[Location: Voss Family Estate – The Hall of Ancestral Shadows]
While Damien and Isabelle reeled from their respective shocks, a storm was brewing at the very heart of the Voss domain.
The Family Main Hall was not merely a room; it was a testament to millennia of accumulation.
It was a space so suffocatingly opulent that a lesser noble would have fallen to their knees upon entering, crushed by the sheer weight of history.
The floor was paved with Abyssal Marble, a stone as dark as a frozen midnight lake, veined with silver and pulsating violet traces that seemed to breathe.
Above, a chandelier the size of a carriage, forged from celestial gold, cast a ghostly, pale luminescence.
It did not illuminate the room so much as it made the shadows dance, reflecting off the portraits of past Patriarchs and Matriarchs that lined the walls like silent judges.
At the head of the hall stood two imposing seats: a golden throne for the Patriarch and a slightly smaller, intricate silver throne for the Matriarch.
Stretching out before them, flanking the royal red carpet, stood eighteen bronze thrones, nine on the left, nine on the right.
These were the seats of the absolute powerhouses of the family. To sit here, one had to be a Seventh Order mage at minimum. It was a lineup that could flatten small kingdoms.
Today, eighteen entities filled those bronze seats. The air was thick enough to crush steel.
BANG!
A fist slammed onto an armrest, shattering the silence.
"Damn it! Have we fallen so low that even the sewer rats of the Obsidian Sea dare to bare their fangs at us?!"
The roar came from the left row. An elder with a face scarred by battle fury stood up. He had only one flesh-and-blood arm; the other was a swirling vortex of condensed shadow essence.
Elder Magnus, the 'Prince of Black Flame.'
"Do they think the Voss name is a relic?" Magnus growled, black smoke pouring from his shadow arm and scorching the floor.
"If the Ancestor were not in seclusion healing, I would advocate for total war! We should burn every one of their bases in the Empire to ash!"
Beside him, the eight elders of the Hawk Faction nodded grimly. Their mana flared in resonance, a collective desire for blood.
"Sit down, Magnus. Your flames are consuming your logic."
The voice was soft, chilling, and cut through the heat like a blade of ice.
From the opposite row, an old man with neatly combed gray hair and a long, meticulously groomed beard spoke.
He sat with his hands folded, a faint, terrifyingly calm smile on his face.
Elder Crowe, head of the Dove Faction.
"We are all enraged," Crowe continued, his eyes scanning the room.
"But rage makes for poor strategy. Consider the facts. The Patriarch's mission was classified. Only two parties knew the route: The eighteen of us, and the Imperial High Command."
Crowe paused, letting the implication hang in the air like a guillotine.
"We are bound by the Bloodline Pact. Betrayal from within this room is impossible; the oath would have liquified the traitor's heart instantly. That leaves only one variable."
Magnus froze. The shadow smoke around his arm stilled. "The Empire..."
"Precisely," Crowe said, his smile failing to reach his cold eyes.
"We must consider the possibility that this was not a failure of security, but a purge. The Empire may have decided that the Voss family has outlived its usefulness."
A heavy silence descended.
The Empire. The entity they had served for centuries. The entity they had bled for.
"Ungrateful bastards," Magnus whispered, the flames in his eyes shifting from rage to a cold, focused malice.
"After all the wars we won? After all the territories we conquered for them?"
The surrounding space began to warp. Darkness misted off Magnus's body, darkening the golden chandelier's light.
"I say we ready a Strike Squad," Magnus hissed.
"We infiltrate the capital. We kill the officials responsible. We send a message that the Voss family is not a dog to be put down!"
"And provoke a war we cannot win?" a third elder interjected nervously.
Magnus grit his teeth. He knew why they were hesitant. He looked toward the empty space behind the main thrones, where the family's greatest secret lay hidden.
Ancestor Thaddeus Rhun. The Bone Sculptor.
A Ninth Order Necromancer. A living calamity who commanded legions of bone dragons and undead giants. Fifty years ago, the Voss family was untouchable.
But fifty years ago, Thaddeus had reached for the stars, he had tried to slay a living Demigod to ascend to godhood.
He had failed.
His army of millions was ground to dust. He escaped with his life, but the Demigod's divinity had festered in his wounds ever since, a holy rot that refused to heal.
Without the Ancestor at full strength, the Voss family was a tiger with broken teeth. The Empire, with its potential hidden Ninth Orders, was a threat they could no longer ignore.
The elders exchanged glances. The Hawk faction wanted blood. The Dove faction wanted caution. The stalemate was suffocating.
BOOM!
The massive double doors at the entrance of the hall didn't just open—they were blasted off their hinges.
Splinters of enchanted wood rained down on the expensive marble.
"You senile old fossils! Who gave you the courage to lock me up?!"
A woman stormed into the hall, her aura radiating a terrifying, queenly dominance. Following sheepishly behind her were Theron, the Patriarch and young Isabella.
Elizabeth Voss had arrived.
The heavy, conspiratorial atmosphere of the room shattered instantly. Eighteen of the most powerful mages in the region flinched simultaneously.
They looked at Elder Crowe, the man who had suggested 'confining' the Matriarch for her own safety with distinct pity.
Crowe's calm smile twitched.
Elizabeth ignored the elders and spun around, grabbing the Patriarch by his collar.
"And you, Theron! How dare you almost die on me?!" Her eyes flashed with a mixture of relief and fury.
"If you ever pull a stunt like that again, I won't wait for the enemy. I'll kill you myself!"
Theron, a man who could level mountains, looked at his wife and offered a weak, terrified smile.
Crowe cleared his throat, trying to salvage the dignity of the council. "Patriarch, Matriarch... you have returned. Please, take your seats. The meeting... has just begun."