House of Blood

The quiet interior of the Governor’s study smelled of old parchment, fresh black ink, and bitter herbal tea.

Valerian sat behind his mahogany desk, fiddling with his blindfold.

Before him lay the black parchment he had pulled from Theron’s coat at the Velvet Lotus Villa. Next to it rested a heavy, leather-bound historical tome provided by Sir Van Liondale, its ancient pages yellowed and brittle with centuries of dust.

Standing across the desk, her arms folded over her chest, Wren watched him with keen golden eyes.

Beside her, Nox was slouched lazily in a plush velvet armchair, tossing an unrefined dark-chitin rune into the air, catching it with the casual grace of a bored cat.

"So," Wren spoke, breaking the silence. "The address on the parchment leads directly to a secluded monastery in the shadow of the Northern Mountains—just outside the border of the Holy Kingdom of Lumeria."

"A monastery officially abandoned four hundred years ago," Valerian corrected softly, his pale fingers tracing the faded, raised runes etched into the parchment. "Yet, the mana signature trapped within this dark seal matches the residual energy we found in the catacombs beneath Bergis."

"The Third Altar," Nox chimed in, his sweet, unhinged grin widening as his slitted eyes sparkled.

"It’s a secondary node! The cultists in Bergis weren’t working in isolation, Boss. They were sending the harvested soul-marrow up north through ley-line conduits."

Valerian nodded slowly.

He opened the ancient historical tome to a page marked with the silver seal of the Lumerian Church, dated five centuries prior.

"Castor," Valerian called out into the quiet room.

From the dark corner by the bookshelf, Castor’s shadow detached itself, kneeling silently before the desk.

"My Lord."

"What do our historical records say about the Holy Kingdom five hundred years ago?" Valerian asked.

"The records from that era are heavily redacted by the Grand Inquisition, Lord Valerian," Castor reported in his flat, icy whisper.

"However, our deep-archive agents retrieved fragments of a suppressed imperial decree. Five centuries ago, during the Great Abyssal Plague, the Holy Kingdom possessed a legendary figure—Saintess Elizabeth."

He paused briefly.

"She was hailed as the purest conduit of Divine Light in recorded history. She sustained the kingdom’s barrier for three decades and purified entire blighted provinces without resting."

Wren’s golden eyes narrowed slightly.

"And what happened to her?"

"She made a single strategic miscalculation," Castor replied smoothly.

"During a sudden, localized outbreak in the southern border village of Oakhaven, the church’s supply lines failed. Elizabeth chose to prioritize preserving the capital’s defense array over rushing to the border. The village fell to the blight before she arrived."

"Let me guess," Nox chuckled darkly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

"The Holy Council needed a scapegoat to cover up their own logistical incompetence?"

"Precisely," Castor said.

"The Grand Inquisitor branded her a heretic who had lost her divine favor. The nobility she had spent thirty years protecting turned on her instantly."

"They stripped her of her holy title, branded her flesh with dark seals, and cast her out into the cold, desolate wastes of the Void Border to bleed to death."

"The church erased her name from all official scriptures."

A heavy, suffocating silence settled over the study.

Valerian’s pale lips thinned into a cold, grim line.

He didn’t need his sight to understand the tragic irony of the history lesson.

Humanity had not changed in five hundred years.

The corrupt merchants and arrogant heirs of Bergis City were merely smaller, modern iterations of the same hypocritical society that had discarded its greatest guardian the moment she ceased to be convenient.

"A saintess who gave everything to humanity... only to be thrown into the mud over a single failure," Valerian murmured, his voice echoing with quiet, philosophical gravity.

"Her divine light rotted into absolute malice. Elizabeth did not fall to darkness because she sought power; she fell because humanity broke her spirit and left her to die."

"She became the Tenth Demon Lord," Wren said, her voice unusually subdued as she looked at the dark demonic symbol carved into the parchment—a bleeding eye encircled by three black suns.

"Elizabeth, The Desecrated Light."

"And the Eldritch Horrors?" Nox asked, his tone dropping its usual chaotic playfulness for a brief second.

"Where do they fit into her network?"

"The forgotten gods," Valerian answered softly, leaning back into his high-backed chair.

"Before the rise of structured holy churches and magic academies, humans prayed to ancient entities of the earth, sky, and sea."

"But as civilization expanded and reliance on divine faith gave way to political power and arcane science, those ancient gods were forgotten."

"Starved of human worship, their divine frames rotted. They transformed into parasitic Eldritch beasts, forced to feed directly on living human flesh, marrow, and terror to sustain their dying existences."

Valerian tapped the wooden desk with the tip of his fingers.

"The Demon Lords and the Eldritch Horrors are bound by a shared genesis. Both are the discarded remnants of a world that took everything from them and offered nothing in return."

"A terrifying alliance," Wren admitted, crossing her arms tight.

"A fallen saintess organizing the altars, and starving ancient gods providing the raw cosmic horror to tear down the world’s walls."

"It makes our objective clear," Valerian said, his posture straightening into that of an unshakeable sovereign.

"Four months and three weeks."

Wren’s eyes narrowed.

"That’s all the time we have before the Royal Imperial Academy’s enrollment begins."

Valerian nodded.

"We leave for the Capital when the Academy opens. But before we step into the High Court, we must dismantle the Third Altar’s secondary node at the northern border."

His fingers tightened slightly around the parchment.

"If Elizabeth’s cult completes the continental array, Bergis won’t be the only city that burns. The entire northern half of the continent will become a sacrificial altar."

The room fell silent.

Valerian looked toward Castor.

"Has Vice Governor Van Liondale stabilized the municipal council?"

"Yes, Lord Valerian," Castor answered.

"Sir Van has fully seized the assets of the five ruling families. The public trade council is operational, food distribution in the lower slums is completely secured, and the city watch has taken full control of the border posts."

"Bergis City is entirely under your command."

"Good," Valerian remarked smoothly.

"Leave Pollux here with two shadow squads to assist Sir Van. Castor, you and Nox will accompany Wren and me to the northern pass at first light."

"Understood, My Lord."

Castor bowed low, melting back into the shadows near the bookshelf.

Valerian picked up his black chitin walking stick, standing up from his desk.

He walked over to the wide arched window of his office, looking out over the quiet, moonlit streets of Bergis.

The city was peaceful now, its wounds beginning to heal beneath the cold, disciplined hand of his administration.

He had saved a city by unleashing its own rot upon itself.

But as he looked toward the cold, dark mountains of the north, he knew that the shadows waiting for him in the distance were far older, far deeper, and far more tragic than the petty greed of mortal men.

---

Two hundred miles north of Bergis City, along the rocky, winding border road that separated the Sanguis territory from the holy lands, the night air was bitter cold.

A thick blanket of white fog rolled across the mountain passes, muffling the quiet, rhythmic sound of wooden wheels and clopping hooves.

Moving slowly through the dark pass was a massive, pristine white carriage drawn by four majestic, snow-white steeds.

The carriage was an immaculate masterpiece of sacred craftsmanship—its body wrought from polished ivory wood, carved with intricate silver filigree depicting angels, holy vines, and ancient protective scriptures.

Emblazoned upon the side of the carriage door was the majestic, golden crest of the Holy Kingdom of Lumeria: a sunburst crown suspended over a cross of pure light.

Surrounding the carriage was an elite escort of twenty Holy Knights clad in heavy, gleaming silver plate armor, their long broadswords resting against their saddles, their dark cloaks fluttering in the mountain wind.

Inside the quiet, cushioned interior of the carriage sat a young woman.

She wore the pristine, flowing robes of the High Priestess of the Lumerian Church.

Her hair was a cascading waterfall of spun gold, framing a face of ethereal, delicate perfection. Her skin was as pale and flawless as white jade, and her eyes, soft and serene, shone like polished sapphires.

She was Saintess Seraphina—the current living Light of the Holy Kingdom of Lumeria, revered by millions across the continent as the purest divine maiden of the modern era.

Seraphina held a delicate, silver-bound book of scriptures in her lap, her slender fingers resting gently over the sacred pages.

She looked out the tinted glass window toward the distant southern horizon—toward the rising smoke and newly paved stone spires of Bergis City.

Suddenly, the cold, dark air inside the carriage began to shift.

Without a single spell being cast, without a single word leaving her lips, a soft, mesmerizing aura began to seep from her body.

It was a divine, blindingly pure holy light.

It radiated subtly from her skin, casting a warm, golden glow over the plush velvet seats, illuminating the dark interior of the carriage with a quiet, breathtaking brilliance.

The holy light flickered like a soft flame, humming with an ancient, terrifying purity that seemed to push back the dark, abyssal fog clinging to the mountain road outside.

Seraphina’s sapphire eyes lingered on the southern sky, her expression calm, gentle, and utterly unreadable.

"Bergis..." she whispered softly into the quiet carriage, her sweet voice echoing with a delicate, divine resonance as the holy light around her flared with subtle, unyielding warmth.

"The city of rot has found a new master."

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