Inside the warm stone bath of Castle Cinder, steam curled lazily around the flickering lanterns, carrying away years of grime and sorrow with it. Melissa knelt behind Grace, fingers gently working soap and warm water through the young girl's tangled hair. For both of them, this was the first time in years they could breathe without fear of what waited outside the door.
Grace's small voice drifted through the echoing chamber. "Melissa… what will happen to Oliver?" Her words wobbled just a little — she was so young, yet far too used to sickness and loss.
Melissa's hands paused for a heartbeat, then resumed their steady rhythm. She rinsed suds from Grace's hair, her own voice firm but soft. "Lord Ali is going to save him from the poison. Trust him, Grace. He's the best chance Oliver has to survive this."
Grace's shoulders relaxed a little, but the questions didn't stop. They never did — not when you'd grown up scraping by in the alleys of Obidos. "Melissa, what's going to happen to us? Are we gonna live in this castle now? Forever?" Her tone carried a tiny flicker of hope that made Melissa's chest ache.
Melissa let out a quiet laugh under her breath, half relief and half disbelief. "Lord Ali is kind. He's going to help us get back on our feet. I can get a job now — an honest job — we won't ever have to beg or run again." A smile tugged at her lips, something warm blooming in her chest for the first time in too long.
Grace squinted back at her over her shoulder, ever the snarky survivor. "But you always told me to expect someone wants something in return for a favour, no?"
Melissa froze, eyes drifting for a heartbeat. Heat rose to her cheeks before she could stop it. 'What would he want from me? …Or maybe it's more about what I want…' She shook her head, smirking at herself. 'He has women far more beautiful than me around him anyway…' She splashed a bit of water over Grace's hair to hide her face. "Yeah… I did."
High above, where the first cold hints of dawn brushed the sky pale blue, Ali stood on the balcony of Castle Cinder's main hall. The town sprawled below him, tiny pinpricks of torches flickering here and there like the last stubborn stars. Beside him, Seraphina lounged in a grand chair draped in silks, a goblet of deep crimson in her pale hand. Each sip drew colour back into her face — power into her veins — centuries of hunger slowly unwinding inside her.
She tilted the goblet, watching the blood swirl before speaking. "How do you know so much about blood?" Her voice was velvet over steel, her eyes half-closed but sharp. They had just finished draining every trace of poison from Oliver's veins — Seraphina's power turning certain death into a second chance.
Ali didn't glance at her. His eyes stayed on the horizon. "I know the human body more than anyone on this continent," he said simply. It wasn't pride — just fact. Every bone, every nerve — burned away, rebuilt, pushed past breaking, again and again.
Behind him, Seraphina's crimson gaze flickered. 'The puzzle only gets more complicated with him…' Her vampiric sight peeled back the lie of skin and muscle — and there it was. His core, a single star behind ribs and flesh, Aura coiling around it like mist around a flame.
She blinked — once. Then twice.
"You… you have a One Star Core. And… Aura…" Her words drifted out like a breath she couldn't catch. She leaned forward in her seat, eyes narrowing. "But yesterday you didn't—"
Ali cut her off without looking back. "It just happened, I guess."
Seraphina's brow twitched. Her knuckles whitened around the goblet. 'It just happened… you infuriating—' She swallowed her frustration with the next sip of blood, rich and metallic on her tongue.
She steadied her voice. "Fine. Then answer me this — why did you take them in? That family. Why burden yourself with gutter filth? What do you gain?"
Ali sighed — the sound rolling out low from his chest. He turned slowly, boots scraping stone. In three strides, he was in front of her, massive hands braced on either side of her chair. His shadow swallowed her whole, the early sunrise behind him blocked by the width of his shoulders alone.
Seraphina didn't flinch. Her crimson eyes locked onto his, a thin thread of blood swirling lazily around them in the cold air, drawn by the pulse of her power.
Ali leaned down, his voice a dark rasp inches from her lips. "What's the problem, huh? Why do they bother you so much? What — jealous, Seraphina?" His smirk was infuriatingly calm. "A royal Vampire… jealous of some human commoner?"
Seraphina bared her fangs in a flash — but she couldn't hold his eyes. She looked away, tongue flicking over her teeth to hide the flicker of heat in her chest. "Don't flatter yourself, human. I simply despise the stench of filth you dragged into the castle."
Ali's smile only sharpened as he pulled back a fraction. He didn't move far — his next words dropped warm against her ear. "You did well tonight. So I'm going to reward you."
Seraphina's red eyes snapped back to his. His reward? She opened her mouth to snap back but froze when he continued — flat, decisive.
"The fortress where you woke up from your sleep — it's yours. Use it however you want. Just don't kill my commoners."
He straightened up, turned, and jumped over the balcony without waiting for her answer…
Seraphina stared at where he was standing, her chest tight. She glanced at her goblet, twisting it once between pale fingers. Slowly, a smile curved her lips — sharp and soft all at once.
She drained the blood in a single pull. The cup hit the armrest with a dull clink. A heartbeat later, her body dissolved into a swirl of black-winged bats that spiralled through the air, scattering into the breaking dawn like shadows learning to fly.
Out in the courtyard below Castle Cinder's walls, Malcom stood tall, plates of old knight's armour clinking as he shifted his weight in the early chill. A faint dawn breeze rustled the battered banners overhead while Fainter's booming voice cut through the courtyard like a war drum.
Fainter paced in front of the gathered guards of Obidos — once house guards, street enforcers, or private muscle for coin. Now they stood shoulder to shoulder in mismatched armour, facing the massive man barking orders at them like they were half his size.
"Listen well! In the morning our Lord will stand before this town and every eye will see him. You are his shield — his voice when he is silent — his blade when he says strike. Fail him, and I will kill you myself!" Fainter's roar shook the castle gates. Some of the men looked away under the weight of it — but not one dared to speak back.
Overhead, none of them saw the flicker of movement in the dawn sky — a dark shape drifting down like a shadow given form. Ali dropped from the air, boots landing silent as a ghost on the cobblestone path in the heart of Obidos. He didn't look back at the castle gates or the echo of Fainter's bark. His eyes were locked on the small church that rose squat and gilded at the centre of town — its flame-carved sigil glinting dully in the pale light.
A man in a black hood waited at the church's threshold. He pulled back the hood as Ali approached — Ignus, eyes dark and alive with a zeal that made his hands tremble.
"My lord… are you certain you wish to do this?" Ignus asked, though the excitement in his voice barely masked the hunger for what came next.
Ali didn't bother answering with words. He stepped forward, broad palm pressing against the thick wooden doors. Beneath his hand, the carved flame insignia seemed almost to flinch.
Ignus leaned in, his voice low but steady. "They turned away every commoner who came seeking refuge. But merchants who paid enough? Welcomed through these doors. Lady Seraphina came through the roof last night — took two of the merchants herself."
Ali's hand stayed on the door, fingers flexing once. His eyes flicked sideways at Ignus. "Take cover."
Ignus blinked — but obeyed without another question. He stepped quickly behind the corner wall of the church, one eye peeking out. The wound Ali had carved into him — gone now, not even a scar left behind. A silent testament to the unnatural depths of Ignus's healing gift.
Inside the heavy wood, the silence broke.
BOOOOOOOM
The doors didn't so much swing open as vanish in a storm of splinters. Wood cracked apart midair, flung into the pews like thrown javelins. Dust and the stink of ancient incense billowed out onto the cobblestones. Through the drifting haze, Ignus glimpsed Ali stepping calmly over the splintered threshold — boots crushing what was left of the holy doors to powder.
From the far end of the shattered nave, a booming voice rose through the swirling dust. "Who dares break into the home of the Holy Flame? Do you not fear the Fire's Wrath!?"
Ali said nothing. Ignus fell in behind him, cloak brushing the stone as they advanced together through the crumbling aisle.
In the dim gold glow of wall sconces, a knot of priests cowered near the altar — rich robes heavy with stitched flame motifs, gaudy chains of gold looped around fat necks. Merchants in fine coats and soiled slippers huddled behind them, eyes wide at the storm that just walked through their gilded doors.
Ali's voice rolled out low — cold enough to freeze the sweat on their brows. "Merchants out. Priests stay."
Just the faintest slip of killing intent — enough to hollow out the lungs of every merchant in the hall. They stampeded past Ali and Ignus, tripping over each other as they scrambled through the broken doorway into the early dawn, clutching coin purses that felt like curses now.
Silence fell again, thick and sharp. Only five priests remained, robes twitching like restless shadows. The largest among them — bald, neck folds sinking into a gold-threaded collar — stood a step ahead of the others. Gold rings, gold chain, gold chalice on the altar behind him.
Ali turned his head slightly, eyes on Ignus. "Does your faith demand gold to worship?"
Ignus met the head priest's eyes, hatred naked in his voice. "No, my lord. Greed is sin. Gluttony is sin. They shame the flame with every breath."
The fat priest's face went red, then purple, jowls quivering with impotent fury. He jabbed a ringed finger at Ignus. "How dare you crawl back here, heretic? You were banished for crimes too vile to name—"
"Enough." Ali's word struck like iron. The priest flinched mid-sentence. Ali's eyes flicked back to Ignus. "Any worth saving?"
Ignus didn't hesitate. He pointed at two younger boys in plain priest robes, faces pale and too innocent for gold and bile. "The boys. They can learn the truth still."
Ali nodded once. He snapped his fingers — a dry, casual sound that somehow echoed like thunder through the nave.
CRACK. CRUNCH.
Three necks twisted all at once — a grotesque, perfectly timed snap. The fat priest's eyes bulged wide for a single heartbeat before they rolled back, his body slumping into the mountain of gold he'd hoarded. The other two toppled beside him, dead before they hit the stone.
Ignus lowered his head, eyes closing in grim reverence. The two surviving boys dropped to their knees in shock, wide-eyed and pale under the drifting dust.
Ali didn't spare them a second glance. His voice filled the ruined hall one last time. "They died in the war between Cinder and Nolan. Understood?"
"Yes, my lord," Ignus said softly, eyes still shut.
"Y—Y-Yes, my Lord…" The boys stammered, words barely holding steady.
Ali turned for the door, stepping over the splinters, "keep the gold and whatever coin they have, use it for future expenses of the church."
Ali paused at the broken church doors, dust still drifting down like snow around him. He glanced back at Ignus, who stood straight amid the scattered gold and the dead priests who'd choked on their own greed.
"Oh — and prepare to leave for Castle Nolan. You'll live there. You'll heal the knights." Ali's voice was iron wrapped in calm. "And you're responsible for every commoner in my lands now. Open your doors — free of charge — to any who seek help."
Ignus's eyes glowed in the fractured light filtering through the blasted entryway. The grim smile that crept across his lips was not the polite mask of a priest — it was something deeper, something ancient that made him look alive in a way he hadn't in years.
"That is our way, my lord," Ignus said quietly. Behind him, the last echo of the old priests' treachery lingered in the air — but before it could settle, their bodies vanished. Gone. Ash and rumour, carried off by Ali's will as he disappeared with them, leaving only the shattered flame sigil behind.
[Ali, a group of five have crossed the border. They're moving toward the road between Obidos and Stork Village.
An hour later.
The rusty clang of the bell cut through the early dawn like a blade through fog. It rang once — then again — until the sleepy bones of Obidos stirred. Doors creaked open, one by one, across the crooked alleys and muddy lanes.
One of those doors belonged to a squat, drafty old warehouse stacked floor-to-ceiling with straw pallets and threadbare blankets. A place where the men who cracked their backs in the mines slept stacked like cordwood between shifts.
From that door stepped a young man — though 'young' was more a technicality than a truth. He was six-foot-two, his shoulders broad as a barn door, every inch of him hardened by thirteen relentless years clawing at the earth with pick and calloused hands. His brown hair was matted to his forehead with sweat that never really dried. Dirt marked his cheeks like war paint. His green eyes, though bright once, were now dull — the light of choice long since flickered out.
He carried the same pickaxe he always carried, a battered bag slung over one scarred shoulder. He stepped onto the cracked cobblestones and turned the same way he did every morning. Toward the mines. Toward the dark that asked no questions.
A rough hand clamped onto his shoulder from behind. It didn't even register. His boots kept moving forward until the old man behind him — a stooped elder with a spine bent from a life twice as hard — let out a sigh that sounded more like a prayer for patience.
The old man stooped, grabbed a fist-sized rock from the side of the lane, and lobbed it at the back of the boy's head.
Thwack.
The young man stopped dead in his tracks. Slowly, like a puppet waking from a dream, he turned — the sleepwalking haze cracked by that blunt tap of reality.
His green eyes blinked, clearer now. He scratched the spot where the stone struck, then focused on the old man. "What's wrong, Grandpa? Why'd you throw that at me?" His voice was deep but soft — gentle in a way that didn't match the pickaxe in his grip.
The old man straightened as much as his crooked spine would allow. "The mines are closed, you dumb brute. The new lord's calling everyone to the town centre. You, too. Go on — enough rock-biting for one morning."
The young man's dull expression cracked into something that might almost be a smile. He rubbed the back of his head, nodding once. "Oh — you're right." He turned, trudging away without another word, the pickaxe still swinging at his side like a child's toy.
By the time he joined the tide of people flowing toward the town square, the streets were alive with footsteps and muffled laughter. Entire families poured from doorways — children clutching crusts of fresh bread, women brushing last night's sleep from each other's shoulders. Word had spread fast: the new lord had fed them — really fed them — and today, they'd see him with their own eyes.
Far beyond the waking town, where the neat paths gave way to soft rolling grass and scattered stands of trees, five men pushed forward at an unhurried pace. They moved like they owned the ground under their boots — not predators, not prey, just something that didn't fear either title.
At their head walked a tall, broad man in his early thirties, six feet at least, blue hair cut short and streaked with sweat and road dust. Strange blue tattoos spiralled over every inch of his bare arms and shoulders, symbols that looked like they'd been burned into him rather than inked. Two massive axes rested easy across his back — each one scarred and nicked by so many battles they almost seemed to hum as he moved.
He yawned as he walked, rolling his neck as if this little stroll was just another hunt — and somewhere, just over the horizon, the real fight waited to make him feel alive again.
Next in line behind the tattooed axeman walked a mountain carved into flesh — seven feet of pale muscle, each step leaving deep prints in the soft grass. Long blond hair spilled over his massive shoulders like a lion's mane, half-hiding the beads he rolled between thick fingers as he moved. His lips never stopped moving, a ceaseless whisper of prayer spilling from his mouth like a chant no one dared interrupt. He carried no steel, no iron, no axe or club — only those worn beads that clacked together with every silent promise he made to whatever god still listened to a monster like him.
A few paces back strolled a young man who could've passed for a runaway heir if not for the weight of iron slung across his back. Dirty blond hair framed a sharp face and dark blue eyes that always looked half amused, half asleep. He walked with both hands locked behind his head, a single stalk of wheat bobbing from the corner of his mouth as if he were just wandering a lazy field and not marching into someone else's land with blood likely waiting at the end of the road. Over his shoulder, the hilt of a massive great-sword glinted in the morning sun — the only thing that gave away the truth behind his easy grin.
The fourth was nothing like the rest — a wiry young man with messy orange hair and eyes to match, dark amber flecked with greed. His boots scuffed the soft dirt nervously as he turned his head left, right, back again — never trusting this backwater stretch of country for a heartbeat. His fingers kept drifting to the pouch at his hip, thumb running the edges of a few silver coins like they were holy relics. South was new to him, uncomfortable — but the promise of fresh gold made him swallow his complaints.
Trailing behind them all, calm as a shadow cast by noon sun, walked the last of the five — a tall, lean man with long dark brown hair tied loosely behind his shoulders. His brown eyes stayed closed as if the world itself bored him, yet every step he took left no mark in the grass, no whisper of crushed leaves underfoot. At his hip hung a thin lancing sword and a curved dagger, plain enough to fool the careless. The real blades — the ones that mattered — were hidden all over him: sleeves, boots, belt, and places no wandering guard would ever think to check. He bare;y ever spoke. He didn't need to.
Together they looked like misfits at a glance — mercenaries at best, highwaymen at worst — but every step they took was steady and sure. The man who'd paid for their boots to touch this soil hadn't told them much — just that gold would flow and blood would spill, and both suited them fine.
They were here on a single promise: gold from a distant lord who needed blade to break a rival's back.
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