"It is not love or hatred that brings down empires.
But silent jealousy, and the fear of losing what one believes to own."
— Arzhal the Flayed, Strategist of the Crimson Empire
House Iserath was quieter than usual.
But it wasn't a peaceful silence.
It hung in the air like acidic mist before a storm.
Servants whispered in the corridors, candles flickered too quickly, and the ambient mana vibrated—disturbed.
For two years now, a new child had entered the House.
Lucien Iserath.
Son of Lady Sereïs, second wife of Valemir,
he had become a source of tension more volatile than the manor's deepest mana wells.
In a remote wing of the estate, Julius trained, as he always did.
Not out of passion.
But necessity.
Each day brought him closer to the deadline: his departure for the Academy of Noble Vampires.
He had two years left.
The walls of the underground chamber were lined with bloody symbols.
The scent of iron was stronger than any flower.
Reanimated training dummies—soulless abominations—served as moving targets.
Julius, shirtless, eyes glowing with mana, breathed slowly.
He was alone, as he had been for months.
Since the announcement of his future admission to the Academy, the servants' gazes had shifted.
They whispered behind his back.
They measured his every move.
His mother, Lady Lise, had become even more exacting—
as if every second now had to prove her son belonged among the great.
And yet, Julius was growing stronger.
Each day, he read three treatises: one on etiquette, one on ancient magic, one on vampiric martial arts.
He had begun forging his own vision of the future.
He would not be a pawn.
Nor a spare heir.
He would become the Empire.
A loud crack echoed.
Julius had just shattered the training dummy's spine.
The black blood that spilled evaporated into the containment runes.
He panted. Then straightened up, serious—his gaze older than his age.
Footsteps approached.
He recognized the elegant stride of one of his mother's handmaidens.
"Young Master Lucien seems to be advancing well in his lessons.
Lady Sereïs receives many visitors these days."
Julius said nothing.
He pulled on his black shirt and left the chamber.
He walked toward the Gallery of Arms.
There, an ancient tapestry depicted the founders of House Iserath.
The crimson eyes of those ancestors seemed to watch him.
He looked up at them.
That night, Julius did not sleep.
He sat at his desk, a compendium open before him.
A forbidden grimoire on advanced vampiric mana manipulation—knowledge the Academy deemed dangerous.
He had been studying it for months.
But that night, something shifted.
He drew a circle with blood-ink.
He pierced his palm with a dagger, letting a few drops fall into a runed bowl, then closed his eyes.
Glyphs lit up.
The blood rose, disassembled itself, then reformed into an ancient symbol:
The Sigil of Pure Will.
Julius opened his eyes.
And spoke words he had never dared utter—not even to himself:
"I am not an Iserath too many.
I am the one who will redefine what it means."
He clenched his fist.
His blood pulsed.
And something answered within him.
A tremor of power.
The Academy would not be a departure.
It would be the start of his rise.
And Lucien… Lucien may have been his brother.
But he would be his first political adversary.
"Let's begin. Two years is not enough to become an emperor.
But it's enough… to crush shadows."