The rain poured relentlessly over the Cemetery grounds, a sea of black umbrellas crowding the area as mourners gathered for the funeral of Abraham Lingard—the former head of the Lingard family.
But this was no ordinary gathering.
Not all who stood beneath the rain were Lingards, nor were they friends to the family. Most were leaders of powerful supernatural factions—figures who had, for over four hundred years, bowed in obedience to the Lingard household… ever since the birth of Eden.
Yet despite the weight of the gathering, a single figure stood apart.
No umbrella, nor any attempt to shield himself from the cold rain, Pariss stood by the coffin as the last mourner. Water trickled down his lean face as he watched the lowering device slowly carry the coffin into the grave.
His mind was still revisiting the night he returned—the same night his grandfather died.
But that wasn't all.
The note they found in the old man's desk… was it truly his will? Or had someone placed it there to make it seem so?
Why him?
He could still see the words etched clearly in his mind:
"Upon clear mind, I, Abraham Lingard, Head of the Lingard Household, do hereby name Pariss Lingard—my first grandson, son of my late son Jonathan Lingard—as my rightful successor.
"He shall assume my seat and bear the title of High Lord of Eden.
"Let all factions and sub-factions of Eden bear witness and submit:
"The High Houses—Immortals, Vampires, Dragons, the High Fae Courts, and the Seraphic Orders.
"The Infernal Courts—Demons, Devilkin, and all who walk the path of damnation.
"The Arcane Circles—Witches, Warlocks, and all practitioners of the hidden arts.
"The Shifting Clans—Werewolves, Beastkin, and all who wear more than one form.
"The Dead and the Bound—Revenants, Wraiths, Liches, Necromancers, and spirits unreturned.
"The Elder Races—Elves, Dwarves, Giants, Titans, and those older still.
"The Fae Courts—of light and dark alike.
"The Creatures of Myth—Basilisks, Gorgons, Chimeras, Drakes, and all lesser horrors.
"The Elemental and Primordial—Djinn, Elementals, Stormborn, Voidborn, Shadowkin, Timekeepers, Dreamwalkers…
"By blood, by law, and by ancient oath—this decree is absolute.
"All shall answer to him."
He couldn't decide if his grandfather had been a maniac, though he'd always trusted his sanity. But who in their right mind—especially in this world—would name a sixteen-year-old boy High Lord over supernatural races he had only heard from some family stories?
The gathering in the cemetery was already thinning, dark vehicles one by one leaving the grounds.
The rain had stopped too suddenly, making Pariss wonder what had just happened. It didn't feel like anything out of the ordinary—yet something about it unsettled him.
"It is not fitting for the High Lord of Eden to leave himself drenched," said a calm, womanly voice. "It diminishes your dignity… especially before your humble subjects."
Pariss turned to see three beautiful women standing before him, draped in white, silver-lined cloaks.
"Excuse me!" he said, looking around as he realized the rain had stopped only where they stood. "But how—"
"The Seraphs of the Broken Light greet you, High Lord."
They spoke in unison, bowing their heads briefly.
Pariss swallowed, unsure what to say. "Um… hi. I guess you're—"
"We are the three Seraphs, my lord," said the one in the middle, her dark hair framing her umber eyes. "I am Seraphine Duskfall."
The one on the right, with striking white hair and pale eyes that seemed to hold moonlight within them, bowed again.
"And I am Lilith Noctra, at your service, High Lord."
The other two watched him with quiet admiration.
"As your loyal subject, my lord," said the one on the left, her blonde hair falling as she knelt. She looked much younger than the others. "I am Aurelia Vexis, at your service."
Pariss lingered a step behind, unsure how to address the three women before him. He had no real understanding of who they were—only the weight of their presence and the title they had spoken.
He sighed. "To — to what i owe the pleasure of your visit..." His last words came out awkward than he had anticipated.
"Not to worry, my Lord," said Seraphine, in the middle, "you'll get use to things just as your garandfather did."
"You knew Abraham — " Pariss halted, knowing his question was absurd.
"More than knowing him," continued the one in the middle, "we were friends, like good friends. We helped him a lot during his time as the High Lord."
"You're… angels?" Pariss said, the realization settling in as he finally recalled what seraph truly meant.
"It took you long enough to look into that, but yes, we're the angelic beings older than any in this beautiful city of Eden." Seraphine proclaimed proudly.
Pariss nodded, excitement rising at being in the presence of three angels. He hadn't known they existed—not here, in Eden.
"Your grandfather was, i can say, one of our favourite High Lords that ever watched over this city." Spoke Lilith, the one on the right.
Pariss turned toward the grave and realized the machine—and everything else—were gone. In its place stood a newly erected tombstone, his grandfather's name fully engraved into the stone.
Green glasses had already grown around it, like days had already passed since he was buried.
"His name would be remembered," spoke Seraphine.
"You did this?" Pariss asked, his eyes catching something glittering on the tombstone. He reached for it and realized it was a ring, silvery one. "What's this?"
He kept studying the ring in his hand. On its surface was something like a shining eye.
"It's the least we can do," continued Seraphine. "You'd take the ring, it once belonged to your grandfather — "
"Abraham!" Pariss said under his breath still looking at it.
"Yes, and it can now belong to you."
"No," said Pariss as he gave the ring back to Seraphine. "I know you're good to my grandfather and wish me well, but having his seat is enough horror for me. But I can't start having his possessions too, like this one, they make me feel creepy sometimes."
The three Seraphs looked a bit surprised, seeming hesitant to take their own ring.
"Very well then," said Seraphine, taking the ring from Pariss. "But do except — "
"I'm afraid the rain is over, Seraphs of the Broken Light," a voice cut into their conversation. It was Marcus, his grandfather's former assistant. Now, with the old man gone, he had become Pariss's assistant.
"The High Lord no longer needs your umbrella—or whatever trick this is. We should be leaving now, Lord Pariss."
Tension tightened the air. Marcus's eyes were filled with open aversion. The Seraphs, too, were no longer smiling; their expressions had shifted into cold, unreadable stares.
"Very well then," Seraphine said, her voice calm and final. "I believe you must take your leave, my lord. You may excuse us."
"No problem—"
Pariss never finished.
The three ladies began to glow.
It started softly—like moonlight brushing against their skin—but in a heartbeat, it swelled into a blinding white radiance. The air itself seemed to tremble as the light consumed their forms, forcing Pariss to stop mid-sentence.
"I'd close my eyes if I were you, my lord."
The young seraph's voice reached him through the brilliance, distant and ethereal. He tried to look at her, but her face was no longer something the eye could grasp—only a silhouette swallowed by light.
"I wish you good fortune." She added as the glow intensified.
Pariss raised his arm, shielding his eyes just as the light burst outward—silent, yet overwhelming. A lingering, melodic hum followed, like a choir fading into the heavens.
Then… nothing. The light vanished. Pariss slowly lowered his arm and saw only Marcus . No surprise touched his face—only a quiet acceptance, as if he had expected nothing less.
But, a strange chill spread through his hand as he became aware of something small yet solid pressed within his fist. His fingers loosened, and when he opened his palm, his breath caught.
It was the ring he had just handed back to Seraphine.
For a moment, he simply stared, trying to understand how it had returned to him. Then his gaze sharpened.
Something was wrong.
The metal had darkened, its surface no longer carrying the faint sheen it once had, and where the eye had been carved before, there was now a skull etched into its face—hollow, grinning, and disturbingly precise.