It began without omen.
No scouts reported movement.
No mana fluctuation warned of approach.
No beast howled in the forest.
The night simply split apart.
The first explosion did not sound like thunder.
It sounded deliberate.
Stone erupted outward from the outer wall of House Valemont as if reality itself had been struck by a hammer. The defensive barrier — layered over decades with reinforcement sigils and noble-grade arrays — did not flicker.
It shattered.
The shockwave rolled inward across the estate, rattling glass, warping doors in their frames, shaking chandeliers loose from ceilings.
Elder Marthis staggered against the council table.
"That was not corruption," he hissed.
Outside, the sky darkened.
Not with clouds.
With structure.
A geometric lattice unfolded overhead — concentric rings of glyphs burning pale violet, spreading outward until the entire estate lay beneath it.
A suppression field.
Large-scale.
Prepared.
Mana across the grounds reacted violently.
Then thinned.
Then was pulled upward.
As if the sky itself had begun feeding.
The Commander
Through the breach strode black-cloaked figures in ordered formation.
Not scattered raiders.
Not desperate mercenaries.
Trained.
At their center walked a tall man in segmented armor etched with dampening runes. His face was hidden behind a smooth mask of dull steel, marked only with a vertical sigil.
His voice carried calmly over the chaos.
"Maintain formation. Secure the secondary array. Target remains priority."
Corrupted beasts followed — but these were not wild.
Sigils carved into their flesh pulsed in synchronized rhythm, binding their movements.
Weaponized.
The courtyard ignited in flashes of steel and mana bursts.
Guards fell.
Invaders fell.
Beasts tore through defensive lines with unnatural coordination.
The field commander did not draw his weapon immediately.
He watched.
Measured.
Above them, the suppression lattice pulsed brighter.
Inside the Inner Wing
Aruford woke before the second explosion.
Not from sound.
From absence.
The air felt wrong.
Heavy.
Not dense — restrained.
He reached instinctively outward.
Nothing flowed.
His absorption reflex met resistance.
Effector: Ambient Absorption — Severely Restricted.
His breath caught.
The mana in the estate was being siphoned upward into the sky-bound array.
Engineered starvation.
"…They adapted," the fragment murmured, clearer than before.
Aruford sat upright.
"So this is escalation."
"…This is removal of uncertainty."
The walls trembled again.
Closer.
Smoke began seeping under his door.
He moved.
Not panicked.
But fast.
The Courtyard War
When he reached the inner courtyard, it was already a battlefield.
Flames climbed wooden galleries.
A mana construct stitched from multiple horned beasts roared as it clashed with his father at the center.
His father's blade burned white with reinforced output, striking precise arcs against layered bone.
Two elders fought back-to-back against a robed invader weaving suppression counters.
Aruford felt something else beneath it all.
Not above.
Below.
A pulse under stone.
Faint.
Then clearer.
A second ritual circle activating beneath the children's quarters.
Not a blast.
An implosion design.
Collapse from foundation.
His eyes widened.
They weren't here merely to kill nobles.
They were here to force a choice.
The field commander turned his masked gaze toward the inner wing.
"Phase two," he ordered quietly.
Beneath the estate, glyphs ignited fully.
Realization
Aruford calculated instantly.
Suppression above limited intake.
External mana access was throttled.
Effector: External Mana Access — 12%.
Twelve percent.
Not enough to shield an entire wing.
His father saw him across the flames.
"Inside!" he roared.
Aruford did not move toward him.
He felt five signatures inside the children's quarters.
Small.
Terrified.
Not moving.
The fragment spoke again, steady.
"You cannot preserve all outcomes."
Aruford clenched his fists.
"How many?"
Silence stretched thin.
"…Three. With survival probability."
He didn't answer.
The ground beneath the children's wing glowed faintly now.
Heat rising through stone.
The field commander observed the timing carefully from across the courtyard.
"Extraction window approaching," he said.
He expected the boy to run toward strength.
Toward protection.
Toward survival.
Instead—
Aruford turned toward the collapsing wing.
And ran.
End of Chapter 10