Lilith
Silvercliff Hold,
Kingdom of Arcadia
Southern Continent
New World
April 24th 6415
"So a martial tournament," Aeternum said.
I sat cross-legged on the glowing sigils of the convergence array, the steady hum of its lines thrumming against my skin. The chamber around me was quiet, its walls a shifting haze of Aeternum's pocket space—half simulation, half memory, all sharpened into focus through the array beneath me. Threads of light pulsed upward from the runes, weaving through my veins, feeding me fragments of knowledge like whispers poured directly into my soul.
This was the medium through which Aeternum transferred his libraries into me—spells, mana arts, theories stacked from tier one all the way to tier five. I held them all in my mind now, diagrams of arcane structures and movements waiting to be called upon. But as I replayed the memory of the forest—the coordinated strikes of the pack, the suffocating aura of the Alpha, and the moment I'd been forced to bear the Mark of Kain—I felt a familiar frustration tightening my chest. I never wanted that loss of control again. That slip.
Yet, running through every incantation, every seal structure, every hypothetical spell sequence, I found nothing that would have changed the outcome. Not then. Not against them.
My mana flow had improved; my control was leagues beyond what it once had been. But control wasn't enough. The fight had carved the truth into me like a scar: my body hadn't kept pace. My arms had lagged where theirs struck like lightning. My legs had stumbled where theirs danced in perfect unison.
The Lycans hadn't beaten me with spells. They had overwhelmed me with raw physicality—and with teamwork that turned that power into inevitability.
I exhaled, letting the last strands of borrowed knowledge fade back into silence. The sigils under me dimmed, though their warmth still lingered on my skin.
Mana theory was endless, yes. Spellcraft could be polished until every movement was efficient, every weave flawless. But all of it was useless if my body couldn't keep up. Against the Lycans, it hadn't been my spells that failed—it had been me.
I clenched my fist, watching the faint shimmer of mana coil around my knuckles before dissipating. My grip wasn't strong enough. My balance wasn't sharp enough. Even my reflexes had lagged in the split-second exchanges.
It struck me then—Greta had been right. When she trained me in forging, she didn't just teach me to mold metal. She taught me to feel its strength, its limits, the way pressure shaped it. And I was no different. A weapon wasn't forged by theory alone. It was tempered by fire. By force. By repetition until it became unbreakable. If I wanted to stand against foes like the Alpha—or worse—I couldn't rely on spellwork alone.
"I need to train my body cultivation," I said aloud into the chamber. My voice echoed against the false walls, steady and certain. "Not just mana control. Not just spellcraft. If my body isn't strong enough to carry what I wield, then I'll always lose."
The convergence array flared faintly in response, as if acknowledging my decision. I rose to my feet, rolling my shoulders, the weight of the broken katana familiar against my hip.
Body and soul, spell and steel—if I were to fight as Lilith Kain, then all of it had to be forged together.
I stood in the center of the chamber, the array's light ebbing and flowing like the beat of a second heart beneath my feet. My decision settled in me like iron cooling in a mold. If my body were lacking, then I would build it. Temper it. Break it if I had to, and remake it stronger.
But strength wasn't only about muscle or bone. I had other tools I'd barely touched.
My eyes drifted to the shelves of glowing tomes lining the chamber walls—illusory projections of the knowledge Aeternum had pressed into me. Pages shimmered with diagrams of mana pathways, combat forms, body-enhancement flows—mana arts.
Arts I had ignored. Before my awakening, I'd lived by my hands, my weapons, the raw clash of body against body. But somewhere along the way, I had let myself drift too far into the comfort of spellwork, adopting the habits of Mages—precision at a distance, control over chaos. It was effective, yes, but it dulled me. I had leaned so heavily on spellcraft that I'd neglected the steady growth of my own body.
I had focused too much on magic cultivation. Aeternum had told me once that body cultivation would come easily to me—that my body was already shaped for it, forged for resilience. Instead of using that truth, I had turned it into an excuse, convincing myself that I didn't need to train it. That I could let it lie dormant while I honed my spells.
And yet… a quiet unease had been gnawing at me ever since I stepped into the ranks of Ascendants.
If I were honest with myself, I felt weaker now than before. Not because my power had lessened—it hadn't. But because the enemies I was used to crushing so easily were never true benchmarks. They weren't special. They weren't the ones I should have measured myself against.
The Lycans had proven that. Their bodies, their unity, their instinct—they weren't foes I could underestimate. No clever spell could erase the reality of their strength. And something told me that they were only the beginning. Against the Lycans, I'd seen what it meant to have one's body and energy flow as a single weapon.
I stepped toward the shelves, reaching for the first volume. The sigils flared as my hand touched the projection, and streams of runes and diagrams spilled into my mind—stances, breathing patterns, flows of aura. My limbs tingled as if already rehearsing the movements.
"Mana arts…" I murmured, tasting the weight of the words. "Maybe it's time I stop ignoring you."
The convergence array glowed brighter, its circles spinning in anticipation, ready to shape the chamber into whatever battlefield I needed.
I cracked my knuckles, exhaling slowly. "Alright then. Show me what you've got, Aeternum."
****
An Imperial servant came to fetch us—those who would be competing in the tournament. That meant only Ben and me. Apparently, Ben had decided to join as well, driven by the promise of the Moonstone the Emperor had spoken of. For him, it wasn't just glory—it was a chance to unlock his dormant Lycan bloodline and physique.
The servant arrived earlier than expected, even before breakfast, just as Prince Gawain had warned. I was already prepared, having stepped out of Aeternum's pocket space. I sat on the bed I shared with Ariella. She was awake, propped against the pillows, her indigo eyes clouded with concern.
"I'm not sure I'm comfortable with this," Ella whispered, her voice thin in the stillness of the morning.
"Hey, it's going to be fine," I said, turning toward her. "I win this tournament, clear my name with the Lycans, and maybe—just maybe—we can finally negotiate with the Emperor for the Moonstone on behalf of the Mircallas."
Her lips pressed together, but the worry didn't leave her face. "Yes, but… putting you in danger like this." Her voice faltered. "I nearly lost you in that forest, Lil. I don't want…"
I raised an eyebrow, suspicion prickling. "What is it? You've never doubted me in a fight before. What's really going on?"
Ella hesitated, her hands tightening over the sheets. There was fear in her expression—not fear of the tournament, but of what she was about to admit.
"I…" She drew in a breath. "You remember how we found you, after you left to face the armored Knight in Thornhill?"
"Of course," I said quietly. It hadn't been my proudest choice—leaving her to go deal with Loridien Kael. "You tracked me down. Brought Jennifer and the others. I still don't know how you managed it—your Internal sense must be sharper than mine."
Ella shook her head. "I didn't track your mana."
I frowned. "Then how?"
Her voice trembled, though her eyes never left mine. "Because I knew. I just… knew where you were going to be."
I blinked. "Really?"
"Lil…" Ella's hands twisted in her lap. "I used to have nightmares. Even before the coup, I had them—visions of what was coming. I ignored them then, thought they were just dreams. But in Thornhill…" She swallowed. "I saw it. I saw the town burning, saw that armored knight tearing it apart. I knew it was going to happen."
I felt my chest tighten. "But we stopped him."
"Yes," she said, her voice breaking, "at a cost. Because of me… because I listened and dragged the others with me… Neil and Jennifer died."
Her words fell like stones, and for a moment the room was heavy with ghosts neither of us wanted to name. I reached across the sheets, taking her trembling hands in mine. They were cold, like she was holding on to the memory as if it could still burn her.
"Ella," I said softly, forcing her eyes to meet mine. "That wasn't your fault. What happened to Neil...those were Kael's sins, not yours. And as for Jennifer..." I faltered for a moment there, thinking of her, my sword stabbing through her. "That one is on that thing that possessed her. Not you."
She shook her head, lips tightening. "But if I hadn't—if I hadn't listened to those visions—"
"You saved me," I cut in. "You saved Thornhill. If you hadn't acted, we would all be dead. All of Thornhill will be gone. Destroyed. And that thing...that thing would be free. That's the truth."
Her eyes shimmered, but the guilt stayed carved in her face. I could see it—the weight she carried every time she let herself remember. All this time, I had been wallowing in my guilt...the guilt of my actions, and I never once thought to wonder how Ariella felt about the events that had happened in Thornhill. We had just moved on from the town, and she had acted like nothing was wrong. But there were a lot of things that had gone wrong.
I squeezed her hands tighter. "Listen to me. What you've been calling nightmares? They're not just dreams, Ella. They're warnings. And if you're seeing things before they happen… that means you're not cursed. You're gifted."
It must be related to her ability factor of Boundless. It had to be. After all, Ella's perception was beyond ordinary. I sent a mental note to Aeternum, who agreed with my assessment.
"After studying Ariella Ashtarmel's bloodline, I can say with excellent accuracy that her perception towards the flow of time is more advanced than most."
I let out a slow breath, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. "So don't call them nightmares anymore. They're part of you. And I'll be damned if I let you carry that burden alone."
For the first time that morning, her lips curved—trembling, but still a smile. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against mine, as if trying to draw strength from my words.
"Thank you, Lil."
I closed my eyes. No… thank you. Because without you, I'd already be gone.
"You know," Ella murmured, her voice low, almost hesitant, "we haven't talked about the kiss that happened between us."
I couldn't help but smile. I reached up, cupping her cheeks in my hands, my thumbs brushing against the warmth of her skin. Her eyes widened just slightly as I leaned closer.
Then my lips met hers.
This kiss wasn't stolen or uncertain—it was deliberate, sealing what words hadn't yet been able to. Ella gasped softly against me, caught off guard, but then melted into it, her hands clutching at my arms as she returned the kiss, deepening it until the world shrank to just the two of us.
The sharp knock on the door shattered it.
"Lady Kain, it's time to head out," came the servant's muffled voice.
We pulled apart, breathless. For a moment, neither of us moved. Ella's face was flushed, her indigo eyes bright with a mix of embarrassment and something far softer. She bit her lip, like she wanted to say something, but the words wouldn't come.
I leaned my forehead lightly against hers, lingering for just a heartbeat longer before I drew back with a sigh.
"Well," I said with a crooked smile, standing and reaching for my black jacket, "I guess it's time to leave."
Ella's gaze still clung to me as I pulled on my jacket. Her lips parted like she wanted to say more, but the words never came. I gave her a soft nod before slipping from the chamber, the heavy door closing between us.
****
The halls of Silvermoon Keep glowed faintly with embedded Moonstone veins, the pale walls catching the early light in threads of silver. Servants moved in quiet precision, their footsteps barely audible against the polished stone. When I stepped through the great gates into the courtyard, dawn's chill air greeted me, sharp and clean, carrying the scent of mountain frost.
Ben was already waiting, arms crossed and pacing in restless circles. The tension in his shoulders betrayed the smirk he shot my way.
"About time," he muttered, though his fingers drummed nervously at his sides.
The Imperial servant stood beside a waiting carriage—sleek, crescent-shaped, carved from pale alloy and trimmed with silver filigree that shimmered faintly under the sky. Harnessed at the front were two drakes, their scales pearlescent, their eyes glowing faint blue. Steam coiled from their nostrils as they pawed at the stone, impatient.
The servant bowed. "Your transport awaits, Lady Kain. Sir Navajo. I shall escort you to the tournament grounds."
The door opened to reveal cushioned seats of obsidian leather stitched with silver thread. The air inside carried a faint lunar tang, an enchantment humming through its frame. Ben and I climbed in, the door sealing softly behind us. With a rumble, the drakes pulled, and the carriage rolled down the terraced roads carved into the mountain itself.
From the windows, the Inner District unfurled around us—the walls and spires of Silvermoon Keep fading behind. The palace loomed like a fortress hewn from the crescent ridge, crowned by the Crownstone: a heart of Moonstone so vast it bathed the highest towers in argent light. Its glow diminished as we descended, the terraces opening wider, busier, noisier.
We entered the Pack Circle, the city's martial and political heart. Broad plazas stretched in crescents, their paving stones inlaid with runes that shimmered faintly underfoot. The district was carved into the pale mountain stone and shaped like a great crescent that curves around the heart of the capital. Its broad avenues are lined with banners bearing the sigils of the Seven Noble Houses, each standard rippling silver beneath the moonlight.
It was dominated by tiered colonnades and circular plazas, their design meant to mirror the phases of the moon. Around the plazas stood the Alpha Halls—seven strongholds, one for each noble house, their banners rippling in the wind: silver wolves, crescent moons, spears etched in defiance. Silver lanterns light every colonnade, and incense burned before the crescent stones, and the entire city seemed to have gathered here.
At its center rises the Silver Crucible Arena, its outer walls gleaming with carved runes that glowed under the full moon. Around it stand seven towering Crescent Stones, monoliths etched with the ancestral howls of each noble House. This was where the Grand Tournament took place. A colossal structure carved directly into the ridge, its crescent archways soared into the sky like the ribcage of some ancient beast. Obsidian gates engraved with hunts and duels towered above the entry, the figures of wolves and warriors caught forever in motion. Even quiet, the arena radiated expectation—the very stone thrummed with the echoes of every battle fought within.
As the carriage slowed near the gates, the servant turned slightly, his voice dropping into that polished cadence of a guide.
"You have seen the Inner District, where the Sterling Clan rules beneath the Crownstone. Here lies the Pack Circle, the martial and political heart of our people. Beyond this, further down the mountain, spreads the Howl Quarter—the domain of common clans, outsiders, and markets. There, life is rougher, freer, but no less vital. At day, the Quarter comes alive under the full moon. Feast, song, and trade fill the streets until dawn. But here, in the Circle—" he gestured toward the towering arena—"this is where honor is decided."
Ben gave a low whistle, pressing his forehead briefly to the glass. "Not bad. Not bad at all."
I didn't answer. My eyes stayed on the arena gates, black against the pale stone, my chest tightening. This was it. Everything had led to this moment. If we were going to secure the Moonstone—if we were going to bring the Mircalla House to our side—I had to win this tournament. There was no other way to make these wolves respect me. No other way to prove myself in their eyes.
The obsidian gates groaned as they opened, and our carriage rolled forward, passing beneath the shadow of the outer walls. They were massive—an encircling ring of pale stone veined with Moonstone, so tall they dwarfed even the colonnades of the Pack Circle beyond. Fortress and monument both, the walls radiated an austere, almost suffocating weight, as though they themselves were watching and judging.
Etched into the stone were ancestral howls, stylized carvings of wolf-muzzles mid-cry, one for every champion who had ever fought here. Each howl glowed faintly silver, the light waxing stronger as the full moon drew near. A chorus of voices from ages past, captured in stone and moonlight, reminding every challenger of the legacy they stood against.
Four colossal entryways divided the ring—North, South, East, and West—each wide enough for entire warbands to march through. Standing guard at each gate were the Moonbound Enforcers, armored in lunar steel and bearing halberds tipped with glowing crescents. Their helms were stylized into wolf heads, their glowing eyes hidden behind silver visors. Silent and immovable, they weren't simply guards—they were peace itself given form, the Empire's hand ensuring the sacred rules of the arena would never be broken.
Flanking the gates rose pairs of statues, each depicting towering wolf-headed guardians, their maws open as if to swallow the sky. Between their fangs burned blue-white braziers, fed with lunar crystal fire that cast long, flickering shadows across the walls.
Our carriage rattled deeper into the arena complex, wheels echoing over the polished stone streets that branched like veins around the outer ring. Here, the tension shifted—the grim silence of the walls gave way to a festive storm of voices.
Crowds had already gathered, spilling through the avenues in a tide of fur, armor, and silk. Market stalls had been erected for the occasion, draped in silver banners and glowing lanterns. Vendors called out in booming voices, offering roasted meats spiced with moon-herbs, glowing wines distilled from lunar fruit, talismans etched in Wolf-script promising strength or luck in battle. The smell of charred meat and sharp incense mingled in the air, a strange mix of festival and bloodsport.
Children chased each other with wooden swords shaped like fangs, their laughter echoing over the din. Nobles in crescent-embroidered cloaks observed from balconies above, their eyes sharp, measuring every challenger who walked past.
It was more than a tournament. It was a hunt staged for all to see, and the wolves of Arcadia were hungry.
The carriage slowed, its wheels grinding against the stone until it came to a halt beneath the looming arches of the South Gate. The servant stepped down first, bowing low as he gestured for us to follow.
The moment I set foot on the ground, the air shifted. The noise of the crowd rolled over me like a tide—cheers, jeers, chants in the old Lycan tongue. Some stared in open curiosity, others with narrowed suspicion. Outsiders weren't a common sight here, much less vampires and hybrids walking toward their Crucible.
"Eyes forward," the servant murmured, his tone calm, polished, but edged with steel. "Do not answer them. The arena thrives on tension—it is part of the rite."
Ben muttered something under his breath, but for once, he kept his head down and followed. We were led past the bustling colonnades, through an iron-gated archway that descended into shadow. The sound of the crowd dimmed as the stone swallowed us, replaced by the steady drip of water and the echo of our footsteps. The tunnel spiraled downward into the mountain, its walls carved smooth and etched with faint crescent glyphs that shimmered when we passed.
"This way," the servant said, his lantern casting arcs of silver light. At last, the tunnel opened into the waiting Chambers. The air was cooler here, calmer, though a thrumming energy vibrated through the crescent-shaped halls. Fighters were already gathered in alcoves along the walls—some sitting cross-legged in meditation, others sharpening weapons or running silent drills.
Each chamber was lit by Moonstone braziers, their silver fire burning with an almost liquid radiance. The flames gave no heat, only a steady hum that seeped into the marrow, calming the spirit and heightening the strange, instinctive resonance that permeated the air. I could feel it, thrumming faintly against my chest, like the heartbeat of the mountain itself.
A low howl echoed down the hall, and I saw a pair of Lycan champions bow their heads before the braziers, their throats vibrating in a ritualistic harmony. The Pack Echo Rite. A ritual as old as Arcadia—warriors howling together before combat, weaving their voices into a chorus that bound them to their race, their House, their ancestors. The sound stirred something primal in the chamber, and even Ben's ears twitched despite himself.
The servant led us into an empty chamber, pausing only long enough to gesture at the crescent bench carved seamlessly into the wall. Ben wasted no time claiming the spot, dropping onto the cushioned seat with a grunt. His eyes widened as the silver-threaded fabric sank beneath him, the strange hum of the Moonstone weaving through the chamber and brushing faintly against his skin. He shifted once, as if trying to mask his surprise, then leaned back with forced nonchalance.
I remained standing, letting my gaze sweep across the chamber. The crescent halls curved inward, alcoves carved like niches of shadow, each alive with fighters preparing in their own way. Some sat in pairs, murmuring quietly in guttural tones, others traced the edges of their blades, testing weight and sharpness, their eyes flicking to rivals with calculation. A few leaned against the walls in deliberate stillness, observing rather than speaking, but their scrutiny was no less sharp.
It didn't take long to realize some of those eyes had fixed on us the moment we entered. Curiosity was there, yes—but laced with suspicion, and in some, outright hostility. Outsiders were intrusions in this place, and the Crucible had little tolerance for weakness.
Most of the gathered were Lycans—broad-shouldered, their presence carrying the restless energy of predators caged too long. Yet amid their number I caught the sharp, angular features of Feyborns, their pale skin glowing faintly in the brazier light. A pair of Vampires lingered in the far alcove, their stillness more unsettling than the Lycans' restless pacing. Humans, however, were scattered thin—barely a handful, each standing apart as though aware of their precarious place here. Notably, there were no Wytches at all; their absence left the chamber colder, quieter, as if some unseen balance had been deliberately removed.
Movement drew my eye. One of the Lycans—a towering brute ringed by cronies who practically radiated deference—rose slowly from his seat. He had been watching us since we stepped across the threshold, his stare unbroken, heavy with challenge. Now he broke from his circle and began to stride toward us, each step echoing against the stone with a predator's confidence.
I arched a brow, reading his body language as easily as the scars running across his bare arms. Arrogance clung to him like a second skin, every line of his posture carrying the same message: you don't belong here. Contempt flickered in his eyes, hot and unashamed, and it was aimed squarely at me.
"That is Navaro Damarchus, one of the participants of the Awakening Division," the servant murmured, leaning closer as if the name itself carried weight.
"Awakening Division?" I echoed, my eyes still on the Lycan but my interest snagging more on the servant's words than on the brute himself.
The servant inclined his head, his tone smooth, rehearsed. "The Grand Tournament is divided into three divisions, each aligned with cultivation realms. The Awakening Division, the Harmonization Division, and the Sovereign Division. We stand now among the Awakened. Each victor emerges not merely as a champion, but as a voice for their people—"
"Hey! Hey! Hey!" Navaro's bark cut across the chamber, sharp and grating, like claws raked over stone. He stepped closer, his cronies tightening the circle behind him. His golden eyes narrowed. "Are you ignoring me?"
I tilted my head, allowing a thin smile to tug at my lips. My tone came out cool, deliberate, each word shaped like a blade. "For me to ignore you, I'd first need to have a conversation with you. Seeing as I never spoke to you in the first place…" My gaze lingered on his face, unflinching. "…there was never anything to ignore."
A low murmur rippled through the chamber, some amused, others tense, the silver firelight flickering across smirks and scowls alike. Navaro's jaw clenched, the muscles ticking as the insult settled in.
"You're a cheeky brat, aren't you?" Navaro sneered, his voice carrying loud enough for the other alcoves to hear. His eyes slid past me to Ben, who had risen from the bench and now stood squarely at my side. Navaro's nostrils flared, his lip curling as he sniffed the air.
"And who's this?" he drawled, contempt dripping from every syllable. "From the smell of you, I'd wager Lycan—but you don't look like you've manifested the bloodline or the physique yet. Still soft. Still human. Why would the Emperor sully our sacred rite by letting in half-formed strays?"
Ben's jaw tightened, his fingers flexing as if itching for a fight, but I stepped forward before he could speak. My tone came out light, almost casual, but sharpened with the edge of a blade.
"I don't know," I said, tilting my head. "Why don't you ask him yourself? Oh, wait—" I let the pause linger, my smile cutting. "You can't, can you? I suppose not all Lycans are fortunate enough to be personally recommended for the tournament."
A ripple of sound moved through the chamber—half laughter, half stifled gasps. The Moonstone braziers hummed faintly, silver fire glinting in Navaro's eyes as his face darkened, the arrogance in his stance hardening into something more dangerous.
Navaro's growl rumbled low in his chest, his cronies snickering as he took a step closer. The silver firelight painted his features sharp, feral. With a sudden snarl, he lunged, his fist arcing toward my face, claws half-bared.
But it never landed.
A hand shot out from the side, pale fingers closing around his wrist with iron precision. The impact stopped dead, the force of the strike dissipating in the air as though crushed by something far heavier than muscle alone. Navaro's eyes widened, shock flashing through his fury as he turned to see who had stopped him.
The one holding his fist stood tall and unruffled, dressed in the dark silver of imperial regalia. His grip didn't so much as tremble, though Navaro strained against it. His eyes—cold, glacial blue—met Navaro's with the quiet authority of someone who didn't need to raise his voice to command the entire room.
"Enough," the man said, his tone even but weighted like a commandment.
The chamber hushed instantly. Even the crackle of the Moonstone flames seemed to soften in his presence.
The servant bowed low, almost folding in half. "Your Highness… Prince Sterling."
A ripple of recognition moved through the waiting fighters. Whispers followed, hushed and reverent.
Peter Sterling, Fourth Prince of the Empire.
I studied him closely as he released Navaro's wrist, letting it drop limp at his side. The resemblance was undeniable—his sharp jaw and glacial gaze echoed the features of the Silver Emperor himself. There was a shadow of Prince Gawain's sharp poise in him, and a glimmer of Prince Erik's quiet menace. Yet Peter carried himself differently. He radiated a clean, honed strength—nothing wasted, nothing concealed. His aura pressed against the chamber like the weight of a mountain, steady and immovable.
A Master stage cultivator. Strong enough that even without speaking, he bent the air around him.
"You dishonor the Crucible before it even begins," Peter said, his words measured, deliberate. "Save your strength for the arena. Or leave now, and forfeit your name."
Navaro flinched, his bravado unraveling under the weight of the prince's gaze. Even his cronies shifted uneasily, no longer so eager to laugh.
"I… I didn't know you were here, Prince Peter," Navaro stammered, his bravado slipping as he straightened his shoulders.
Peter's gaze didn't waver. "Is that an excuse?" he asked, his voice calm, yet so unyielding it struck harder than a shout.
For a heartbeat, Navaro said nothing. Then, as if trying to salvage pride, he threw back his head and laughed, the sound sharp and hollow as it echoed off the chamber walls. "Hah! I can't wait to crush you in the tournament." With that, he spun on his heel and stalked back to his alcove, his cronies scrambling to follow.
I watched him retreat, the silver firelight casting his shadow long across the floor. Only when he had settled back into his corner did I shift my gaze to Peter. He was still watching me, his eyes sharp and measuring—like a blade weighing whether or not to cut. A silent understanding passed between us: of all the competitors gathered here, he was the one I would have to watch most closely.
"Peter!"
The voice cut through the chamber. A tall girl approached, her stride confident, brown hair streaked with pink highlights catching the brazier's glow. Her green eyes flicked from him to me, curiosity sparking. "Huh… what's going on here?"
"Nothing," Peter said evenly, dismissing the moment with a flick of his tone. He turned, already walking away. The girl fell into step beside him, her head tilting as she lowered her voice—though not low enough for me to miss it with my sharpened hearing.
"Isn't that one of your father's guests?" she whispered.
Peter said nothing, but the smallest tightening of his jaw was answer enough.
The servant at my side bent closer, speaking softly so only Ben and I could hear. "That is Rowena Remus, cousin to Prince Peter, from House Remus. A formidable fighter in her own right."
I watched the two of them walk away, their silhouettes framed by the silver glow of the braziers—royalty and bloodline prestige moving like they owned the room. And perhaps, in a way, they did.
_
Church of Lilithism
Pandemonium City
Hudsonia Region
Kingdom of Ashtarium
April 28th 6412
"You know you don't have to come, right?" Ariella murmured, her voice low enough that it wouldn't carry beyond them.
Lilith only shrugged in reply. Her eyes weren't on Ariella but on the cathedral itself—the steep marble steps leading upward, polished by centuries of pilgrims' feet. Her gaze shifted constantly, flicking across the doorways, the buttresses, the clustered shadows where a threat might wait.
The great doors of the cathedral had been thrown open for the holy service, incense rolling out in faint waves that carried the bite of frankincense and myrrh. The murmuring congregation filled the air, but as the royal family arrived, the noise shifted.
People stepped aside in reverent waves, clearing the aisle as whispers rippled through the crowd. A hush of awe mingled with curiosity followed the procession, heads bowing yet eyes straining to catch glimpses of them.
It wasn't every service the Ashtarmels appeared for. Their presence was as rare as it was commanding.
Unlike most vampire royal houses, the Ashtarmels had never clung tightly to the Church's shadow. They had grown increasingly secular as the centuries marched on, their power derived from politics, trade, and bloodlines rather than divine allegiance. Yet they never outlawed devotion either, and so their empire had become a patchwork of beliefs—each citizen free to kneel or not as they chose.
That freedom gave weight to their attendance now. Every step they took into the cathedral was seen as symbolic, every glance, every word whispered by priests and commoners alike.
Lilith's jaw tightened as she scanned the vaulted doors ahead. Symbolism meant nothing to her. What mattered was why they were here… and who might be waiting for them inside.
The cathedral swallowed them whole the moment they crossed the threshold. A wash of cool air drifted over them, scented with incense thick enough to cling to the tongue. The vaulted ceiling soared high above, vanishing into shadow, while beams of colored light poured through the stained-glass windows, painting the marble floors in fractured hues of crimson and violet. The choir's chant echoed from the far apse, low and rhythmic, their voices layered with the faint hum of runes woven into the very stone.
The crowd parted down the center aisle, eyes fixed on the Ashtarmel procession. Some bowed their heads as the royals passed, and others pressed trembling hands to their lips in reverence. Whispers chased them, rising like moths fluttering in the glow of candlelight.
Lilith walked half a pace behind Ariella, her gaze raking across every corner of the nave. She marked the hooded figures kneeling in prayer, the clergy robed in deep burgundy, the pale acolytes lining the pews with their hands folded over their Lilithism bibles. And then her eyes caught on something that made her chest tighten.
The priest at the front—an old man, different from the one she had met in King's Crown City—was staring directly at her. Not at Ariella, not at the Queen or the Queen consort from Xibalba, or Prince Eduardo. He did not look away, even as the choir rose into a crescendo.
When the royals reached the altar, the priest lifted his hands, voice carrying effortlessly through the cavernous chamber.
"Welcome, Ashtarmel House, blood of crimson, heirs of dominion. The Main Church greets you."
Lilith's stomach turned cold. The words weren't for the King. Or the Queen. Or Ariella. They were for her. The priest she had cornered in the quiet church days ago had been right. They had been expecting her.