Kyros and Aurelius spoke at length, weighing the details of their deal. The room felt smaller somehow, filled with the quiet hum of immense power and unspoken understanding.
Aurelius leaned back in his chair, eyes sharp and amused. "So," he said, "you're willing to give up thirty percent of your seventy-percent cut from that Grand Dungeon? That's quite tempting, Kyros."
Kyros's golden gaze didn't waver. "Yes. As you can see, I'm serious. You won't need to send guards, logistical staff, or anyone else. I'll handle all of that. You'll receive pure profit. That thirty percent is yours—free and clear."
Aurelius tilted his head, fingers steepled. "Hmm. It's almost too generous. This deal benefits me far more than it does you." He paused, studying Kyros's impassive face. "That's not like you. Why are you so eager to part with your benefits? Is destroying the Vaelgrims really that important to you?"
For a moment, Kyros said nothing. His eyes grew distant, unfocused—caught somewhere between the present and a memory that refused to die. Then he exhaled and lifted his head, a look of pure conviction settling over his features.
"Yes," he said quietly, but firmly. "It's that important. They took something dear from me." His gaze drifted downward. "And I only realized how much… just now."
Aurelius blinked, surprised by the rare crack in his friend's composure. "Elenora," he said softly. "So she did matter to you that much. I knew you cared, but this… this is beyond what I've ever seen from you."
He leaned forward, the teasing gone from his voice. "Very well. This arrangement is a win-win for me, anyway. Free profit, and I get to help an old friend—along with my adorable little niece."
Kyros only gave a small nod, but the faintest curve of relief touched his lips.
And just like that, the negotiations were sealed—quickly, cleanly, and entirely in Aurelius's favour.
For him, it was a stroke of fortune.For Kyros, it marked the beginning of retribution.
The Vaelgrim Stronghold
Within the heart of the Vaelgrim Kingdom, the family's castle loomed like a monument to vanity—towering spires of white stone, carved banners of fire and flame, a hall filled with the echo of its own arrogance.
Inside a richly furnished private chamber, two figures sat facing one another.
Jacob Vaelgrim—the current head of the family—sat with his posture tight, his expression unreadable. Across from him lounged his father, Marcus Vaelgrim, the former patriarch. Marcus was the elder reflection of his son—long white hair instead of short, age-worn lines carved deep into his face, and crimson eyes that still gleamed with dangerous intensity.
"So," Marcus said slowly, voice dripping with incredulity, "you're telling me that cold-hearted bastard is legitimizing his daughter?"
Jacob nodded meekly. "Yes, Father. The reports are clear. He announced it publicly."
"Ridiculous," Marcus muttered, almost to himself. "Why would he care about that bastard girl? There has to be a reason." His fingers drummed against the armrest in a steady rhythm. "That man doesn't act without purpose. Every move he makes brings benefit. What am I missing?"
He went silent for a long moment, then his head snapped up, crimson eyes locking onto his son.
"No matter. We'll prepare regardless. If Lightborn comes for us, we'll give him the surprise of a lifetime."
Jacob flinched under his father's stare, hesitating before speaking. "…You're going to use them, Father?"
At that, Marcus's lips twisted into a cruel smile. "You know the laws of this world, boy. The strong devour the weak. And right now, as much as it pains me to admit it, we are the weaker side. I will not sit idle and be preyed upon. If Lightborn wants to destroy us, he'll choke on his own arrogance first."
Jacob's face wavered with uncertainty, but he said nothing. Inside, however, his thoughts churned.I hope you know what you're doing, Father. If he survives, and they are exposed, all our years of work will burn—and those beings will not forgive us.
Marcus noticed his silence and his expression hardened. "What are you thinking, boy? You doubt them? Doubt me?"
"N-no, Father," Jacob stammered. "I was merely being cautious—"
"Cautious?" Marcus barked, standing abruptly. "They are blessed by a higher race! Do you think they'll lose? We've poured generations of wealth and power into them and this project. Using them early to eliminate a future threat and secure our survival is not a mistake. I did not raise a weak son!"
Jacob flinched again, head bowed. "Forgive me, Father. You're right. I'll make the preparations."
Marcus turned toward the door, his cloak swaying behind him. Before leaving, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder.
"Prepare for Lightborn's arrival. I'll handle them. Do not disappoint me."
He left without another word, the heavy door shutting with a final thud.
Jacob slumped back into his seat, running a hand through his hair. He sighed—a sound that had become far too familiar lately.
Please… don't be wrong about this, Father.
Then, with a weary breath, he stood to prepare. Failure was not an option—not when both his father and monsters older than kingdoms themselves were now in motion.