The throne hall of Veyrantis was carved from obsidian and gold, its towering pillars etched with serpents and phoenixes—the symbols of power, destruction, and rebirth. At its center, upon a dais of black marble, sat Aresha Lilith Silas, the youngest patriarch the Silas family had ever produced.
Her silver hair spilled like moonlight across her shoulders, a cruel reminder of the poison still lodged in her veins, the poison that had failed to kill her but had never stopped trying. Beneath her gloves, the Dragon and Phoenix tattoo coiled, shimmering faintly when the light touched it, as though alive.
The air was heavy with silence. Rows of Silas elders stood in perfect formation, their gazes lowered. Even those who had served Demon Silas, the iron-fisted patriarch before her, dared not meet her eyes for too long.
From the shadows at the far end of the hall, Demon Silas watched her with a thin smile. His back bent with age, but his aura remained sharp, suffocating. Even stripped of his seat as patriarch, his presence was like a blade at her throat.
"You speak of war," one of the elders finally said, breaking the suffocating silence. "The International Alliance will not be swayed by threats. To oppose the seven continents is to invite ruin, Patriarch."
The corner of Aresha's lips curved upward, though no warmth touched her eyes.
"Ruin?" Her voice was low, melodic, yet sharper than glass. "No. They already know what awaits them should they step out of line."
She raised a hand, and a servant unfurled a scroll. Inside, etched in blood-red ink, was a map of the world—marked with nine scattered sigils.
"The World's End virus rests quietly beneath their feet. One word from me, and it will awaken." She leaned forward, silver strands catching the light. "There will be no ruin. There will be the end."
A ripple of unease swept the hall. Even the most loyal elders shivered, for they had seen what she was capable of.
From the shadows, Demon Silas chuckled. "Control through fear, just as expected. You are every bit my blood, child. But remember—bloodlines are eternal. Power is not."
His gaze lingered meaningfully. He had not said it outright, but she knew. He was speaking of heirs.
Aresha's fingers tightened against the throne's armrest. Her blood burned, not with fear, but with the fire of hatred long buried.
Bloodline.The word itself was a chain. The very chain that had once bound her mother, Vivian Silas. The chain that had been wrapped around her neck since birth.
And yet… her grandfather was wrong. She was not bloodline. She was not heir.
She was fire. She was poison. She was survival.
But as the scent of fresh parchment from the IA's letter reached her, sterile and chemical, a shadow flickered across her vision.
The throne hall vanished.
She was eight again.Steel walls.The stench of disinfectant.Her mother's cold eyes, watching her scream, watching her bleed, watching her body break.
Aresha blinked, jaw tightening, dragging herself back to the present before the past consumed her. She would not give them the satisfaction of seeing weakness.
Her gaze swept the hall, silencing whispers before they began.
"Let the IA test me," she said at last, voice like ice cracking over fire. "And let the world learn what happens when it challenges Veyrantis."
And in the shadows, Demon Silas's smirk deepened, because he saw it too—behind the ice, the fire still burned.