Back in Obidos, inside the stone walls of the grand castle that overlooked the bustling town below, the courtyard rang with the heavy sound of men catching their breath after a sparring match. The sand of the training ground was still disturbed, marked by heavy footsteps, thrown weapons, and drops of sweat.
Thorgar stood at the edge of the yard, half-naked, his scarred muscles gleaming with sweat under the afternoon sun. His chest rose and fell like a war drum, every line of his frame sculpted by years of battles and blood. Beside him, Elden and Fainter were likewise slick with sweat, both men wiping their brows after the exhausting clash of strength they had just finished.
But their attention was pulled elsewhere.
Elden's sharp gaze shifted toward the castle entrance, where Thorgar had suddenly moved, one massive hand clamped tightly around the wrist of a woman.
It was Melissa.
The beautiful brunette wore a finely woven black and purple dress that accentuated her natural elegance. The dress hugged her figure, outlining the curve of her hips and the fullness of her bosom, making her look every bit the noble lady she was. Yet her face was far from composed—her lips pressed into a tight line, her brows furrowed in visible discomfort. She tugged faintly against Thorgar's iron grip, her wrist already reddened from the pressure of his hold.
"Woman," Thorgar declared with pride, his deep voice carrying across the courtyard, "I have decided—you will be mine from this day forward. You should count yourself blessed to be chosen by a warrior as strong as me."
He grinned broadly, teeth flashing as if he had just claimed victory in battle, his chest swelling with arrogance.
Melissa, however, had heard enough. Her patience, long tested, finally snapped. She yanked her wrist free, pulling it close to her chest and rubbing the sore red skin. Her eyes, usually gentle and soft, now blazed with fire.
"How many times must I tell you?" she shouted, her voice ringing out like steel striking steel. "I will not marry you, you brute!"
The word cracked through the air, stunning not only Thorgar but also the maids and attendants peeking nervously from the castle windows above. Many of them had only ever seen Melissa as sweet and composed, the epitome of grace and kindness. To hear her shout with such anger was a shock, leaving murmurs and gasps trailing in her wake.
Thorgar, however, only laughed. A deep, booming laugh that made his chest tremble.
"Good!" he roared, eyes locked shamelessly on her retreating form as she stormed back into the castle. "I like when they've got fight in them!"
Melissa didn't bother looking back. She disappeared into the shadow of the doorway, her anger trailing behind her like perfume.
That was when Elden moved.
The warrior strode forward without hesitation, seizing Thorgar from behind with both arms. His grip was firm as iron, his veins bulging as his muscles coiled, and with a bellow, he suplexed the barbarian clear off his feet. The ground shook when Thorgar's back hit the earth twenty meters away, sand and dust scattering with the impact.
Thorgar rolled to a stop and pushed himself up with a growl, his body aching from the throw. His eyes blazed with both fury and exhilaration as he looked back at Elden. Blue aura shimmered faintly around Thorgar's frame, his chest heaving, his heart thundering in rhythm as he called upon the full strength of his Barbarian Heart. He had no choice—against Elden's raw physicality, he needed every ounce of power just to hold even ground.
The courtyard, once loud with chatter and sparring, had gone silent. The clash of pride and strength between the two warriors was enough to make every onlooker hold their breath.
Meanwhile, inside the castle, sunlight streamed through the tall ground-to-ceiling windows of the lord's office. The light caught against polished wood, rich fabrics, and gilded edges, painting the room with a golden glow.
Behind the large desk, Fiona sat in the lord's chair, her presence radiant, almost angelic in its composure. Her high-class blue dress fit her form perfectly, delicate embroidery catching the light. The dress revealed just the faintest curve of her motherly bosom, and as she looked up from her work, her chest rose slightly, the movement soft and natural.
She had been busy—scribbling her signature with practiced grace, stamping Ali's seal upon parchment after parchment. Dozens of contracts lay neatly stacked beside her, agreements for the young merchants who were stepping into the roles left behind by the dead. The stamp was just Ali's name in english.
Her quill was still in hand when the sound came.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
The firm knocking broke the quiet rhythm of paperwork. Fiona set her pen down, her serene features shifting into curiosity.
"Come in," she said, her voice fair and melodic, carrying both authority and gentleness.
The heavy door creaked open.
A knight in full armour stepped inside, the polished metal gleaming faintly in the sunlight. On his chest-plate was engraved Ali's sigil: a black dragon design taken from the back of Ali's iconic white coat. His presence was imposing, yet purposeful—one of the guards Fainter had personally assigned to Fiona, ensuring her safety whether she worked here in the office or walked the streets of Obidos.
But the knight wasn't alone.
Behind him walked Oliver, his movements slow. He leaned heavily on two walking sticks tucked beneath his arms, each step carrying the weight of his injuries. Despite his struggle, he carried himself with dignity, his head bowed slightly as he made his way toward Fiona's desk.
When he reached the edge, he paused. With effort, he inclined himself in a respectful bow.
"May I?" he asked softly.
Fiona's smile warmed, gentle and motherly, her eyes softening. She nodded once, granting him permission.
From the corner of the office came the sweet sound of a child's laughter. Fiona's daughter lay happily on a soft mat spread across the carpet, surrounded by wooden toys, her giggles filling the air with innocence.
Oliver straightened, though the strain in his posture was obvious. His hands trembled faintly against the sticks as he sat down on a chair beside the desk.
"My lady," he began, his tone respectful but uncertain, "forgive me for disturbing your work… but I have a request."
Fiona leaned forward slightly, her expression calm but attentive. "What is it you want, Oliver? If it lies within my power, I will help."
Oliver hesitated. His eyes lowered, his usual confidence and intelligence nowhere to be seen. The man who was normally sharp with words now stumbled as though weighed down by invisible chains.
"Well… actually…" He cleared his throat, his voice faltering. "It isn't a request for you, my lady. It is… it is something I wish to relay directly to Lord Ali himself."
Fiona tilted her head slightly, curiosity sparking in her gaze. Oliver's discomfort was unlike him, and it told her his request was no simple matter.
"Oliver," she said gently, urging him on, "whatever it is, you can speak freely to me. I give you my word it will stay in these walls. You need not hold back."
Her words were calm, but her tone carried quiet authority—the kind that gave no room for hesitation.
"Thank you," Oliver said, his voice quieter now, though urgency still edged his words. "It's not about me, my lady… it's about Melissa. I don't know if you've heard, but the barbarian, Thorgar, has been harassing her since yesterday. He's proposed to her five times already, and just now—" his jaw clenched, frustration breaking through his normally calm demeanor, "—just now he laid hands on her."
The words came out sharp, almost bitter. Oliver had rarely seen Melissa in such a state—disturbed, uncomfortable, her usual composure unraveling. He had been unconscious through much of the dark days in poverty, and so for him to see Melissa pressed in this way now—it unsettled him deeply.
"I am certain…" Oliver pressed on, his voice carrying a hint of desperation, "I am certain Lord Ali would not be pleased to hear a barbarian acting so brazenly toward Melissa. This… this cannot be tolerated."
He didn't say it outright, but his meaning was clear: Thorgar's reputation was dangerous. Among the people, barbarians were spoken of as wild animals in human skin. They were savage in their wars, savage in their feasts, savage even in their courtship of women. To Oliver, there was no telling what a man like Thorgar might attempt next.
Fiona listened patiently, her face calm and smiling, though her golden eyes studied Oliver carefully.
"Oliver," she said finally, her tone light but carrying a subtle edge. "Do not presume to speak of what your Lord would or would not do. It is not your place to assume such things. That… is disrespectful."
The soft smile never left her lips, but somehow it seemed sharper now, like a blade hidden behind silk. Oliver froze, realising his mistake.
"I—" he stammered, lowering his head, "I did not mean it in that way, my lady, I only—"
Fiona lifted a hand, silencing him with the smallest of gestures.
"Lord Ali is not here," she said smoothly. "He is occupied elsewhere. All matters of the realm fall to me in his absence. And Thorgar… Thorgar is strong. I have heard the tales—how he can wield fourth-level aura, how he has marched through war after war and returned alive each time. He is a valuable asset to Lord Ali's cause."
Her golden eyes narrowed faintly. "And as a spouse to Melissa… he would not be such a terrible choice, would he?"
The words struck Oliver like a hammer blow. For a heartbeat, he could only stare, shocked. He had expected Fiona's kindness, her understanding—but this? To hear her speak so dispassionately, weighing Melissa's fate as though it were another line in a ledger—it stunned him into silence.
"But—" Oliver began, then faltered. He opened his mouth again, but no words came. His thoughts tangled, his breath caught. He lowered his eyes, struggling to form an argument. Seconds turned into long, suffocating minutes as the silence stretched.
Fiona did not rush him. She remained seated, hands folded neatly on the desk, her soft smile unchanging. She was patient, waiting, as though she knew exactly how this conversation would end.
At last, Oliver exhaled, shoulders sinking with resignation. His voice came low, heavy with defeat.
"…I'll do anything."
Fiona's golden eyes glinted.
'He finally says it', she thought. 'He's refused the mines for so long, convinced they were the cause of his family's ruin, even though mining is the skill etched into his very bones. But now… now he yields.'
"The mines," Fiona said at last, her tone decisive. "You will oversee all mining operations from now on. That will be your post, Oliver."
Oliver froze again, realisation dawning. He lifted his eyes to her, and for the first time he saw the truth—this wasn't chance, nor improvisation. She had prepared this. She had laid a trap, and he had walked straight into it.
But there was no path back now.
He gave a small, stiff nod, then slowly pushed himself upright with his sticks. With effort, he bowed once more to Fiona, deeper than before, and turned to leave the office.
The door shut softly behind him.
"Done," Fiona murmured to herself, already reaching for her quill again. She stamped another contract with Ali's name, her movements calm, controlled, as though nothing at all had transpired.
The sudden sound startled her.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Fiona's eyes widened. She looked toward the corner of the room where the light did not reach—and there, stepping out of the shadow like a wraith, was Seraphina.
Her long blonde hair framed a pale, beautiful face, her lips curved in a knowing smirk. Those piercing blue eyes locked onto Fiona's golden ones, bright with amusement.
"You have a wicked side to you after all, Fiona," Seraphina said softly, almost purring the words.
Fiona's composure held, though her brows knitted slightly. "Where have you been?" she demanded. "And how did you even get inside?"
Seraphina tilted her head, smiling as if the question amused her. She didn't answer. Instead, she smoothed her crimson dress with delicate fingers and replied, "Finishing a task for Ali. Where is he, by the way?"
'Dodging. Always dodging.'
Fiona sighed, turning her gaze toward the sunlit window. "I don't know. He left more than two days ago and gave no word of where he was headed."
She let her eyes drift to the sky beyond the glass, clouds drifting lazily. For a moment, her expression softened, worry flickering across her features.
But Seraphina stiffened suddenly.
Her body jerked as though pierced by an invisible blade, and a sharp gasp escaped her lips. One hand flew to her chest, clutching at the red fabric of her dress as her breathing grew ragged. Her knees nearly buckled under the pain.
Fiona turned at once, alarm breaking through her calm. "What is it? What's wrong?"
Seraphina's nails dug into her own skin as she hissed, her face twisting. She could feel it—the pull, the bond, the searing agony that could only mean one thing.
It was the blood contract.
Ali.
He was in danger. Real danger. His life touched by death's hand.
Her voice rose in fury, desperation twisting her words.
"Mirror!" she shouted, her eyes burning as she turned to the enchanted glass on the wall. "Show me where he is! Tell me what is happening to him—speak!"
The mirror's surface flickered. A faint glow spread across its edges, a soft blue shimmer that pulsed for only a second before settling into a steady light. Fiona leaned forward instinctively, her golden eyes fixed on it. Seraphina was already there, her posture tense, her fingers twitching as if she were holding herself back from physically tearing answers out of the glass.
Fiona's mind raced. She had tried this before—asked Miles, pressed him, but the strange boy's responses were always the same. Focus on your work. Leave Ali to me. That was all he ever said.
The mirror rippled, and then came the voice.
"I have lost contact with Ali." Miles's tone was as it always was, a flat mechanical cadence, stripped of inflection, of any hint of human warmth. "He is still alive."
The words landed heavily in the room. Fiona's lips parted slightly, confusion knotting her brow.
'Still alive? What kind of reassurance was that? The phrasing itself carried dread. What had Miles meant by lost contact? And how had Seraphina known first—how could she feel something so directly?' Fiona was left with far more questions than answers.
"Miles," she said, her voice softening, coaxing. She tilted her head ever so slightly, her tone dropping into the gentler register she often used with children. "Please. Tell us what's happening. We need to know." She tried to picture him in her mind as she spoke—the strange, detached boy she imagined hiding behind that voice—hoping that tone would reach him where logic and demand could not.
The mirror pulsed faintly again, and then the response came.
"All I can say is Ali is engaged in battle." The voice was calm, factual, without a flicker of emotion. "I am attempting to reestablish a connection with him. But understand this—no one can help him right now. Do not interfere. That is an order."
The blue light vanished, the mirror dulled, and the surface went still as stone.
Seraphina's jaw tightened, and her fist rose halfway as if to shatter the glass then and there. But she stopped herself at the last second, the tendons in her pale hand straining. With a sharp breath, she dropped her hand and turned sharply on her heel.
Fiona's voice stopped her at the door. "Wait. You're just going to leave?"
Seraphina turned her head just enough for Fiona to catch the flash of irritation in her blue eyes. "Yes. You heard him. There is nothing we can do." Her lips curled into a thin smile that was almost a sneer. "And Ali…" she let the name linger, "…that arrogant egotistical bastard can handle himself."
She pushed the door open, and the knight standing guard outside stiffened to attention. His armour gleamed under the hall's torchlight, Ali's sigil stamped proudly across his chest. He bowed deeply as Seraphina passed, a faint streak of red in the whites of his eyes, a detail too small for most to notice.
The door shut.
Fiona let out a long sigh, her shoulders sagging as she slumped back into her seat. For the first time in a long while, the weight of her responsibility pressed heavier than the stacks of parchment on her desk. Her gaze drifted to the soft mat in the corner of the office where her daughter lay giggling with wooden toys. The sight softened her heart, even as dread lingered in her chest.
'He can't die now', she thought, her lips pressing into a firm line. 'We need him.'
Unbidden, the image of Ali's face surfaced in her mind—his cold eyes looking down at her, carrying that same merciless certainty that made him who he was. She held onto that image for a moment, then shook her head sharply, banishing it. She forced herself to focus on her work again, quill scratching across parchment as if nothing had changed.
But everything had.
Meanwhile, Seraphina returned to her dwelling.
It was no longer the ruin of a bandit hideout. The place had been transformed into a looming ancient stronghold, its broken walls rebuilt into towers of blackened stone, the structure now wrapped in a thin, eerie veil of red mist. The veil hung heavy in the air, blotting out sunlight, casting the entire fortress into a perpetual crimson twilight. No beasts dared come close; the smell of old blood and the unnatural aura of death kept them away.
Inside, the great hall rang with sound—inhuman, guttural screeches that echoed off the stone walls. Twelve figures moved through the fortress. Not men, not anymore. Their bodies were warped, their skin twisted into dark mangled flesh, their faces stretched into grotesque bat-like visages. Their fangs bared as they snapped and hissed at one another while they worked, clawed hands carrying stones, wood, and metal to rebuild the fortress to its former glory.
They never rested. They never slept. They were her creations—her slaves—and their only fuel was blood. As long as they drank, they obeyed. They were known as Vampire ghouls, created when a vampire feeds on a human and decides to turn them into a ghoul instead of lesser vampire or keeping them human.
At the far end of the hall, atop a raised dais, Seraphina reclined on her throne. Once shattered and defiled, the throne had been reforged, now gleaming with veins of red like crystallised blood pulsing within the stone. She lounged on it like a queen of nightmares, a glass chalice in hand.
She sipped. The thick crimson liquid coated her tongue, slid down her throat, and the searing pain in her chest began to ease. Slowly, steadily, the agony subsided, signalling what she already suspected—Ali had survived. Whatever storm had threatened to consume him… he had endured it. She didn't that was the moment Ali tamed the cosmic silver flames.
Her lips pressed against the rim of the glass again, but her thoughts wandered.
'I miss him? Or is it worry?'
The question echoed in her mind, unbidden, unwelcome. She frowned faintly, staring into the blood as if it held answers. The ancient vampire, who had endured centuries without flinching at loneliness or loss, now found herself unsettled by a single human's absence. She tried to reason it away.
It was the contract. That was all. The bond she had forged with Ali was pulling at her, twisting her emotions, tainting her with illusions that weren't hers. These strange urges, these feelings of longing—they weren't real. They couldn't be.
She closed her eyes, her grip tightening on the glass until cracks spiderwebbed along its surface.
'These feelings are fake', she told herself. 'They are not mine.'
And yet… they lingered.
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