The first scream never reached the air.
Steel flashed once in the dark, and the sentry outside Balerion's door fell soundlessly—throat opened, blood drinking itself into the stone. A second shadow slid past him, hand dragging a thin thread of light across the threshold. The sigil flared and died.
Inside, the chamber was still. Only the low hiss of the hearth broke the silence.
Balerion's eyes opened before the blade reached him.
He didn't think; he knew. The air moved wrong. The heat from the fire bent too sharply. A heartbeat—someone else's—was too fast, too close. He rolled aside as a narrow dagger speared the pillow where his head had been. Feathers burst upward like pale smoke.
The attacker was masked, lean, wrapped in gray that seemed to drink color. No sound of breath, no visible eyes. A perfect killer from the Silent Choir, Valeria's own inquisition.
So it begins.
Balerion's bare feet hit the cold floor as another knife flew. He twisted, letting it cut a shallow line across his shoulder rather than his throat. Pain flared, bright and clean. His blood hit the ground—glowed faintly.
The assassin hesitated just long enough to realize the mistake.
The glow spread. A fine mist of red and gold rose from the wound, coiling like smoke and hardening into translucent scales. Balerion flexed his hand. The heat behind his ribs responded, a low growl inside the bones.
"Who sent you?" he asked.
No answer. The assassin flicked both wrists; twin blades appeared.
Behind the door, a thump—another guard silenced. Then a third shape slid in through the balcony, carrying a shortbow strung with silver thread.
Three against one. Adequate odds for mortals.
Balerion raised his palm. The blood from his shoulder gathered into a small sphere, spinning. It wasn't fire, exactly—more like liquid light that couldn't decide if it wanted to burn or consume.
When the first assassin lunged, he threw it.
The orb burst in mid-air, scattering in a fan. Where droplets touched stone, they hissed and vanished; where they touched flesh, they sank. The attacker screamed—not from pain, but from the absence of it—as his aura tore away and was swallowed. His body collapsed, empty eyes staring.
The others froze.
Selene kicked the door open. She wasn't in armor—only a loose night robe and bare feet—but her rapier was already drawn, silver edge humming. The candlelight caught her hair, her eyes gone full scarlet.
"Valeria traitors," she said coldly. "In my House."
The archer turned his bow on her. Balerion moved first. The room blurred—he didn't vanish, he simply arrived between them—and caught the arrow mid-flight. It hissed, vaporized against his skin.
He tossed the smoldering shaft aside. "You chose the wrong night."
Selene drove forward, sword a line of white flame. The last assassin met her with twin daggers; sparks flew. She parried high, pivoted low, swept his leg. When he fell, she pinned him with her boot and drove the rapier through his wrist.
"Talk."
He spat blood. "The Council ordered—cleanse the anomaly—restore order—"
Balerion crouched beside him. "Order," he repeated softly. "Whose?"
The assassin laughed once. "You are what the gods warned—"
Balerion touched the man's chest. The laughter stopped. The light left him, drawn through Balerion's palm in a slow exhale. No wound, no blood. Just…emptiness.
Selene stared. "You devoured his soul."
"I silenced his loyalty," Balerion said. "The body's still his."
"That's not comforting."
He stood, the glow fading from his hand. "They won't stop. This was sanctioned."
"My family doesn't move without permission from higher thrones," she said grimly. "If the Choir was loosed, the Balance may already have whispered in their ears."
They stepped over the bodies into the corridor. The hall was chaos—guards running, alarms unlit because sound was forbidden in Valeria emergencies. Every bell was psychic; every call a pulse of mana. Balerion felt them like insects brushing against his senses.
"They're sealing the gates," Selene said. "We can't fight an entire House here."
"We don't need to," Balerion replied. "We need to leave before they realize I'm not a corpse."
He closed his eyes. The world unfolded: corridors like veins, guards like clotting blood. He found the weakest wall of awareness—the servant tunnels under the west tower.
"This way."
Selene followed without question. They ran, silent, shadows sliding across cold marble. The walls trembled once—distant detonation as some fool triggered a containment seal meant for demons. Red light bled through the cracks, outlining their path.
They reached the servants' stair just as a group of armored knights turned the corner below. Selene cursed under her breath.
"Stay behind me," Balerion said.
"Excuse me?"
"I'm trying not to kill them."
He raised his hand. The knights froze—not because of spell or command, but because every torch in the corridor flared black, then inverted into crimson silhouettes. Their armor groaned as if the metal remembered fear. One by one they dropped their weapons, eyes wide, unseeing.
Selene touched his sleeve. "That wasn't just intimidation."
"No," he admitted. "It was dominance. The Draconyric wants to feed on submission. I redirected it."
"How?"
"I told it to eat fear instead of flesh."
"That's…new."
He smiled faintly. "Learning curve."
They reached the lower tunnels. The air smelled of earth and old blood. Crates lined the path—wine, relics, the sort of contraband noble houses pretended didn't exist. As they passed, one crate rattled. A voice hissed from within: "Help me—please—"
Selene halted. "That's a child."
The lid cracked open. A small figure peered out—pale, with faint scales on her cheeks. Half-dragon, half-vampire. Eyes wide.
Balerion's breath caught. "They were experimenting."
Selene's expression hardened. "My House promised those programs were destroyed generations ago."
"They lied."
The child flinched from the light. "They said if I stayed quiet, they'd make me pure again."
Balerion knelt. "You're already enough."
Something in his tone eased her trembling. He extended his hand; she took it. Her pulse fluttered—weak but steady.
Selene said, "We can't take her with us. The moment they realize she's missing—"
"Then they'll chase us for two reasons," he said. "Better than one."
Selene looked at him, then at the girl. "Fine. But if we live, you owe me a century of explanations."
"I'll write them," he promised.
They pushed deeper, following the tunnel to a service gate opening into the forest beyond the Vale. The barrier there shimmered—blood magic ward, keyed to Valeria lineage.
Selene pressed her palm against the sigil. It glowed, then dimmed. "It's bound to purity. My blood alone won't—"
Balerion joined her, his hand over hers. The ward hissed, uncertain between them, caught between flame and night.
"Come on," he whispered. "Decide."
The sigil cracked. Light poured outward, dissolving the barrier.
Selene blinked. "You talked it into obedience."
"I explained that purity is overrated."
They stepped into the cold night. The Vale spread below like a basin of stars, rooftops glittering with sigils, towers breathing mist. Behind them, alarms flared again—silver arcs tracing the sky. The House had noticed.
Balerion turned toward the distant mountains. "North," he said. "There's an old fortress where the Dominion's wards still reach."
Selene adjusted the cloak around the child, now asleep against her shoulder. "You're aware this makes us both traitors?"
"Then we'll need to be very good at surviving," he said.
She smirked faintly. "You're getting better at understatement."
He looked once more at the glowing city—the place where a family had tried to kill him, where gods still watched through borrowed eyes—and felt no fear, only resolve.
"Let them come," he murmured. "I'm done running from my own shadow."
They vanished into the forest, the sound of pursuit fading behind them.
High above, in the Astral Zenith, the Seer's tapestry writhed.
New threads—three this time—wove themselves together: the hybrid, the heir of Valeria, and a child of the discarded experiments.
The War Father growled. "He multiplies."
The Crimson Mother smiled, languid. "He creates."
And the Architect's distant voice, colder than starlight, whispered through them all:
"Creation and Devouring are the same act, depending on who tells the story."