijah walked just behind the King, his face unreadable. Quincy and Adam followed in matching robes, hands tucked behind their backs, their gazes wandering the room with familiar boredom. Isaiah smirked, delighted by the reverence that was thrown his way. Delilah glided like a silver breeze, her ivory tunic flowing like moonlight. Yolanda held little Chloe close, the girl looking around in awe at the glittering hall. General Nehemiah remained a silent wall of steel behind them all.
Lilith stood near the rear with the royal guard contingent, her eyes on Ariella, who hadn't yet been formally introduced.
Then—
"Her Highness Princess Ariella Ashtarmel, Lady of Radiant Dawn, Starborn of the Crimson Bloodline."
As Ariella stepped forward, flanked by Lilith in silent shadow, the hall exhaled.
She wore a deep crimson gown, laced with golden runes that shimmered faintly with mana embroidery in the shape of lions and dragons. Her hair, crowned in delicate phoenix-feather ornaments, flowed freely behind her. She did not smile—yet her poise radiated quiet power.
Whispers rippled through the guests.
Among them, Lilith caught the murmurs: "The one born of Ashtarmel and Lionheart…" "Is she truly of the royal line?" "The daughter born of blood and dragon…"
Ariella moved toward the head of the table and bowed with practiced grace. Once the family was seated, the herald raised his voice once more.
This time, the timbre was different—more formal, more ceremonial.
"Honored guests of the Court of Ashtarmel, tonight we welcome visitors from across the Regions, from the land of the Central continent. Announcing Her Imperial Majesty, Queen Consort Rosa Mircalla of the Xibalba Kingdom—Lady of the Velvet Court, and Daughter of the Gluttony Queen."
A second pause followed.
"With her, His Highness Prince Eduardo Xolo Mircalla Gomez, Prince of the Central Courts."
The second set of doors opened. A wave of cold presence flooded the hall—not one of temperature, but of command.
Queen Rosa floated more than walked—tall, pale, and regal, wrapped in layers of wine-colored silk and midnight lace. Her presence was otherworldly, timeless, like a painting come to life. Her golden eyes, unmistakably vampiric, scanned the room with the ease of one accustomed to dominance. Behind her trailed her son.
Eduardo Xolo Gomez, dressed in formal obsidian-black robes trimmed with deep red sigils of his House, moved with a quiet confidence that was neither arrogant nor apologetic. His hair, a dark cascade, framed a striking face—sharp features, cold beauty. There was a simmering intensity behind his eyes, yet something unreadable lurked beneath the surface.
Lilith's instincts stirred.
He was… charming. In a dangerous way.
Queen Rosa's gaze swept over the Ashtarmel gathering, pausing momentarily on Queen Marie—two monarchs exchanging the briefest of glances. There was no warmth in Rosa's smile, only perfect politeness edged with cold amusement.
The assembled nobles stood as protocol demanded.
Queen Marie rose, her tone gracious but alert. "We welcome the emissaries of Xibalba. May tonight be a step toward unity."
Queen Rosa smiled faintly. "Unity… is always worth dining for."
The two women exchanged a look—thin, measured, perfectly royal.
Eduardo bowed to King Rafael and to the assembled court. "It is an honor to stand beneath the banners of Ashtarmel."
"Let it be a shared honor," King Rafael said. "Come—join us. The night is still young."
They took their seats, Queen Rosa beside General Nehemiah and Eduardo across from Ariella, though not directly opposite. A calculated choice, no doubt.
As the first course arrived, and crystal goblets were filled with crimson wine, the true performance of the evening began—not with food, but with glances, gestures, and games of power unspoken.