They say it began long before I was born—long before any of us remembered what peace even looked like.
Creatures set foot upon the earth… creatures no one had ever seen before. *Monsters*, we came to call them. They were wild, merciless, and grotesque in form—twisted limbs, bone-like armor, fangs that dripped with hunger. But what made them truly terrifying wasn't how they looked…
It was what they craved.
Fresh blood.
They slaughtered everything—livestock, villages, children. The land turned red before anyone could understand what was happening. In a matter of weeks, chaos devoured order. The Emperor had no choice but to issue an edict: all noble houses were to raise armies and forge new weapons. Even the commoners had to arm their sons, their husbands, their aging fathers, to defend their farms.
No one protested. When death knocks, fear teaches obedience.
And yet… killing the first monster only made things worse.
Its blood—thick, black, and foul—was like acid. It devoured whatever it touched: steel, leather, skin. The blacksmiths were forced to create stronger, more resistant weapons, but progress was slow\... painfully slow.
Famine followed. Crops burned. Soil spoiled. Our people began to die—not just from fangs and claws, but from cold and hunger. Everything crumbled.
Then came the impossible.
The angels descended. And so did the demons.
They came not as conquerors, but as allies. Some said it was pity. Others said even the heavens feared what we faced. What followed were wars—countless, bloody, soul-crushing wars.
Even divine beings struggled to hold the line.
That's when she appeared.
A woman. No crown. No title. Just black hair, torn clothes… and a sword that hummed like it remembered every scream of war.
I remember their eyes.
Not the monsters'. The angel and the demon.
They were surrounded—wounded, cornered by creatures too vile for the heavens or hell to claim. The air reeked of blood and rot. Wings torn, horns cracked, divine and infernal both brought to their knees.
Then she came.
The sword-bearer. She stepped into the storm of teeth and talons as if born from it. Her blade shimmered with no light—only fury. She fought not like a knight, but like someone with nothing left to lose.
And as the angel and demon looked at each other, something passed between them—an understanding. They knew death was near.
They didn't speak. They simply nodded.
Their hands reached out—one glowing with golden flame, the other burning black.
They placed them on her shoulders.
And their souls…
Merged with hers.
From that moment on, she was no longer just a woman. She was something more—and something far more terrifying.
The war began to shift.
With her at the center, and only three others at her side, they turned the tide.
One was a silent swordsman who had once been the Crown Prince of the Aurelian Empire—an empire named after the eternal light of the first dawn.
Another was a brilliant tactician with fire in his voice and steel in his veins.
The last was a golden-eyed merchant-lord who commanded fleets as if the seas themselves bowed to him.
Together, they led the remnants of humanity.
They built the foundation of the new Empire—Aurelia, land of shattered gods and scorched skies. And when peace finally returned, they were given titles worthy of what they had built.
She, the woman touched by angel and demon both, became Duchess of the North.
She founded the noble house of Valebrand—its crest: a shield, forever guarding the empire's frozen borders.
The swordsman became Duke of the Central Province, founder of House Dreadmourne, whose armies would become the empire's sword. Their banner bore a crimson blade, dripping with resolve.
The cunning tactician claimed the East, founding House Ashwinter—their crest: a silver coin over black waves, symbolizing dominion over all trade routes, sea and land alike.
The empire was born In fire.
But it was built by those who survived it.
And that's when I always wake up.
Right after the fire.
Right after their hands touched her shoulders.
Right after she looked up into the eyes of death and smiled.
Because that's where it all began.
The glory.
The blood.
The curse.
'That's where the misfortune of my bloodline began.'
I gasped.
My body jolted upward, drenched in sweat despite the cold northern air.
The ceiling above me was made of dark wood, old and heavy with age, like everything else in this cursed estate.
The dream always feels too real.
The acid blood. The angel's eyes. The demon's silence.
And the woman with the sword—whose name was never spoken, because she became the first of us.
The first Valebrand.
My name is Seraphine Valebrand, Duchess of the North.
And the blood that runs through my veins is not just mine. It belongs to all of them.
Every woman in my family.
Every soul that came before me.
Because this power—the fusion of divine grace and infernal might—only passes through the women of House Valebrand.
A gift, they called it.
A blessing.
But they don't see the blade hidden in that gift.
For generations, the women of my house have been hunted—by kings, priests, assassins, and even monsters. Power draws eyes. Female power draws knives.
Very few ever lived to see the age of forty.
My mother didn't.
Neither did my grandmother.
Sometimes, I wonder if this power ever truly saved anyone… or if it simply chose beautiful graves to fill.
I pushed the blankets aside, my breath still uneven. Snow tapped against the glass like ghostly fingers.
I turned my head.
And just like that, the memory came for me.
We were supposed to go to the capital that day.
A royal summons—my father, my mother, and my brother.
I was meant to go, too.
But I was sick. Feverish, weak. I cried because I wanted to go. I didn't want to be left behind.
My mother kissed my forehead and promised to bring back something beautiful.
They left in the morning.
By nightfall, I was no longer a daughter.
No longer a sister.
Only a name on parchment and a title that weighed too much for a child's shoulders.
The snow hadn't stopped that entire day.
the road was frozen and slippery. The horses lost their footing.
The carriage fell into the ravine-or at least that's what they said.
No bodies were recovered—only fragments of gold, torn velvet, and my father's broken crest ring.
I was eight years old.
And from that moment forward, I became the head of a house cursed by its own blood.