## CHAPTER 54: The Uninvited Guest
"Father," Lyra called again, her voice small against the towering shelves of the study.
Alastor Valerius let out a long, weary sigh. He didn't look up from the ancient parchment he was annotating.
"What is it, child?" he asked. His tone was clipped, the verbal equivalent of a closed door.
"Uh... hmm..." Lyra hesitated. She shifted her weight from one bare foot to the other, the cold stone floor of the tower sending a chill up her legs. She had rehearsed a dozen different ways to bring up the monsters in the forest, but in the presence of his crushing aura, her mind went blank. "How... how was your day?"
Alastor's quill paused for a fraction of a second. He sighed once more, a sound of profound patience being tested.
"Good," he said, the word sounding forced, as if he were being coerced into performing a mundane social ritual. He waited a beat, then added with a robotic coldness, "How about yours?"
"Great!" Lyra blurted out, her lips curving into a hopeful smile. For a fleeting second, the tension in the room seemed to lift. She felt a spark of warmth—they were having a normal conversation. A father and a daughter, talking about their day.
*SILENCE.*
The spark died as quickly as it had ignited. The silence returned, heavy and suffocating. Lyra stood there, dumbfounded, her smile faltering. She realized with a sinking heart that she had absolutely no follow-up. The bridge between them had collapsed before the first stone was even laid.
Alastor's crimson gaze remained fixed on her, unnerving and cold. Even as his daughter, she could never grow accustomed to those eyes; they didn't look at her with affection, but with the analytical scrutiny of a scientist examining a laboratory culture. It frightened her.
"If that is all, I must get back to work," he said, seeing nothing of value left in the exchange. He turned his head back to his books, effectively erasing her from his reality.
The intense pressure of his focus vanished, leaving Lyra feeling hollow. She looked at him—this silent, solitary man who isolated himself in a fortress of his own making. Was it pride? Was it some deep-seated trauma? She couldn't tell. Sometimes, she couldn't help but wonder: *"Would he love me if I were more like him?"* by that she meant looks.
Alastair Rose Valerius is different not just by presence or aura but he had strange physiology similar to beast kin. Little black antlas horns on his head, crimson beast like eyes, sharp nails like claws.
She had tried to dig into his past, searching through the family archives for fragments of the man he used to be. She found nothing. No childhood stories, no records of his youth—only the terrifying reputation he had built. Alastor Valerius was feared in all the kingdoms, a man who had earned his title as the Crimson Devil through blood and shadow. But why? She didn't even know his real age.
Summoning the last of her courage, she spoke again.
"Father."
Alastor's shoulders tensed. He was clearly becoming frustrated. "What is it now?"
He didn't look at her, which gave her the small mercy of being able to speak without the weight of his stare.
"I have been meaning to learn about revival magic... and necromancy techniques," she said, her voice gaining strength. "So... I was hoping you might have some books I could read. To start with."
Alastor shifted his gaze back to her. This time, his eyes were sharp. Necromancy was a forbidden art for most, a path of darkness that few dared to tread. The fact that his daughter was asking for it caught his attention in a way her "day" never could.
The silence returned as he stared at her, questioning her with his stillness. Lyra felt her pulse thrumming in her throat.
*"I have to say something, or he'll just dismiss me,"* she thought.
"Since only those with a dark mana origin can truly master necromancy," she continued, "and since I hail from that same origin... I thought it was time I learned. I saw things in the Forbidden Sector, Father. A creature that wouldn't stay dead. I need to understand how."
Alastor remained silent, his face a mask of dull indifference.
*"He looks so empty,"* Lyra thought sadly. *"I just wish I could see a single emotion. Just a flicker of warmth."*
She nervously fondled the silk ribbons of her nightgown as the seconds stretched. Finally, Alastor spoke.
"Listen, child. I do not have time for this now." His voice was flat. "I am in the middle of my studies. The night is the only time I can think clearly. I will consider it tomorrow."
"Me too!" Lyra said, her excitement bubbling over. "That's exactly why I came now! This is when I do most of my reading too. The night is... it's the best time."
Alastor was momentarily stunned by her sudden burst of enthusiasm. He stared at her as if she were an odd creature he hadn't seen before. Then, he let out a harsh sigh.
"You do not understand the true purpose of nocturnal study," he said, his words stinging like a lash. "To study at night is to embrace the void. The silence is a tool to shut out the distractions of the living. To compare your 'reading' to my work is... foolish."
He turned back to his desk. "And as for those books, you won't be needing them. I will not provide you with necromantic texts."
Lyra's heart sank. "But... Father, I—"
"I don't want to hear it. That is final."
Lyra stood frozen. She had tried so hard to build a bridge, to find common ground, but he had burned it down without a second thought. All the technical questions she had prepared vanished, replaced by a cold, numbing sadness.
"Leave me," he ordered, his eyes already tracing the lines of his scroll.
Lyra turned to leave, her vision blurring. She had access to everything—wealth, status, the finest education in the world. But the one thing she craved, the one thing her status couldn't buy, was her father's care. She fought back the tears, her chest aching with the effort to maintain her Valerius composure.
She had never known her mother. Every time she brought up the subject, Alastor would shut down, his aura turning violent and volatile. It was the only time he ever lost his icy composure.
Just as her hand touched the cold iron handle of the door, his voice drifted through the room.
"Make sure you get enough rest, Lyra. Reading until dawn is not good for a growing child."
She paused. In the depths of her mind, a small, fragile hope flickered. He had noticed. He had acknowledged her well-being, however briefly.
*"He does care,"* she told herself, desperate to believe it.
"Goodnight, Father," she whispered. A single tear, a mix of sorrow and strange, desperate joy, fell as she slipped out into the dark hallway.
---
After the door clicked shut, Alastor Rose Valerius remained motionless. He didn't return to his work. Instead, he dropped his quill and stared at the door Lyra had just passed through.
Something was wrong. The air in the room felt heavy, charged with a foreign energy that hadn't been there a moment ago. His crimson eyes glowed with a predatory light. Someone was standing at his door—but they weren't hesitating like Lyra. They were waiting.
And they hadn't used the stairs.
"Come out," Alastor commanded. He released a wave of deadly killing intent that made the green flames of the torches flicker.
The air in the center of the room began to warp. A ripple appeared, the space imploding and collapsing in on itself with a sound like tearing silk. Millions of tiny, shimmering black motes appeared, swirling together and reconstructing a human silhouette.
When the ripple faded, a figure in a heavy black cloak stood before the Crimson Devil. Their face was hidden behind a stark white mask, devoid of features, save for two hollow eye slits.
Alastor didn't stand. He simply leaned back in his chair, his glowing eyes fixed on the intruder.
"You have a very poor sense of timing," Alastor said, his voice dropping into a lethal, low register. "And an even worse sense of self-preservation."
The masked figure bowed slightly, a gesture that was more mockery than respect. The temperature in the room dropped thirty degrees. Alastor's shadow began to elongate, crawling across the floor like a living thing.