The sun was already at its zenith, illuminating the road ahead as if trying to erase every shadow, every bitter memory that path still carried. Outside, the wind swept hard through the trees, bending their crowns as if in reverence. Despite the blazing light, the air was not suffocating; instead, a gentle breeze lingered, soft and cool, making the journey almost pleasant. Birdsong slipped in through the carriage's cracks, mingling with the steady rhythm of wheels grinding against the dirt road.
"You look very beautiful today, Mage Iolanda," I said, watching her seated across from me.
Had I not known who she truly was, I could have mistaken her for a noblewoman, not a battle-worn mage hardened by war.
I had always wondered about her. Could she descend from a noble bloodline? Nothing would prevent it. Perhaps her parents had earned such a title through valor, or maybe she herself had risen into that stature through her deeds in the order. Even Elian and Emanuelle, should they one day accomplish enough, might rise to that same rank.
Iolanda turned her gaze to me. There was no scorn in her eyes—only that unwavering seriousness I had come to recognize as inseparable from her.
"Thank you," she said with a small sigh. "I'm not used to wearing clothes like this… but today, it was necessary." She exhaled again, almost weary, and then, in a rare softness, added: "You look beautiful as well, Maria." Her eyes moved to my daughter. "And you, Emanuelle… you look like a true lady of the court."
That startled me. Iolanda was always discreet, rigid, almost inaccessible. To hear such praise from her lips was unusual—and precisely because of that, it felt even more sincere.
"Thank you," Emanuelle answered shyly. "This dress was Eli's gift."
I thanked her silently while watching my children. After that, the carriage sank into quiet, broken only when Elian and Emanuelle whispered a few words between themselves.
The silence didn't trouble me. The sway of the carriage, the whispers of the wind, and the distant birdsong shaped a fleeting sense of peace… though my heart still carried the weight of what awaited us.
Before long, we reached the order's new chapter. Even from afar, its presence was overwhelming. To call it a house would be unjust—it was a fortress, three stories tall, solid, implacable, almost menacing.
It had been built of black stone, a rare and costly material used only in works of prestige and power. Rumor said the stone itself carried magical properties—able to regulate temperature within, keeping cool as an autumn dawn even beneath summer's fiercest blaze. They claimed it could only be quarried in places where mana swelled thickest, as though carved by the womb of magic itself.
As the carriage rolled closer, the crowd grew clearer. Nobles' carriages lined the front. Mages in their uniforms and insignias gathered in clusters. Dozens of eyes watched, eager for the ceremony.
And in that crowd, I could already feel his shadow—Baron Hoffmann.
The carriage halted. The doors opened. Waiting outside were six mages of the Dark Throne: three men and three women, already in formation. Their black military garb gleamed with the order's sigil—the triangle bound by roots—radiating silent authority.
Iolanda stepped down first, posture impeccable. Then I followed, then Anthony, Emanuelle, and finally Elian.
We stood together, a family exposed to the scrutiny of the world. My heart thundered in my chest, and for a moment, my vision blurred, my knees weakened. Then, I felt Elian's hand seize mine—small, firm, charged with a maturity that no child should bear. I looked at him instinctively. That one gesture steadied me.
Before we could move forward, one of the female mages leaned in to whisper to Iolanda. I could not hear the words, but I saw the gravity with which she listened.
Soon after, Iolanda turned back to us.
"My father awaits inside. Follow me," she said, pivoting sharply to take the lead.
We followed instinctively. The six mages closed around us—not with spells, but with disciplined movement. A wall of flesh and steel. One ahead, one behind, and pairs to each side, shaping us into the center of a living diamond.
The crowd parted, though not without stares—doubt, envy, malice. The whispers carried like insects in the air:
"Is that the Elder's new disciple?"
"Weren't they peasants? Why so many guards for them?"
My chest tightened. It was not easy to walk beneath so many eyes—especially when I bore a past I wished only to bury.
At my side, Elian walked in silence, his gaze locked ahead, as if refusing distraction. Anthony, ever-watchful, glanced subtly about, though he spoke no word. And Emanuelle, unable to mask her wonder, clung to her brother's hand with bright eyes—entranced, as if living a fairy tale.
And I, at the center, felt each step draw us closer not only to the new chapter's gates… but to the inevitable shadow waiting within.
---
POV Elian
We walked in silence toward the chapter's entrance—the place that would house those charged with guarding my mother and siblings when I left for Cainã. Each step pressed the weight of future separation deeper into my chest, though I tried to think only of the present.
At my side, Emanuelle shone. Her simple smile lit the path before me, and for a moment, I wished that light would never be swallowed by the world's darkness. My mother walked proudly, still young—only twenty-seven—yet carved by more pain than many would bear in a lifetime. She wore the earrings we had given her, suns of gold glinting against her ears. Seeing them shimmer in daylight sent a pang through me: a reminder that even amidst tragedy, we had managed to carve out fragments of joy.
But the whispers around us gnawed at my mind. Voices slithered in the air like unseen knives. Some merely speculated about who we were. Others judged us as if birth alone had marked us unworthy. And some… some reeked of hunger. The way they spoke of my mother was not admiration—it was lust. Parasites in silk, blind to anything but flesh.
Nor was Emanuelle spared their stares. My sister is beautiful, and I know it. Her delicate face, her hair aflame like living fire, her blue eyes deep as oceans. She is still only a child, but one day she will be like my mother—radiant, strong, luminous. Perhaps too luminous for a world so foul.
That was when I heard it. A boy's voice, mocking, no older than fifteen, laughing among his friends:
"I'll court her," he said with arrogance. "She's just a peasant. Easy to make a toy. That's what my father taught me."
The blood in my veins turned to ice and fire all at once. A silent fury gripped me—cold, precise, merciless. It was not the anger of a child, but the wrath of someone who had lived too long in cruelty. The same wrath that once consumed me in another life.
My vision burned. The Qliphoth stirred within me, unbidden, awakening like a predator. When I turned my gaze on the boy, the world blurred, and every line of his face seemed drawn only so I might destroy it.