The rippling pool of blood began to shine, the surface rippling like disturbed water. Slowly—deliberately—it began to rise, defying gravity as it warped into something almost human. Gradients of crimson shaped cheekbones, shadows deepened into the hollow of eyes, and curves formed lips that glistened wetly under the chamber's dim light.
Then the mouth moved.
A deep, gravelly voice reverberated through the chamber walls, soft yet heavy, carrying the kind of weight that silences even breath.
"Mortal... you have summoned me again."
The sound wasn't loud, but it slid under the skin of everyone present, crawling down spines like a cold, skeletal hand.
Cyrus stood before the vessel, his posture relaxed in a way that was deliberate, almost calculated. He gave a short nod.
"I require your assistance," he said, voice calm and unshaken. His face was unreadable, not an ounce of fear visible in his features.
The entity's lips curved in what might have been amusement. "Don't they all." The voice deepened, almost indulgent. "Tell me, then... what is it you require? I am... very satisfied with your offerings. A divine servant and a devotee of the Moon God? Hah... you could not have sent me a more delicious soul to corrupt if you tried."
Cyrus didn't bother with flattery or hesitation. He picked up the small lock of dark hair resting on the obsidian table.
"This is a lock of James Corvette's hair."
The blood-face smiled wider, intrigue brightening its features.
"Corvette, you say... the Moon's descendant?"
Cyrus gave a single, cold nod. "The only descendant unconfirmed. I wish to confirm the status of his existence."
A hand—if it could be called that—formed from the floating blood, every finger rippling like liquid silk. It reached forward and engulfed the lock, pulling it into its form. The entity hummed low, as though savoring the taste.
"That is certainly the hair of a Corvette..." the entity murmured approvingly.
A hush fell over the chamber.
Cyrus's expression didn't flicker. His tone stayed level.
"Where is he. Earth, Heaven, or Hell."
The entity chuckled—a low, knowing sound. "Patience. He is not in Heaven... nor does Hell hold him. Your realm still has him."
The answer was too vague, and Cyrus's eyes showed it. His voice was clipped. "Is that all you can tell me?"
"Unfortunately... yes. If it were any mortal you asked about, I could name their location down to the street they walk. But you ask of the Moon's heir. My hands are bound—the Moon is shielding him."
Cyrus's gaze darkened, though his fury wasn't aimed at the entity. It was for the damned prince. For surviving. For existing. For breathing after twenty years of carefully laid extermination. For slipping through his grasp again and again like some loathsome, persistent worm.
His voice was tight. "Is there nothing else?"
The entity tilted its head, the blood of its form shivering faintly as if from a thought.
"I see... something. The Moon... remains unaware. Basked in the Sun's light."
Before Cyrus could demand clarity, the figure collapsed—its shape dissolving into a rain of droplets. The blood fell back into the vessel with a heavy splash, losing all form.
The high priest swallowed hard. The ritual was complete. But Cyrus... Cyrus's expression made it clear he did not like the result.
Until now, Cyrus had believed—almost certainly—that the prince was dead. This ritual had been meant as reassurance, a final nail in the coffin of doubt that had lingered in his mind for two decades. Not a revelation. And certainly not this.
Cyrus laughed.
It was not a sound of joy.
"Not dead... he says," the king murmured, voice deceptively soft. There was nothing soft about the look in his eyes. His boots struck the marble in slow, echoing steps as he advanced toward the vessel.
"Not dead. After twenty years. After the purge. After I burned every trace of the Corvette bloodline to ash—" his voice rose into a snarl, "—you're telling me this prince... a mere infant at the time... survived?!"
The anger in the chamber was palpable, almost as if it were a heat in the air that pressed against the skin of everyone present. He laughed again— sharp, frayed— before tipping the vessel in a sudden motion. The blood splashed across the floor, spreading like a stain that could never be cleaned.
Even the high priest— cruel and selfish as he was— flinched at the outburst. "My Emperor, the ritual does not lie—"
"I know it doesn't fucking lie!" Cyrus roared, turning on him with a gaze that could flay flesh. "If the brat truly has the moon protecting him, he will be harder to kill. We must eliminate him before he has a chance to realize his true identity. He is unaware. That means we must strike first—before he learns who he is and comes for what is mine."
He pivoted sharply. "Find him. Question everyone who was there that night."
From the shadows, his chief advisor stepped forward—the one who had suggested the ritual in the first place. Her face was sharp, foxlike, her narrow eyes gleaming under the moonlight. She bowed slightly, her thin, terrible smile unwavering.
"My King... you had all the assassins from that night executed. Don't you remember?"
For the first time, there was something new in Cyrus's eyes—not just rage. Fear.
Not of her. But of the possibility, the very real, very dangerous possibility that James was alive... and would come back.
The advisor didn't flinch at the storm in his gaze. She stepped closer, laying a porcelain hand on his shoulder, her nails painted a deep, wet crimson.
"Think calmly, Your Majesty. There may be no witnesses left... but that doesn't mean the truth cannot be found." Her lips curved wider, the red against her white skin like fresh blood on snow.
Cyrus's eyes narrowed. "Explain."
She did.
"The entity's words: The Moon remains unaware, basked in the Sun's light. The assassins' final report stated they chased the nanny—who fled with the infant—toward the borderlands. It was wartime. Chaos was her ally. They claimed she fell to her death clutching a bundle. We assumed it was the prince. But if he lives, then either the fall never happened... or she abandoned him somewhere before."
Cyrus's jaw tensed. "Basked in the Sun's glow..."
"The border we speak of is with the Vellurian Empire," she continued. "If the child were to cross into Vellurian territory..."
Cyrus's eyes flashed in sudden understanding. "The Aurelia River."
The name dropped between them like a weight. The Aurelia cut through both empires—a silver vein on the land. If the entity spoke truth, and James lived under the Sun's domain, then perhaps the nanny had set him adrift there, sending him into foreign lands.
"Precisely," the advisor said, her voice almost pleased. "You searched the border villages at the time, but the lack of a body led us to believe the cliff story. Now we know better. If the prince lives... he lives in Vellurian territory. Unaware of his heritage. Unaware of who he truly is."
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