Like a chess board being arranged by the unseen players, each piece lined, each squares filled, before the chosen pawn descends, before the first move was made, the stage was being set, as events unfold like a movie-set, written in precision, were people unknowingly spoke and acted the script word per word, a false belief, a broken sense of freedom, manufactured by truth, built by lines of lies above.
House Kappel of Witnesses
Across the ember-stained hills, beneath a sky bruised with fading light, stood the Manor of House Kappel.
Once a beacon of dignity and vision, now weathered by time and whispering secrets through its scorched stone walls. The estate—part Mansion, part battlefield, loomed with the weight of a history etched in blood, art, and quiet wars. Its halls were decorated with trophies not merely of victory, but of ideology.
This was no ordinary seat of power. This was a home of the Witnesses—those granted with the rare gift of "Sight" to see the unseen.
Its history runs far and long, founded centuries ago by Lady Quinlan Kappel, a known Blue Visionary. The House emerged thirty years after the cataclysmic Regal Envision—the event that changed the fate of mankind. It was then the Authors first descended from their cryptic realms, bestowing upon humanity the gift to see beyond... to dream, and from dreams, to manifest.
Ever since its foundation, The House Kappel has birthed generations of competent Witnesses, some of whom became instructors in the Academy, teaching young seekers how to control their gifted powers. Others pursued personal gains and became court witnesses or retainers along the political avenue, while some prioritized their growth. Breaking through and ascending, from being witnesses to Visionaries, further solidifying their name amongst the ones that hold power in the country, along with other houses.
But inside that storied manor, beneath chandeliers forged of crystallized thought and walls engraved with medals from the Grand Cathedral, unrest brewed like a storm behind the velvet-draped doors.
"You are missing the point, Witness Charlie!"
The voice cut through the chamber, sharp and frantic.
"This is truly the perfect time to strike, with the Lord of that House far beyond our reach."
Another barked back with venom.
"Witness Lane, have your senses gone awry?"
He slammed a hand to the table, shaking relics of old wars.
"We speak of a House full of Visionaries! Their numbers may be few, but what chance do we, mere Witnesses, have against power we barely comprehend?"
Lane's eyes burned with contempt.
"Careful with your words, Charlie. You speak of Witnesses of House Kappel—the same who've kept this House from crumbling, the same who brought you into this world!"
Their voices clashed, wrapped in rage and fear—as if they believed volume alone could balance the power.
Outside their quarrel, I, Leith Kappel, First Son of our Lord, remained silent. Merely watching.
A thought slithered into my mind, naïve perhaps, but loud enough to make my chest ache: Even I, an Artiste nearing the spectrum of Yellow, am leagues below the reach of their power.
Yes, the Lord of House Kholer may be absent. Strategically, we held an advantage. But power—true power—cannot be measured in numbers. It dances in Spectra, not statistics.
And just as the debate reached its boiling point—
A voice shattered the room.
"ENOUGH CHILD."
As if a thundering of Thor shot the center of the squabble, rolling through the edges of the manor, and the drapes of its curtain, even the air dared not speak, how words demanded silence in the gritting mouth of these plebeians.
There he stood—Lord Stein Kappel.
Ninety-three years of age, yet his presence eclipsed time. Draped in ancestral robes, eyes sharpened by generations of Sight, he commanded the air itself. His voice, carved in stone and seasoned by battle,
It was the law.
"We are not like the heretics, nor barbarians, we are not the beggars for power stabbing behind with trembling hands...
His gaze swept the chamber like a knife on our throats.
"We meet our foes with our names spoken, our lineage bared, and our honor intact."
And then—his voice sharpened, piercing the pride of the witnesses.
"Or have you all drowned in arrogance, believing your Purple Spectrum makes you gods?"
"Do not lay your Hand on the House of Kholer, that is FINAL," He added.
In that moment, none questioned him. For inside House Kappel, the word of Lord Stein was not a warning. It was a commandment. And when he spoke, the very walls listened.
But behind those bowed heads and solemn eyes, some of these dogs do not yield.
Some Witnesses, fevered by ambition and illusion, still dared move in secret—shackled to shadows, forging their myths in blood and ink.
Behind the Lord's sight, papers were passed, and messages were given, an instruction, a step made in advance.
After three days have passed.
Orchried St. Front of House Kholer,
The Bloodboon Moon wept.
High above, swollen and crimson, it hung like a wounded god bleeding across the heavens—mourning a truth yet spoken, a lesson not yet learned. The night was too still. Even the wind skipped a beat.
Across the blackened cobblestone, in the shadow of the revered House Kholer, a maelstrom of fools gathered—hoods drawn, talismans clutched, pride thick as smoke in their throats.
"How many?" A voice whispered.
"Thirty Witnesses. Including yourself, Sire," one of the Draped Men answered.
A nod.
That was enough.
"Lord Stein is too old," the voice growled, bitter with ambition." Too blind. Visionary or not, wisdom without power is nothing but rust. And numbers, ah... numbers still command the table."
He raised a hand like a commander leading His army—calloused, trembling with lust for legacy.
"Prepare your manifests. Draw your tarots. Bring forth the image of blood and ink. Tonight, we cleanse the name of House Kholer. Tonight... I become its Lord—" He shouted, before being interrupted.
"PLAYING HOUSE I SEE"
The words were not shouted. They need not be.
They were spoken—low, cold, and final—like the click of a coffin sealing shut in an instant,
A voice like razors scraping glass, familiar not by memory but by fear, sliced through the gathering like a scythe. Bones stiffened. Hearts faltered. Mouths dried in mid-imagination.
They knew that voice, not for who it was, but for what it had done.
And in that terrible, frozen instant—before a single muscle could flinch, before a breath could be dared—their end began.
Not a single Manifest was conjured.
No glyphs. No flash of desperate magic.
It happened. The world folded. Gravity turned traitor, and Flesh betrayed its form.
One.
By.
One.
They collapsed—not downward, but inward, as if the very laws of nature rejected them.
Not torn. Not burned. Not even dismembered.
Unwritten.
Erased with the precision of an Author's quill.
No scream. No plea.
All that remained were pools of blood, wide and deliberate, soaking the cold stone like signatures in a book from its author.
A message.
An omen.
A promise.
The mysterious man soon began his march... a march of death.
Passing through alleys and corners He once played, reminiscing memories of the past, when the world was still kind, before He questioned authority and authority questioned his very existence... As he reminisces, from Longing turned to pain, before he was left by the people he called friends, the ones He cherished, loved, and adored, before his sadness buried deep, and anger wept for his pain, before the hint of insanity drenched the color of his soul.
"He used to be kind," they said.
"He changed," they said.
"That's what happens when you know too much, arrogant enough to question your very lineage."
Memories flooded his thoughts, tampering with his emotions, but—He was used to this experience. His insanity and anger no longer leaking, it wasn't a raging wave, but the calm depth of the ocean floor, swallowing those brave enough to sail and were foolish enough to try. It didn't take him any longer.
Finally, He stood before a House of great power, politically and in capacity.
HOUSE KAPPEL
It's doors layered with dignity, uninviting of those that reek hostility, His hands draped its wooden walls, and the lion-head, handle, He paused for a second, not of hesitation, but to breath, and to encapsulate the sight of the manor in his memory, long before it vanish.
The Manor Door Screeched open, with sound Rumbling through every stone paved wall, through every ornamentation of every, room of every wing, of every floor, it was not silent, but thundering, it was not discreet, but like an opening of a Circus Parade as every chandelier, and every glass pane danced the song of death,
Every child of House Kappel woke in terror and alert, not from the sound of the banging door but from the stench of iron and blood of their kin. Many were unnerved, most were the elders, and acted upon instinct, precise and concise, no query nor question.
But only one was expecting, one knowing, of the Omen that would soon befall,
There across the Manor Hall, waiting before the horror.
The Lord of House Kappel, LORD STEIN,
"I see you have come, despite it being the squabble of ignorant kids."
Silence* The man didn't reply
"You have come, despite the truth, or is it simply an excuse? An excuse for your malicious intent."
Then he spoke.
Of all people, Stein, you should know that in this world, "truth and lies don't differ, it is an illusion made by the many, to fool the wary, the accepted lie turned to reality."
"Or has your aged sight blurred your vision?"
Their exchange draws the Children in every direction, making him look cornered in a box of Lions, waiting to be gnawed, a rat in the cradle of cats.
There, he whispered loudly
"Lord of the House Kappel, Dignify your Crest, Fight with Honour"
As a response.
A LAW WAS ORDAINED—
"NON SHALL INTERVENE, THE SQUABBLE OF CHILDREN WILL BE SETTLED BY KINGS."
"I, Lord Stein Kappel, First of the Lesser, will fight with Honor. Come Nicaisse Kohler, the fourth of House Kohler."
In that Crimson night, a script was acted, a new story unfolded, not by fate, but engineered by those who knew better.
Two great powers clashed in a cry of dignity, a rally of Honor.