The weight of the silence in the room was shattered by the sharp intake of breath as Jay's eyes snapped open. The shame of his previous reprimand was momentarily eclipsed by a chilling realization.
"Unalived?" Jay's voice was thin, struggling for its usual stability. "Brother, what exactly do you mean? How can Savier be... gone?"
Raphael's expression remained a frozen mask of iron. "He was not simply killed, Jay. He was harvested. His body was found in the compound, a dried husk stripped of every drop of malum and life. And as of this moment, we have no culprit. No scent, no witness, and no explanation for how the Mark failed to wake the watch."
Jay's mouth hung open, a silent plea for logic that wouldn't come. He looked to Darion, then back to the floor, the gravity of the situation sinking into his marrow. A vanguard—a warrior who had stood through a hundred skirmishes—had been erased like a smudge on a slate within their own walls.
"Be vigilant," Raphael warned, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low frequency. "Ensure no more of our people are lost. This predator is in our house, and I want them brought to justice before the next moon. Now, go."
Both Darion and Jay bowed low, their movements synchronized by a shared sense of unease, and retreated from the chamber.
Left alone, the cold facade Raphael maintained finally flickered. He looked down at the silver pendant still clutched in his palm, his eyes watering with a grief he could never show the world. With a jagged sigh, he tucked the image of his mother back into his tunic, sealing the memory away.
Back in the outer compound, the air was thick with the hushed, frantic murmurs of the soldiers. The groaning of the estate doors silenced them instantly as Darion and Jay descended the stone steps. The brothers moved through the crowd like twin storms, the soldiers parting with grim, respectful glances.
Darion stopped and locked eyes with Jarul. "Jarul, get to the borders. Now. Inform the two stationed there of everything. Tell them if they see so much as a shadow move wrong, they are to signal. Go!"
Jarul didn't hesitate. Despite the lingering ache in his spine, he surged forward, a blur of motion as he rushed toward the outskirts of Fluxton to carry out the mandate.
As the dust settled, Jay's gaze drifted across the yard until it snagged on the small, huddled form of Ezekiel.
He stared at the boy, struck by the contrast. During the battle against the Devil's Flames, Ezekiel had been a conduit of terrifying, albeit raw, potential. Now, he looked shriveled—sickly and hollow, his skin clinging to his frame in a way that reminded Jay of the day they first met.
Jay remembered that day vividly. Raphael had set a trap using five street dwellers, a desperate gamble to catch the phantom who had been culling their people in the Wilson slums. They had expected a monster; they had found a boy. Ezekiel Graves was the "Miracle Boy," the tool Raphael was obsessed with polishing into a masterpiece.
But their history was one of friction. Their first real interaction had been the cold exchange of tribute, but it was the second that haunted Jay—the moment in the heat of battle when he had commanded Ezekiel to finish Pyrax. He had pushed the boy too hard, too fast, and Ezekiel had collapsed face-first into a pool of his own blood, his vessel shattered by the strain.
For Raphael, that failure wasn't a tragedy; it was a waste of resources. A tool that breaks before it can be sharpened is useless, and Jay had been the one to break it. The memory of the punishment that followed made Jay's skin crawl.
Jay's fists clenched, veins bulging along his forearms as his eyes narrowed into slits of pure, concentrated resentment. He looked at Ezekiel and saw the source of his own humiliation.
Before the thought could turn into action, a heavy hand slammed into the back of Jay's head. *Whack.*
"Control yourself, little brother," Darion growled, his hand snaking out to clamp firmly onto Jay's ear. He dragged Jay forward, putting him on display before the staring soldiers. "Raphael gave an order. The boy is not to be touched. Unless you're eager to see if your back can handle another round of the 'lessons' Raphael provides, you'll keep your eyes off him."
Jay gritted his teeth, his face turning a dark, bruised purple with rage. It wasn't just the physical pain; it was the public shaming. To be handled like a disobedient child in front of the very vampires who were supposed to fear him was an insult he couldn't swallow. He was a Night brother, a conqueror of the Dark Kings, and yet here he was, being humbled in the dirt.
The air around Jay's right arm suddenly curdled. Crimson blood magic gathered in a violent swirl, extending into jagged, armored claws. With a snarl of defiance, Jay slashed upward, the lethal blades whistling toward the fingers Darion had clamped around his ear.
Darion's arm then ignited in a coat of shimmering crimson magic. With a snarl, he caught Jay's wrist mid-swing, the force of the impact sending a ripple through the air. He held his brother there, his grip firm as stone, glaring into Jay's eyes with a look that promised a long, painful lesson in hierarchy.
But Jay was past the point of submission. His jaws remained clenched, a vein throbbing in his temple as he channeled a sudden surge of blood magic through his own veins. With a violent grunt, he pried his hand free, the force of the release kicking up a cloud of dust as he skidded backward. His gaze swept over the watching soldiers—his supposed inferiors—before locking onto the one person who had turned his day into a series of humiliations: Ezekiel Graves. For the second time, Jay found himself enduring pain and embarrassment because of this boy, and the hatred in his eyes was palpable.
Before Jay could act on that spite, the air around him buckled. Darion had closed the distance in a blur of motion, driving his clenched fist deep into Jay's abdomen. Jay's back hunched forward as waves of crimson sparks erupted from the point of impact, his breath leaving him in a ragged wheeze. Driven by pure, unadulterated rage, Jay summoned a massive crimson scythe from the ether of his magic and swung it in a lethal arc aimed directly at Darion's throat.
Darion moved with the fluid grace of a seasoned predator, leaning back just as the shimmering blade hissed through the space his neck had occupied a second before. Jay's grip tightened on the scythe, his knuckles white, preparing to launch a second strike.
Then, the sky itself seemed to protest.
A jagged bolt of crimson lightning tore through the air from above, striking the earth between the two brothers with a deafening crack. The force of the blast threw Jay backward, his scythe dissipating into red mist as he narrowly avoided being scorched by the discharge.
"Enough!"
Raphael's voice didn't just carry across the compound; it seemed to resonate from the very stones under their feet. Even though he remained within his exquisite chambers, his presence was absolute. In his private room, Raphael's fists were curled tight enough to draw blood, his eyes igniting with a frigid, predatory glow as his voice rolled out over the courtyard like thunder. He called them idiots—children who let their shallow emotions dictate their actions—and specifically rebuked Darion for allowing a dispute to escalate into an open display of weakness.
The transformation in the brothers was instantaneous. Jay's rage was extinguished, replaced by a cold, hollow fear that made his hands tremble. Darion, too, dropped his offensive stance, his shoulders tensing as the weight of Raphael's authority settled over him.
"If there is one more skirmish—one more drop of blood spilled between you or the soldiers—before Savier's killer is found," Raphael's voice dropped to a terrifying whisper that everyone heard clearly, "you will answer to me personally."
Silence followed, heavy and suffocating. For a lingering moment, Darion and Jay looked at one another, the embers of their mutual hatred flickering one last time before being snuffed out by the reality of Raphael's threat. Turning toward the ranks of soldiers, their voices were now subdued, stripped of their earlier heat.
"Be vigilant," Darion commanded, though the authority felt borrowed. "Ensure Savier's killer is found. Leave no stone unturned."
"Yes, Sirs!" the guards shouted in a singular, terrified chorus.
Without another word, the two brothers turned and walked toward the gates of the outer compound. Their pride was bruised, but their minds were already shifting. If the official channels were failing, they would conduct their own hunt. The townsfolk were useless, but perhaps the shadows of the city held the answers their soldiers were too dull to see.
Ezekiel Graves stood in the shadows, his eyes narrowed as he watched the gates swing shut behind the two Night brothers. He remained still, a ghost in the machinery, wondering exactly what kind of havoc they were about to unleash upon the world outside those walls.