The wind whispered through the tall windows of the north wing of the mansion, bringing with it the subtle hint of summer—a slow, golden warmth that seeped through the stone walls like a patient lover.
Outside, the leaves of the vines danced in the slanting light of the morning sun, and Dorian d'Argêntea watched in silence.
His eyes, as cold as steel in the shadows, were too sharp to belong to a poet, but they fixed on the landscape as if deciphering the secret movements of the world. Leaning against the marble parapet, he murmured,
"Summer is coming to the north of the Empire…"
He turned. The robe slowly slipped from his broad shoulders, revealing a body forged not by vanity but by discipline. Firm muscles, sculpted like warlike marble, marked each step he took toward the bath.
The hot water met his cool skin like a forbidden kiss. Steam rose in swirls, obscuring the world but highlighting every line of his body, his marked shoulders, his defined abdomen, the old scar on his back, a reminder of his youth in the Eldrath training camp. His hands moved with method and elegance, slow, almost lazy, as if even time hesitated before him.
When he came out, a black towel rested on his hips. He walked to the oval mirror framed in runic silver and studied his reflection.
A small, discreet, almost dangerous smile touched the corners of his mouth.
"Ready, little monster?" he murmured, sarcastic to himself.
He dressed like a prince of shadows: a pearl-gray shirt tight to the torso, dark trousers of fine linen, and over his shoulders, a military coat of enchanted fabric, sewn with threads of refined mana. On the collar, the silver brooch with the crimson rose.
Opening the doors to his room, he was greeted by the comfortable silence of his private mansion, separate from the rest of the main residence. Every servant knew where to step. Every wall knew his name and feared his wrath.
The echo of his footsteps was low, restrained, as if the entire house were bending over backwards to not interrupt him.
In the workroom, the world bowed to the Executor d'Argêntea. He sat in a chair carved from living obsidian, before an ebony table that pulsed with ancient enchantments. His fingers, their nails filed to surgical perfection, touched the magical surface.
A whisper escaped his lips, soft as a spell: "Crux Spatialis."
The air rippled.
Reality shuddered.
A magical circle opened like a cosmic eye, revealing inverted constellations.
In the center, a man appeared, kneeling, panting. His eyes were wide open like those of a deer surrounded by wolves. He was sweating, but not from fear, but from the brutality of the teleportation.
Dorian observed his visitor calmly.
"You took your time," he said, his voice low and subtle.
The man, recognizing the surroundings, sighed deeply and stood up with difficulty.
"Man, you have an entire network of servants and yet you insist on dragging me out of the room with that damned ability of yours," he complained, straightening his wrinkled clothes.
Dorian leaned back in his chair, one eyebrow arched.
"Harry, you know that's never going to happen. Much less in a hurry."
Harry snorted, defeated, and sank into one of the armchairs in front of the table.
"So, what was so important this time that required your dimensional staging?"
Dorian didn't answer right away. He picked up a crystal feather and twirled it between his fingers, before looking at his friend seriously.
"It's going to happen. The Ligia Awakening ritual."
Harry froze. His eyes narrowed. An "oh" escaped his lips, followed by a heavy silence.
"That changes everything," he said finally. "We'll need to prepare ourselves, in case... they try to intervene."
"Exactly." Dorian nodded, as if he had already anticipated the answer.
The silence between them was ancient, full of unspoken meaning.
After a while, Harry spoke, more quietly.
"Do you really think they'd have the courage to intervene... again, within the territory of the House of Argent?"
Dorian didn't answer. His eyes drifted to the crest engraved on the wall, the crimson rose.
The silence was answer enough.
Dorian uncrossed his fingers and rested his eyes on Harry, the silver glow of the magic circle still pulsing on the floor like a heart buried beneath the stone.
"They have eyes everywhere, Harry." His voice was low, unhurried. "They may not have the courage to interfere directly, but… what about those lurking on the fringes? Those waiting for an opening?"
Harry stood slowly, squaring his shoulders as if the weight of the words had settled on them.
"Do you mean the Awakened? Or the renegade descendants?"
Dorian twisted a small ring on his finger.
"I mean all of them." His eyes cut the air. "Our ancestor sealed the contract with Velmor to ensure power and dominance throughout the family's generations… but it also attracted the attention of other forces."
Harry snorted, trying to lighten the moment with a tired joke:
"You nobles of the Silver line never know how to play it cool, do you?"
Dorian raised an eyebrow. "That was playing it cool."
They laughed, or almost. The kind of laughter that doesn't take away the weight of the world, but allows it to be carried for a minute longer.
The sound of light footsteps echoing from the hallway caught their attention.
"Isn't it too soon for another problem to arise?" Harry turned.
The door opened.
It was Dorian's head maid. Her posture was rigid, her head bowed, but there was an almost imperceptible tremor in her voice.
"Lord Dorian… Miss Lily is walking through the gardens again. Alone."
Dorian closed his eyes, breathing in with restrained patience. When he opened them, they were colder, clearer.
"She feels something coming," he said, almost as if talking to himself. "Even if she doesn't know what."
Harry glanced at him sideways.
"Do you intend to tell her everything?"
"She's not ready." The sound of denial was dry, but not cruel. "When she is… she'll force me to speak herself. With words or with power."
He stood, donning once more the invisible armor that made him the Enforcer, not just a brother.
"Take care of the magical security around the ancient temple. Use the ancient runes. I want protection on every stone."
Harry nodded, already pulling a grimoire from his dimensional bag.
"What about the information we got from the blood hunters?"
Dorian stopped at the door. "Bury them." And he left.