The council chamber was a cavern of cold stone, its walls etched with ancient runes that glowed faintly under the dim, flickering light of a single chandelier suspended from the vaulted ceiling. The runes pulsed with a subdued crimson hue, their arcane patterns hinting at wards older than the nation itself, a silent testament to the power held within these walls. Kaname stood at attention, his blue uniform crisp and unyielding, the fabric taut against his lean frame, his onyx-black hair falling in soft strands to shadow his sharp green eyes. The air was thick with the musty scent of aged parchment, mingled with the metallic tang of suppressed magic that seemed to hum just beneath the surface, a pressure that pressed against his chest like an invisible hand. The chamber's chill seeped into his bones, a stark contrast to the warmth of the training grounds he'd left behind.
Before him, seated at a polished obsidian table that gleamed like a frozen lake, was his uncle, Lord Eryndor, a man of imposing stature with silver-streaked hair pulled back in a severe knot and piercing gray eyes that mirrored the steel of his unyielding resolve. Eryndor, a high-ranking council member and commander of the nation's special forces, exuded an aura of unyielding authority, his broad shoulders cloaked in a robe adorned with the silver threads of his rank. His presence was a stark contrast to the distant warmth he'd once shown as a younger brother to Kaname's mother, a warmth that had faded into a cold professionalism after years of command. The table between them was bare save for a single sealed dossier, its wax seal bearing the council's crest—a jagged shard encircled by laurels—gleaming ominously in the low light.
Eryndor's gaze lingered on Kaname, assessing him with the weight of unspoken expectations, his eyes narrowing as if peering into the depths of his nephew's soul. "You've been chosen for a top-secret mission," he began, his voice a low rumble that echoed off the stone walls, each syllable carrying the gravitas of a commander addressing his troops. "The academy—Rose School—is at the heart of it. Reports of shard instability, unexplained collapses, and whispers of dark magic have reached us, carried by scouts whose voices trembled with fear. Your task is to investigate covertly, uncover the source, and neutralize it before it spreads beyond the school's walls." He slid the sealed dossier across the table with a deliberate motion, the scrape of parchment against obsidian cutting through the silence. "This is no simple patrol, nephew. The stakes are national—perhaps global. Corruption festers in the shadows, and the council suspects a network extending from the school to the capital, even to the northern provinces where rogue mages have been sighted, their camps shrouded in unnatural mists."
Kaname's jaw tightened as he took the dossier, his fingers brushing the rough parchment, its edges worn as if carrying the secrets of a dozen failed missions. He respected his uncle's power and the legacy of the family name—his mother's lineage traced back to warriors who'd defended the realm against the first shard wars, a heritage etched into the faded tapestries of his childhood home. That home, a modest cottage in a quiet village nestled against a forested hill, had been a place of laughter and training until the night it was torn apart. At ten years old, Kaname had awoken to the screams of his family—his father, a stern but kind man who'd taught him to wield a wooden sword with precision under the shade of ancient oaks; his mother, Eryndor's sister, whose gentle hands had bandaged his scrapes with a lullaby on her lips; and his younger sister, whose giggles had filled the air with the innocence of youth. A raid by rogue mages, their shards blazing with stolen power that cast eerie shadows across the walls, had left the house in ashes, the air thick with the acrid smoke of burning thatch and the coppery scent of blood. His family was slaughtered, their bodies barely recognizable amid the ruin, their lifeless forms illuminated by the flickering flames. Kaname had been dragged from the wreckage by a passing patrol, his hands stained with soot and grief, his cries swallowed by the night.
His mother, in her final moments, had whispered to a guard with a voice frail yet resolute, urging them to send him to the capital, to distant relatives who barely knew his name. Those relatives—cold, austere figures in a sprawling estate of marble and shadow—had taken him in out of obligation, their halls echoing with the hollow clatter of footsteps where his village once rang with life. The estate's gardens, overgrown and neglected, had become his refuge, where he'd practiced his swings alone, the rustle of leaves his only companion. There, amid the clatter of training yards and the stern gazes of tutors who saw only a survivor, not a son, Kaname honed his skills, his wooden sword replaced by steel that sang with each strike, his grief channeled into a relentless discipline. It was there that Eryndor's eye fell upon him, recognizing the spark of his mother's lineage in his nephew's determined green eyes, a spark that burned brighter with each passing year. Now, at sixteen, he carried the weight of that past—a quiet determination to prove himself, to honor the memory of his lost family, though he often wrestled with the towering expectations it imposed. The loss had forged him into a blade, but it also left a hollow ache, a shadow he buried beneath his duty, a silent vow to never let such tragedy strike again.
Eryndor leaned forward, his expression hardening, the lines of his face deepening as if carved by years of command. "This mission demands discretion and skill. The school's faculty may be compromised, and the students—especially that girl, Yuki—are liabilities. She's trouble, Kaname, a magnet for chaos. Her father's meddling with forbidden rituals left a stain, a blight that clings to her like a curse, and her presence endangers you. Keep her at arm's length." His tone was cold, a stark rejection of the bond Kaname shared with Yuki, a friendship forged from the kite incident years ago when her clumsy determination had first sparked his loyalty. Kaname gritted his teeth, his respect for his uncle clashing with his unwavering loyalty to Yuki. He nodded curtly, swallowing his disagreement for now, knowing Eryndor's trust in him was hard-earned despite their emotional distance, a trust built on years of silent observation.
The dossier revealed a chilling puzzle. Shard drainings weren't isolated incidents—reports detailed similar anomalies in the capital's undercity, where merchants spoke of vanishing magic traders, their stalls abandoned under a perpetual fog that clung to the cobblestones like a living shroud, and in the northern provinces, where entire villages reported lost shard energy, their crops withering under a strange blight that turned fields to ash and poisoned the rivers with a sickly glow. A coded message, its ink faded and its meaning obscured by layers of cipher, hinted at a shadowy cabal, possibly council insiders, siphoning magic for an unknown purpose, their trail cold and fragmented like shards scattered across a battlefield. Kaname's mission would require infiltrating the school's archives, their shelves guarded by magical wards that hummed with ancient power, monitoring faculty whose smiles hid secrets, and tracking students like Rin, whose shard glowed with an unsettling familiarity that tugged at his memory. The investigation promised to be grueling—encrypted records locked behind spells that resisted even the strongest decryption, evasive witnesses who vanished into the night like ghosts, and a labyrinth of false leads that twisted through the nation's underbelly, each step shadowed by the risk of exposure and betrayal.
Eryndor's voice cut through his thoughts, a blade of sound in the stillness. "The nation teeters on a brink. If this spreads, it could unravel our defenses against the rogue factions beyond the borders, those lawless bands who wield shard magic like weapons of war. I expect precision, Kaname—no mistakes." His uncle's high expectations pressed down like a physical weight, a legacy Kaname both honored and resented, a burden that fueled his drive yet chafed against his independence. As he left the chamber, the dossier clutched in his hand, the cold stone seemed to close in, its runes glowing brighter as if mocking his solitude. The heavy door creaked shut behind him, sealing him into the icy trail he was about to tread. Behind the school's magic, a darker game played out—whispers of a ritual that could bend nations, fueled by stolen shard energy, its architects hidden in plain sight, their motives veiled in the mists of power and greed. Kaname's resolve hardened, a steel core beneath his calm exterior, but the thought of Yuki's involvement gnawed at him, a secret he'd guard until the truth emerged from the shadows, a truth that might shatter the fragile peace he'd built.
From the Crimson Shadows
Far from the council's stone halls, in a desolate ravine where the wind carried the stench of death, the crimson-eyed man stood amidst a slew of dead bodies strewn across the rocky ground. His tall, elegant frame was cloaked in shadows, his crimson eyes glowing like embers in the moonlight, casting an eerie light over the carnage. The bodies—merchants, travelers, and a few rogue mages—lay broken, their throats torn open, blood pooling in dark rivulets that reflected the stars above. He hovered slightly, his boots barely touching the ground, a predator savoring his kill. With a slow, deliberate motion, he raised a hand to his lips, licking the blood from his fingers, his vampire fangs glinting as they caught the light—a sharp, predatory smile curling his lips.
From the shadows, a figure emerged—a woman, her silhouette alluring and shrouded in mystery, her curves hinted at by the way the darkness clung to her like a second skin. Her face remained hidden, her voice a sultry whisper that carried no name. "A fine feast, my lord," she purred, her tone laced with admiration. "The night grows restless."
The crimson-eyed man turned to her, his gaze narrowing with calculated intent. "Indeed," he murmured, his voice a velvet threat. "But the real game lies ahead. That boy, Kaname—he's a thorn, tethered to Yuki by a loyalty that blinds him. I need you to get close to him, draw him away from her. Weave your charm, let him trust you, but take your time. The pieces aren't ready to fall." His fangs flashed again as he wiped a streak of blood from his chin, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. "Yuki's power is the prize, and Kaname's distraction will leave her vulnerable. Move with care—let him come to you naturally."
The woman's laughter was a soft, dangerous melody, her form retreating into the shadows as if swallowed by the night. "As you wish," she replied, her voice fading into the wind. The crimson-eyed man lingered, his gaze returning to the dead, a silent promise of chaos to come. From this blood-soaked perch, he could sense the threads of his plan tightening, a web spun with patience and death, waiting to ensnare the academy and beyond.