The night in the young lord's estate was unnervingly quiet. Moonlight streamed through the window, painting pale patterns across the floor.
Lucas lay awake long after Dante and Nolan had fallen asleep. Their breathing was deep, almost too deep — heavy and rhythmic, as if they were under some spell.
He stared at the ceiling, the flicker of candlelight trembling across the walls. Hugin, perched near the window, ruffled his feathers.
Lucas lay in his bed, eyes open. He could hear Dante snoring softly from across the room and Nolan murmuring fragments of dreams, his breathing slow and heavy.
But Lucas's own heart refused to settle.
He turned on his side, watching the moonlight flicker against the curtains.
Hugin perched by the window, feathers glinting faintly — black and silver beneath the lunar glow, his red eyes unblinking.
"You feel it too," the raven croaked softly.
"Something stirs beneath the calm."
Lucas exhaled quietly, fingers brushing against the necklace around his neck — a small, intricate charm, its silver surface engraved with holy symbols. The Pope himself had given it to him on the day Lucas entered the Church's fold, giving it to him as, "A small present ."
Back then, Lucas had thought it only a blessing. Now… it pulsed faintly warm, almost alive.
He rose from bed and stepped into the corridor. The moonlight spilled through tall stained glass windows, painting the marble halls in pale blues and gold. Each echo of his footsteps felt too loud in the silence.
Then he heard it — humming. A voice, soft and clear, coming from the balcony.
Lucas followed it.
There, leaning lazily on the railing under the moonlight, was Alaric.
The young lord stood in a loose silk shirt, his coat draped over one shoulder. The silver glow framed his features with unnatural perfection — too handsome, too composed, the kind of beauty that hides danger.
When he turned, his smile was effortless. "Can't sleep either?"
Lucas hesitated. "No, my lord. Just… felt strange."
"Strange," Alaric echoed, turning his gaze to the silver horizon. "A fitting word. This land is too calm, too quiet. Even peace can sour if left to fester."
He chuckled lightly, then gestured beside him. "Come. The view is better here."
Lucas joined him, leaning against the cool marble rail. Below, the courtyard shimmered in moonlight — still, empty, almost unreal.
"You fought well today," Alaric said suddenly, his voice calm yet commanding. "Your movements were honest. Unrefined, perhaps, but real. It's rare to see that."
Lucas smiled faintly. "And you fought like someone who'd done this too many times to count."
Alaric grinned. "Experience is a cruel teacher. But I do appreciate the compliment."
He tilted his head, studying Lucas's face with an unreadable gaze. "Tell me, you're not… dizzy, are you?"
Lucas frowned. "No. Why?"
Alaric's grin widened slightly. "Just curious you know. Everyone who dined tonight should be in deep sleep by now."
Lucas froze. "…What?"
"Nothing, just a bit of curiosity you know" Alaric replied with a simple smile plastered on his face.
Then, lowering his hand, his voice softened into something almost admiring.
"But you — you're awake. That's interesting."
He nodded toward Lucas's chest. "That little charm of yours… it hums with holy energy. Let me guess — from the Church itself?"
Lucas hesitated. "The Pope gave it to me. When I first entered the Order."
Alaric's eyes glimmered in the moonlight. "Ah… His Holiness. I see."
He leaned closer, voice dropping into a tone that was almost a whisper.
"Then it must be quite the blessing. The Pope doesn't give gifts without reason. I wonder… did he tell you what that necklace really does?"
Lucas looked down — the charm pulsed faintly again, warm against his skin.
"No," he admitted. "He just said it would protect me."
"Protection," Alaric murmured. "An old word. Sometimes it means salvation. Sometimes it means control."
Lucas met his eyes, unease stirring beneath his calm.
Alaric smiled again — that perfect, practiced, unreadable smile. "Don't worry, I won't pry. I just find such faith… fascinating."
He turned back toward the sky, his voice lighter now, as though the tension had never existed.
"Tell me, Lucas. Do you believe good and evil are born… or made?"
Lucas thought for a moment. "…I think they're chosen."
That seemed to amuse Alaric deeply. His grin turned sharp.
"Then you might be the only one here worth speaking to."
He brushed past Lucas gently, the faint scent of smoke and iron trailing in his wake.
"Get some rest," he said, glancing back with a lazy smirk. "Tomorrow will be… enlightening."
"Something slithers in the dark," the raven whispered, his ruby eyes glinting. "Can't you feel it, boy?"
Lucas frowned. "What are you talking about?"
But before Hugin could respond, the door creaked open.
A faint orange glow spilled from the corridor. Lucas sat up — heart pounding. From the doorway came a servant's voice, soft and trembling:
"Sire… it is ready."
A shadow appeared behind the servant — tall, composed. Alaric stepped forward, draped in a loose black coat. The candlelight flickered across his face, illuminating that devil-like charm — beautiful and unsettling.
"Ah," Alaric said quietly. "Perfect timing."
Then his golden eyes drifted toward Lucas still standing there."You should rest, Lucas. You've had a long day."
There was no hint of hostility in his tone — only calm warmth. But somehow, that made it worse.
Without another word, he turned and walked away, his boots echoing down the stone hall.
Lucas hesitated. His gut screamed to stay, but something stronger — curiosity, or perhaps fate — pulled him to follow.
He moved silently through the corridor, guided only by the faint light ahead. The deeper he went, the colder the air grew. The sound of murmurs reached him — low, rhythmic, and unnatural.
Then the smell hit him.
Iron and Blood.
At the end of the stairwell, Lucas stopped. The chamber before him was vast — a ritual hall carved beneath the estate. Candles burned in a perfect circle around a red sigil etched into the floor.
Dozens of figures in silk black and crimson robes stood around it, chanting words that scraped against the mind.
At the center stood Alaric. His coat was gone, sleeves rolled up, faint red light pulsing under his skin. In front of him, a man knelt — shackled, terrified.
"Please… please, my lord! Have mercy!" the man begged.
Alaric's voice was soft, almost kind.
"You've taken innocent lives. Three to be precise and all in cold blood at that. Tonight, your own will serve balance."
He raised his hand, crimson light swirling. The robed figures' chanting grew louder, the air vibrating with malevolent energy.
Lucas's voice cut through the chaos:
"Stop this!"
The chanting ceased instantly. Dozens of hooded faces turned toward him.
Alaric turned last — his expression unreadable.
"Lucas," he said slowly, "you shouldn't be here now, should you? If you mid I am having bit of a ritual right now."
"This isn't a ritual," Lucas said, stepping forward. "It's murder."
Alaric tilted his head, eyes half-lidded, the red glow reflecting off his irises.
"Murder?" He smiled faintly. "No… it's offering. The world demands balance — blood for power, sin for absolution and he is no innocent man, he is a cold blooded murder of three victims."
Lucas shook his head, fury rising in his voice. "You call that balance, is that your justice? You're sacrificing a man like some beast!, that man has every right to live as we do even if he deserves to die then this is not the death he deserves."
"Every god demands sacrifice," Alaric replied softly. "And for your black and white justice, A death is a death wether it be a public execution or a sacrifice for the greater good?"
The sigil beneath him flared, wind rushing through the chamber. The prisoner screamed as red light licked at his body.
Lucas dashed forward, drawing his sword. The blade cleaved through part of the glowing circle — disrupting it. The room trembled violently.
A shockwave of crimson energy blasted outward, snuffing out the candles. Stone cracked, dust raining from above. The cultists staggered back.
When the haze cleared, Alaric stood tall, untouched, crimson tendrils of energy coiling around his arm.
"You shouldn't have done that Lucas," he said, voice low but steady.
Lucas gritted his teeth, his necklace glowing faintly with soft silver light. "I won't let you kill him."
Alaric chuckled, a soft and chilling sound.
"Do you even know what that trinket around your neck does?"
Lucas froze.
"The pope gave it to you, didn't he?" Alaric said, eyes narrowing. "A charm of resistance. How ironic — that the church gave you something to protect you from its own poison."
Lucas's blood ran cold. "What are you talking about?"
Alaric smirked. "That dinner you all enjoyed — spiced, seasoned… laced with a little draught from the old texts. Just enough to still the body for a few hours. Your friends won't wake until dawn."
"You, I knew something was wron—"
"Relax," Alaric interrupted, raising a hand. "They're not harmed. I just didn't want them interrupting this beautiful moment."
The red glow in his arm intensified, sparks flying around the chamber. "Now that you've come this far… shall we see which of us the gods favor?"
Lucas raised his sword, silver light radiating from the necklace in pulses that pushed back against the red glow.
"I don't need no favor or blessings," he said. "Just strength of mine would be suffice."
Alaric smiled — that same serene, disarming smile that once seemed noble.
"Then let's test that conviction, Lucas of the Church."
He drew his sword. The crimson aura wrapped it like flame, distorting the air around it.
The robed cultists stepped back, forming a circle. Their whispers became a low hum, resonating through the stones. The sigils beneath them began to flicker back to life, feeding on the tension of the two powers converging.
Lucas's cloak whipped around him in the rising wind. He locked eyes with Alaric — one glowing red, the other shimmering silver.
Alaric tilted his head slightly, smirk widening.
"Careful now," he murmured. "If you die here, I'll make sure they remember you as the boy who defined a god."
Lucas lowered his stance, blade trembling with energy. "Then let's see if a god like you bleeds."
The ground cracked beneath them as they charged — steel flashing, crimson and silver clashing midair.
A shockwave ripped through the chamber, hurling the cultists back. The walls cracked, the sigils flared violently —
And just as their blades were about to meet, the entire chamber was drowned in blinding light.