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Nightfall. Inside one of the castle's silent chambers, the world seemed to hold its breath.
The pale moonlight filtered through the towering windows, casting a ghostly, skeletal glow across the room.
In the center of the hall sat a woman of ethereal beauty.
Her long, silver hair shimmered like liquid starlight, illuminating the dim space around her with a faint, otherworldly radiance.
She wore a delicate gown of white and azure.
As she knelt gracefully, the fabric surged around her like the foam of a silent ocean.
A refined hairpin gathered a section of her silver locks, keeping them perfectly in place.
Even her eyebrows and long, fluttering lashes mirrored that same moonlight hue, glistening with every slight, measured movement.
Opposite her sat a man with hair as black as the abyss.
His features were sharp, yet his eyes—dark and hollow—resembled those of a corpse.
Deep shadows hung beneath them, marking a face that was cold, exhausted, and utterly indifferent to the world.
He wore an obsidian-colored robe of high nobility, yet its elegance only added to his haunting, ominous presence.
His left hand rested heavily on his knee, while his right gripped a glass of wine with white-knuckled intensity. He sat with the posture of a man who had grown weary of existence itself.
Between them stood a small, circular table holding a game board of five interconnected rings. A large central circle was surrounded by four smaller ones, each divided into intricate squares and occupied by carved figurines.
The room was deathly quiet. The only sound was the rhythmic swaying of the curtains as they brushed against the stone walls with a soft, haunting hiss. A gentle breeze drifted through the open window, dancing with the heavy silk drapes in a ghostly waltz.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until the woman finally broke it. With a delicate click, she moved one of the game pieces to a new position.
"It seems luck is on my side tonight, my Prince," she chuckled softly, her voice like the chime of distant silver bells. "Hehe..."
The Prince, who had been staring blankly at the board, slowly lifted his lifeless gaze. But in that moment, the woman before him vanished. Her melodic laughter had triggered a hauntingly beautiful memory—the laughter of a young man from a distant, blood-stained past.
It was an exquisite sound, yet it pierced his heart like a poisoned blade.
That same elegant, crystalline laughter...
It was the only sound that had ever resonated over his own defeat. The memory of that one person—the only one to ever shatter the Prince's pride—resurfaced with a violent, agonizing intensity.
His expression fractured. A sudden, cold fury boiled beneath his skin, turning his blood to ice.
With a single, violent motion, he flipped the table. The wood groaned as it struck the floor, the heavy crash echoing through the silent chamber. The game board soared through the air, and the carved figurines scattered across the cold stone like broken teeth.
While the tension in the room shattered, a young boy of about twelve moved through the dimly lit corridors nearby. He was strikingly handsome, his long silver hair emitting a soft, ghostly luminescence in the shadows.
A single, sharp streak of crimson ran through his silver locks like a fresh wound, starting from the right and fading into the back—a vivid contrast that seemed to pulse in the dark.
His eyebrows were silver, save for a distinct red line on the right that created a rhythmic, almost mystical pattern.
Even his long, delicate lashes were a mix of silver and blood-red.
But it was his eyes that told the darkest story. They shimmered with a depth of suffering and hidden resentment, as if the world's entire weight of agony had been carved into his pupils. Yet, this melancholy only enhanced his haunting beauty.
His disciplined stature spoke of years of grueling physical mastery. The flare of his wide trousers and the cut of his long tunic marked him clearly for what he was: a swordsman.
Suddenly, a heavy, splintering crash echoed through the hall, tearing through the silence of the castle.
Alarmed, the boy rushed toward the chamber.
Reaching the doorway, he skidded to a halt as he took in the scene.
The woman was collapsed on the floor, leaning heavily on her right hand.
Her left was pressed tight against her chest, as if shielding her heart from an imminent threat.
Standing over her was the man in black. His gaze was cold and corpse-like, radiating a suffocating aura of rage that seemed to chill the very air.
The boy's jaw tightened. His face shifted instantly into a mask of lethal intent. In a blurred flash of motion, he crossed the room, planting himself firmly in front of the woman as a living shield.
"Don't you dare lay a finger on her!" he spat, his voice trembling with a raw, dangerous fury.
The Prince stared down at the boy. A heavy, suffocating stillness descended upon the room—the deceptive calm before a devastating storm. For a long moment, the Prince's lifeless eyes locked onto the child's.
Without a word, the man grabbed his wine and turned away. His dark robes trailed behind him like a funeral shroud as he vanished into the shadows of the corridor.
"Tch... Piece of shit," the boy hissed.
He remained tense, his knuckles white as he gripped the hilt of his sword, watching the spot where the man had disappeared. Only when the footsteps faded did his fierce gaze soften into waves of worry.
"Mother... are you alright? Did he hurt you?" the boy asked, his voice shaking with suppressed emotion.
"I'm fine... everything is alright," she whispered, her fingers trembling as she composed herself. "But what are you doing here, Arzel?"
"They released us early from training today," he replied, his breath hitching.
The mother reached out and pulled the boy into a tight, desperate embrace. Outside, the night pressed on. The silver moonlight continued to bathe the forest and the castle, wrapping the world in a deceptive, silent peace that hid the rot within.
The scene shifted to one of the castle's private chambers—a bedroom draped in the finest, most exquisite fabrics. It was a sanctuary fit for true royalty, where the harsh reality of the world felt like a distant memory.
Moonlight poured through the expansive windows, striking the silken hangings and transforming the room into a realm of shimmering, celestial light.
On the massive, luxurious bed, the mother knelt, her figure a silhouette of grace against the silver glow.
She cradled Arzel's head in her lap, her fingers gently stroking his hair in a slow, rhythmic motion.
The silence was broken only by a soft breeze drifting through the open window, playing with the mother's hair like a curious kitten. She radiated an intoxicating fragrance—a scent so divine it felt like a spell, wrapping the room in a sense of unnatural peace.
Arzel clung to her tightly. His embrace was wordless, a desperate anchor in a world that felt as if it were constantly trying to pull them apart. He wouldn't let go. Not tonight. Not ever.
The mother finally broke the stillness, her voice a fragile melody that barely rose above a whisper.
"My son... do not judge your father too harshly."
Arzel's entire frame tensed in her arms. He didn't pull away, but the warmth in his eyes flickered, replaced by a cold spark of defiance.
"After everything he did to us?"
"He isn't who you believe him to be," she said softly, her gaze drifting toward the moonlight as if looking at a past only she could see. "The day will come when all is revealed. You might even find it in your heart to accept him."
"In my world, there is no one but you," Arzel replied, his voice firm and unwavering, cutting through her gentle words. "And there never will be."
Overwhelmed by a surge of maternal love, she smiled through her sorrow—a pained, beautiful expression. She pulled him deeper into her embrace, burying her face in the silver of his hair.
"Arzel..." she murmured.
"It's you I love," the boy whispered against her chest, his grip tightening until his knuckles ached. "Only you."
The night pressed on, cold and indifferent, but within that room, the world existed only for the two of them.
The tender sanctuary of the room was shattered by a mocking, oily voice from the doorway.
"How touching... I love her, too."
Arzel and his mother froze mid-breath, their eyes snapping toward the entrance
Emerging from the shadows stood a young man clad in opulent black and crimson regalia.
His features were hauntingly beautiful, framed by long, flowing black hair, but his face carried an expression of deep-seated malice and arrogance.
He stood with the poise of a high-ranking noble, yet his aura felt like a creeping poison.
In an instant, the warmth vanished from Arzel's face. He sprang from his mother's side, his fingers coiling around the hilt of his sword until his knuckles turned ghost-white.
"What are you doing here at this hour?" Arzel demanded, his voice a low snarl of warning.
"Is this how you treat your guests?" the man mocked, tilting his head with a lazy, jagged smirk.
"A guest? You're more like filth that belongs in a pigsty," Arzel spat, his fury reaching a boiling point.
The man let out a theatrical sigh, bowing his head slightly as if pained by the insult. "So rude. Is that any way to talk to your uncle?"
He looked up, his eyes glinting with a sharp, piercing cruelty. "Right, I forgot. You're just a monster with corrupted blood."
He then turned his gaze toward Mithian, who sat trembling on the bed, her radiant light flickering in the face of his malice. "Control your son's dirty language, Mithian. Tell the boy to know his place."
That was the final straw. With a roar of defiance that tore through his throat, Arzel lunged.
The uncle's smirk widened into a predatory grin as he saw the boy attack. He had been waiting for this. In the heart of Mithian's elegant bedroom, the silent night was ripped apart by the scream of steel.
Blade met blade in a shower of sparks, the sharp, metallic ring echoing against the stone walls—the beginning of a desperate struggle between uncle and nephew.
Arzel didn't just lunge; he became a blur of silver light. His blade hissed through the air, a lethal arc aimed directly at his uncle's throat.
The steel collided with a deafening ring, the vibration humming through their arms. The uncle parried, but the sheer momentum of Arzel's strike forced his boots to skid across the polished marble floor.
Arzel didn't give him a second to breathe. He spun with feline grace, appearing behind his opponent to deliver a heavy horizontal slash.
The uncle ducked—the wind of the blade whistling inches above his head—and countered with a powerful spinning kick. Arzel blocked it with his forearms, the bone-jarring impact sending him sliding to the far corner of the room.
For several minutes, the chamber was filled with the rhythmic, lethal music of clashing steel. Sharp clinks and heavy grinds echoed against the stone walls, sparks flying like dying stars every time the metals met.
They moved like shadows, their blades a shimmering haze. Arzel's movements were precise, a testament to years of grueling training, while his uncle fought with a predatory, effortless cruelty.
This wasn't a spar between kin; it was a dance of death that tore through the quiet of the castle.
"Old Os's training seems to have paid off," the uncle remarked with a thin, mocking smile during a brief clinch. "You've grown sharper, little monster."
"It clearly didn't do much for you if you're struggling against a monster," Arzel shot back. His teeth were gritted as he pushed against his uncle's blade, the screech of metal filling the air between them.
From the bed, Mithian watched with her hands pressed to her chest. Her breath caught with every swing of the cold steel. "Arzel..."
Gathering his strength, Arzel delivered a violent shove, knocking his uncle's sword wide to the right. He saw his opening—a low-to-high diagonal strike that would end the struggle.
But as he swung, the uncle's eyes glinted with a vile, jagged cunning. With a flick of his wrist, a hidden dagger slid from his sleeve. He hurled it—not at his opponent, but at the defenseless Mithian.
Time seemed to grind to a halt. Arzel's pupils dilated in pure horror as he watched the steel streak toward his mother.
"Mother!" he gasped, his heart leaping into his throat.
Without a thought, he tore a ring from his finger and flung it with desperate, shaking precision.
"Shesmu!"
The ring hummed in the air, vibrating with an unnatural frequency. As it neared the dagger, space itself seemed to ripple like water under a summer heat.
In a brilliant flash of light, the ring transformed into a full-length sword mid-air. The summoned blade struck the dagger's hilt with a sharp metallic chime, forcing it off course.
Both weapons hissed past Mithian's head by mere inches, embedding themselves deep into the wall with a hollow thud.
But that distraction was the opening his uncle had been waiting for.
As Arzel stood frozen, eyes still locked on his mother, his uncle's boot slammed into his wrist. The strike was brutal, disarming him instantly.
In the same fluid motion, the man's blade carved a deep, jagged path into Arzel's left shoulder.
Instead of red, a brilliant spray of silver blood erupted across the floor, shimmering like spilled moonlight under the stars.
"That silver blood of yours... it truly makes you look like a real monster," the uncle laughed, his voice dripping with derision.
Arzel gasped, his vision blurring as he clutched the burning wound. He tried to swing again, but his strength was fading fast. The uncle easily sidestepped the weak blow and delivered a devastating kick to Arzel's chest.
The impact sent Arzel flying backward. He shattered the glass windows with an explosive crash and slammed into the balcony balustrade.
Shards of glass rained down like diamonds, now stained with glowing silver blood.
Mithian screamed, rushing toward the broken boy. "Arzel!"
But the uncle caught her mid-stride, slamming her onto the cold floor.
He began to walk slowly over the debris, his boots crunching on the broken glass as he approached Arzel. A twisted, victorious smile pulled at his lips.
~ ☆ ~