The storm had passed by morning, but the city of Virelle remained damp with aftermath.
From the high terrace, the skyline shimmered with dew and smoke—soft light pooling in the cracks between towers and battlements. Beneath it all, the D'Arcos estate held its breath. Servants moved like ghosts. Guards doubled their patrols. No one spoke above a whisper.
Inside, the halls of the House were colder than usual.
Aurelian moved through them alone.
He had dressed simply—no tie, no pretense—just a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled, revealing forearms marked by time and conflict. His boots, freshly shined, still echoed like gunshots against the stone.
He wasn't looking for anyone.
He was looking for the past.
The Hall of Legacies was older than the rest of the estate. Tucked behind the east wing, past two locked doors and a descending corridor few remembered, it was less a hall and more a vault. No sunlight reached here. Only torch-shaped sconces along the walls, flickering above oil portraits and crumbling ledgers.
The air tasted of dust and quiet war.
Aurelian passed beneath a carved archway bearing the house motto: Vincit qui se vincit. He who conquers, conquers himself.
A lie, mostly.
The D'Arcos had never been known for restraint.
He paused in front of a stone alcove where a bronze bust of Cassian D'Arcos—one of the original blood vow signatories—watched from beneath a hooded brow. Aurelian knelt. Not in reverence, but necessity.
There was a pressure plate beneath the bust. He pressed it. Stone shifted.
A low grind echoed through the chamber as a wall panel swung inward to reveal a narrow spiral stair.
He descended.
⸻
The Archive was little more than a circular room carved deep into the estate's foundations. Its walls were lined with old tomes and unmarked drawers. In the center stood a stone pedestal upon which rested a codex bound in cracked black leather.
Aurelian had only been here once before. He was fourteen. His father had brought him, saying nothing until they reached the pedestal. Then, with a single gesture, he had opened the codex and pointed to a page marked in dried blood.
"Understand this," he had said, voice like granite. "This is what we owe."
Now, Aurelian opened the codex himself.
The old blood was still there, rust-brown and curled into the page like veins. The script was ancient, half-written in the old tongue, half in something older.
He turned the pages slowly.
The original vow was not between the D'Arcos and the Vantrells alone—but three houses. One had been struck from record, its sigil burned out with acid. Only a name remained, scrawled in the margins in faded ink: Marov.
He whispered it aloud. "Marov…"
The name meant nothing to most. But to the D'Arcos, it was a ghost.
Aurelian ran his fingers down the page until he reached a paragraph marked with a red wax seal. The wax cracked under his thumb, revealing words that had likely not been read in over a century.
"In blood, we bind. In death, we pay. The debt endures. Until the last name falls."
Below it, in a different hand—perhaps added years later—was a single sentence:
"One broke the vow. One buried it. One lives in its shadow."
Aurelian closed the book.
⸻
He found Ezra waiting just outside the Archive, leaning against the cool stone with the casual tension of someone who'd never stopped expecting gunfire.
"Did you find what you were looking for?" Ezra asked.
"No," Aurelian said. "But I found what I wasn't."
Ezra raised a brow. "Helpful."
Aurelian glanced down the corridor, then back to him. "You ever heard of House Marov?"
Ezra's expression didn't change, but his silence did.
"…You have," Aurelian said.
"I've heard rumors," Ezra replied. "That's not the same."
"Rumors usually mean someone tried to erase something and failed."
Ezra folded his arms. "The Marovs were purged a hundred years ago. Allegedly betrayed both the D'Arcos and Vantrells during the original blood vow. Their line was extinguished, their name stricken. Old-world justice. Fire and steel."
Aurelian nodded slowly. "So why is their name still in the codex?"
"Because nothing truly dies in this house." Ezra's voice was grim. "Just waits."
⸻
By noon, the estate's drawing room had been converted into a war council.
Lady Yvaine sat at the head of the long obsidian table, flanked by advisors, legal representatives, and one stone-faced emissary from the Vantrell family—a woman in scarlet who had introduced herself only as Alira.
The atmosphere was civil. Barely.
Sera Vantrell stood at the far end of the room, arms crossed, eyes locked on Aurelian. If she'd slept at all, it didn't show.
"We must reattempt the vow," Alira said firmly. "Before the delay is interpreted as intent to withdraw."
Yvaine's cane tapped the floor once. "And what of the attack? Or the two men dead under our roof?"
Alira offered a diplomatic smile. "Casualties, regrettable but not disqualifying. The vow can still hold."
"Convenient," Aurelian murmured.
Yvaine shot him a look, but Sera's voice cut through before either matriarch could respond.
"My family wants the vow," she said. "But not at the cost of blindness. Someone tried to sabotage this ceremony. If we proceed without clarity, we invite worse."
Alira turned, sharp. "And yet, delaying risks instability. There are observers who already doubt the strength of this alliance. Waiting plays into their hands."
Aurelian stepped forward. "So does walking into a second ambush."
Silence followed. Then: the faintest twitch of Yvaine's mouth.
"Enough." Her voice carried iron. "The vow will resume. But not until I've reviewed the estate's security protocols and spoken with our informants."
She stood, spine straighter than it had any right to be.
"In the meantime," she added, gaze flicking to Aurelian, "you will find out who opened fire in my house. Discreetly. No arrests. No noise."
Aurelian inclined his head. "Understood."
Yvaine nodded once, then swept from the room.
⸻
Later, in the estate's private study, Sera sat opposite Aurelian while Ezra leaned near the window, tuning the frequency on a handheld receiver.
Sera traced a finger along the spine of an old book pulled from the shelf. "You found something, didn't you?"
Aurelian hesitated.
"Yes," he said finally. "A third house. The Marovs. They were part of the original vow. Something went wrong. They were erased."
Sera's eyes narrowed. "And now?"
"And now someone wants the blood vow broken. Which means someone survived."
She closed the book. "Then we're not sealing a vow. We're walking into a vendetta."
Ezra's receiver pinged.
He glanced up. "Intercepted a shortwave burst. Not ours. Broadcasted two hours before the attack."
He adjusted a dial. A voice crackled through the device—distorted, metallic, filtered through layers of encryption:
"The bone is not buried. The blood is not clean. End it before they bind again."
Then silence.
Ezra switched it off. "Not D'Arcos. Not Vantrell. Could be Marov—if they're alive."
Aurelian stared out the window at the distant hills beyond the estate wall. Fog crept in over the river.
"If they're alive," he said quietly, "then this vow won't bring peace."
Sera nodded. "It'll bring war."Chapter 2: Old Stones, Old Bones
The storm had passed by morning, but the city of Virelle remained damp with aftermath.
From the high terrace, the skyline shimmered with dew and smoke—soft light pooling in the cracks between towers and battlements. Beneath it all, the D'Arcos estate held its breath. Servants moved like ghosts. Guards doubled their patrols. No one spoke above a whisper.
Inside, the halls of the House were colder than usual.
Aurelian moved through them alone.
He had dressed simply—no tie, no pretense—just a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled, revealing forearms marked by time and conflict. His boots, freshly shined, still echoed like gunshots against the stone.
He wasn't looking for anyone.
He was looking for the past.
The Hall of Legacies was older than the rest of the estate. Tucked behind the east wing, past two locked doors and a descending corridor few remembered, it was less a hall and more a vault. No sunlight reached here. Only torch-shaped sconces along the walls, flickering above oil portraits and crumbling ledgers.
The air tasted of dust and quiet war.
Aurelian passed beneath a carved archway bearing the house motto: Vincit qui se vincit. He who conquers, conquers himself.
A lie, mostly.
The D'Arcos had never been known for restraint.
He paused in front of a stone alcove where a bronze bust of Cassian D'Arcos—one of the original blood vow signatories—watched from beneath a hooded brow. Aurelian knelt. Not in reverence, but necessity.
There was a pressure plate beneath the bust. He pressed it. Stone shifted.
A low grind echoed through the chamber as a wall panel swung inward to reveal a narrow spiral stair.
He descended.
⸻
The Archive was little more than a circular room carved deep into the estate's foundations. Its walls were lined with old tomes and unmarked drawers. In the center stood a stone pedestal upon which rested a codex bound in cracked black leather.
Aurelian had only been here once before. He was fourteen. His father had brought him, saying nothing until they reached the pedestal. Then, with a single gesture, he had opened the codex and pointed to a page marked in dried blood.
"Understand this," he had said, voice like granite. "This is what we owe."
Now, Aurelian opened the codex himself.
The old blood was still there, rust-brown and curled into the page like veins. The script was ancient, half-written in the old tongue, half in something older.
He turned the pages slowly.
The original vow was not between the D'Arcos and the Vantrells alone—but three houses. One had been struck from record, its sigil burned out with acid. Only a name remained, scrawled in the margins in faded ink: Marov.
He whispered it aloud. "Marov…"
The name meant nothing to most. But to the D'Arcos, it was a ghost.
Aurelian ran his fingers down the page until he reached a paragraph marked with a red wax seal. The wax cracked under his thumb, revealing words that had likely not been read in over a century.
"In blood, we bind. In death, we pay. The debt endures. Until the last name falls."
Below it, in a different hand—perhaps added years later—was a single sentence:
"One broke the vow. One buried it. One lives in its shadow."
Aurelian closed the book.
⸻
He found Ezra waiting just outside the Archive, leaning against the cool stone with the casual tension of someone who'd never stopped expecting gunfire.
"Did you find what you were looking for?" Ezra asked.
"No," Aurelian said. "But I found what I wasn't."
Ezra raised a brow. "Helpful."
Aurelian glanced down the corridor, then back to him. "You ever heard of House Marov?"
Ezra's expression didn't change, but his silence did.
"…You have," Aurelian said.
"I've heard rumors," Ezra replied. "That's not the same."
"Rumors usually mean someone tried to erase something and failed."
Ezra folded his arms. "The Marovs were purged a hundred years ago. Allegedly betrayed both the D'Arcos and Vantrells during the original blood vow. Their line was extinguished, their name stricken. Old-world justice. Fire and steel."
Aurelian nodded slowly. "So why is their name still in the codex?"
"Because nothing truly dies in this house." Ezra's voice was grim. "Just waits."
⸻
By noon, the estate's drawing room had been converted into a war council.
Lady Yvaine sat at the head of the long obsidian table, flanked by advisors, legal representatives, and one stone-faced emissary from the Vantrell family—a woman in scarlet who had introduced herself only as Alira.
The atmosphere was civil. Barely.
Sera Vantrell stood at the far end of the room, arms crossed, eyes locked on Aurelian. If she'd slept at all, it didn't show.
"We must reattempt the vow," Alira said firmly. "Before the delay is interpreted as intent to withdraw."
Yvaine's cane tapped the floor once. "And what of the attack? Or the two men dead under our roof?"
Alira offered a diplomatic smile. "Casualties, regrettable but not disqualifying. The vow can still hold."
"Convenient," Aurelian murmured.
Yvaine shot him a look, but Sera's voice cut through before either matriarch could respond.
"My family wants the vow," she said. "But not at the cost of blindness. Someone tried to sabotage this ceremony. If we proceed without clarity, we invite worse."
Alira turned, sharp. "And yet, delaying risks instability. There are observers who already doubt the strength of this alliance. Waiting plays into their hands."
Aurelian stepped forward. "So does walking into a second ambush."
Silence followed. Then: the faintest twitch of Yvaine's mouth.
"Enough." Her voice carried iron. "The vow will resume. But not until I've reviewed the estate's security protocols and spoken with our informants."
She stood, spine straighter than it had any right to be.
"In the meantime," she added, gaze flicking to Aurelian, "you will find out who opened fire in my house. Discreetly. No arrests. No noise."
Aurelian inclined his head. "Understood."
Yvaine nodded once, then swept from the room.
⸻
Later, in the estate's private study, Sera sat opposite Aurelian while Ezra leaned near the window, tuning the frequency on a handheld receiver.
Sera traced a finger along the spine of an old book pulled from the shelf. "You found something, didn't you?"
Aurelian hesitated.
"Yes," he said finally. "A third house. The Marovs. They were part of the original vow. Something went wrong. They were erased."
Sera's eyes narrowed. "And now?"
"And now someone wants the blood vow broken. Which means someone survived."
She closed the book. "Then we're not sealing a vow. We're walking into a vendetta."
Ezra's receiver pinged.
He glanced up. "Intercepted a shortwave burst. Not ours. Broadcasted two hours before the attack."
He adjusted a dial. A voice crackled through the device—distorted, metallic, filtered through layers of encryption:
"The bone is not buried. The blood is not clean. End it before they bind again."
Then silence.
Ezra switched it off. "Not D'Arcos. Not Vantrell. Could be Marov—if they're alive."
Aurelian stared out the window at the distant hills beyond the estate wall. Fog crept in over the river.
"If they're alive," he said quietly, "then this vow won't bring peace."
Sera nodded. "It'll bring war."