The first light of dawn slipped through the temple's high windows, spilling gold across the polished marble. The air was still and cool, touched with the faint scent of incense burned in the midnight prayer hours. Somewhere far down the corridors, a monk's broom brushed in steady, measured sweeps.
Alucard was already awake.
Water hissed softly in the basin as he washed, steam curling upward in lazy spirals. His reflection stared back from the surface — sharp eyes, pale skin, blonde hair combed without a single stray. The garments waiting on the chair were as precise as a battle formation: black tunic with gold-trimmed cuffs, trousers pressed into perfect lines, boots polished so clear they could catch the morning sun. Every fold and stitch bore the Saintess's touch.
He dressed with calm precision, tugging the collar into place before sliding the final buckle on his boots. His fingers brushed the gold stitching briefly, not in sentiment, but in silent acknowledgment of the Saintess's perfectionism.
Descending the wide spiral stair, he heard it — faint at first, then sharpening as the sound rolled through the stone corridors: hooves striking in slow, deliberate rhythm.
By the time he reached the landing, the source had come into view.
Three carriages rounded the temple gates in silent procession. The first and third were lacquered black, gleaming like obsidian under the early light. The middle carriage wore black trimmed with threads of gold so fine they caught even the faintest ray, its door bearing the Xenon crest — a panther frozen mid-pounce before a silver sword. The image felt alive, as if the predator might leap from the wood at any moment.
The Saintess stood at the temple doors, hands clasped, her posture as composed as the marble pillars flanking her. Her eyes were fixed on the carriages, her expression unreadable.
"Be polite, Alucard," she said without turning her head. "The Xenons are… a family best not offended. Even they send their children here to bathe in the Tears of God, for tradition's sake."
Alucard's voice was smooth, almost amused. "You have my word, Mother. I will behave."
That made her glance sidelong at him. "I didn't think you paid attention in etiquette lessons."
He adjusted his sleeve with a faint smirk. "I'm full of surprises."
The faintest laugh escaped her — not quite indulgent, not quite skeptical.
The carriages halted. Horsemen dismounted with mechanical precision, boots striking stone in perfect unison. Two approached the middle carriage. One stepped forward, his armor blackened steel, his voice cutting cleanly through the morning air:
"Master Sebastion van Xenon, seventeenth-born child of the Xenon family, has arrived!"
The Saintess inclined her head, just enough to mark respect without conceding anything. Alucard mirrored her movement.
From within the carriage stepped a boy who could not have been older than four, yet moved with the composure of a court-trained diplomat. His coat was deep blue embroidered in black-silver threads, shoulders crowned with dark roses. A silk cravat rested neatly at his throat, above a brocade vest that caught the sunlight in sharp, metallic flashes. His hair was black as ink, his eyes a deep ocean blue, his skin a warm olive hue that suggested faraway coasts.
"I am Sebastion van Xenon," he said, each word shaped with precise care. "It is a pleasure to meet you."
"Welcome, young master," the Saintess replied, her voice even.
Alucard bowed lightly. "Alucard Li Andurai. The pleasure is mine."
Sebastion returned the bow with equal measure, but there was a flicker — not of disrespect, but of appraisal.
The Saintess's tone shifted subtly. "You may be wondering who he is. He is my son."
Something crossed Sebastion's eyes then. Surprise, perhaps. The Saintess, the most powerful woman across three continents… with a child? And yet, no shared features bound them.
As if reading his thoughts, her gaze sharpened. "Not by blood, young master Sebastion — if that's what you're wondering."
"N-no, my lady," Sebastion said quickly.
She allowed herself the faintest smile. "Come. You must be tired from travel. Your room is prepared."
"Thank you, ma'am." Sebastion glanced to one of his attendants. "Rick, bring my sword to my quarters."
The man — older, broad-shouldered, and wearing the weary expression of someone used to following impossible orders — hefted a greatsword from the carriage interior. The weapon was longer than Sebastion was tall, its scabbard reinforced in thick leather.
Alucard's brow lifted. "You swing that thing around?"
Sebastion glanced at the weapon with no hint of pride. "It's not that heavy."
Rick muttered, low enough for only Alucard to hear: "Not that heavy, my ass."
A small grin curved Alucard's lips. "Come on. I'll show you around. Haven't met anyone my age here before."
Sebastion's answering smile was so faint it might have been mistaken for politeness. Still, he followed Alucard through the great doors, his boots making no more sound than falling dust.
The temple's corridors were quiet that morning, their silence disturbed only by the soft thud of boots and the echo of Rick's heavier steps behind them. Tall windows spilled slanted light across patterned tiles, each design telling a fragment of the temple's long history — dragons woven in gold thread, knights locked in eternal battle, rivers of blue glass running between scenes.
Sebastion walked with his hands behind his back, his gaze calm but observant. His eyes moved from mural to column to ceiling, cataloging details without comment.
"You've been here before?" Alucard asked as they passed under a row of carved archways.
"No," Sebastion said. "But I've studied its floor plans."
Rick rolled his eyes. "He studies everything. Makes it impossible to surprise him."
"I prefer being prepared," Sebastion replied without looking back.
Alucard gave a faint hum of amusement. "Then this tour might be pointless."
"On the contrary," Sebastion said, glancing at him briefly. "A map doesn't show how sunlight falls through a window. Or how incense lingers in a corridor. Or…" He slowed his steps, gaze shifting upward toward a high ceiling. "…how sound carries differently in each hall."
Rick muttered, "And this is why he's everyone's favorite dinner guest."
Alucard didn't laugh, but there was the smallest curve to his lips.
They stopped briefly at the east wing, where the morning training grounds stretched wide beyond open stone doors. Even at this early hour, temple guards were already drilling in formations, their swords moving like mirrored clockwork. The rhythmic clash of steel was steady, unhurried, as if time itself bent to the temple's discipline.
Sebastion studied them for a moment. His expression didn't change, but his fingers twitched slightly — the only hint of interest.
"You fight much?" Alucard asked.
Sebastion's reply was quiet, almost absent-minded. "Enough."
Rick, leaning on the greatsword, added, "Enough to knock three grown men into a fountain last spring."
"That was training," Sebastion corrected flatly.
Alucard's eyes narrowed a fraction, catching the tone. He didn't press.
They moved on toward the dining hall. The vaulted chamber was lit by dozens of candles suspended in chandeliers, each flame reflected a hundred times over in polished silver plates and cups. Servants moved quietly between tables, their footsteps muffled against thick rugs.
Alucard and Sebastion sat at a smaller side table, the Saintess nowhere in sight. Rick stood a respectful distance behind, his greatsword leaning against the wall.
Food arrived: fresh bread still steaming, slices of cured meat, bowls of seasonal fruit. Alucard reached for a cup of dark tea, savoring its bitter warmth. Sebastion ate without hurry, each bite measured, posture perfect.
"You always eat like you're in the middle of a royal banquet?" Alucard asked after a moment.
Sebastion set down his fork. "My mother says how you eat reflects how you approach everything else in life."
Rick leaned in slightly, smirking. "And yet, here you are, about to swing a sword at someone in the courtyard before noon."
Sebastion didn't react to the jab — but Alucard caught the faintest spark in his eyes, like the flicker of a match in a dark room.
When breakfast ended, Alucard led him back toward the east wing. The training grounds were emptier now, the guards having moved to the far field. A light breeze carried the scent of the temple gardens through the open arches.
Sebastion paused at the threshold. "This will do."
Alucard stepped onto the pale stone floor, drawing his rapier. The weapon caught the morning light in a fine, cold line.
Rick groaned. "Should I fetch a healer now or later?"
"No need," Sebastion said, unclasping the belt at his waist. The greatsword's leather sheath thudded softly as Rick set it down. Sebastion wrapped his small hands around the hilt, the blade's sheer size making the image almost absurd — almost.
He raised it effortlessly.
Alucard's eyes narrowed again.
Sebastion stepped forward, his movements unhurried, the tip of the greatsword tracing idle arcs through the air. "I've been told," he began, voice level, "that your mother is the strongest woman across three continents."
"That's what they say," Alucard replied.
"I'm curious," Sebastion continued, "to see what her son can do."
There was no challenge in the tone. No arrogance. Just a statement — and something colder beneath it.
They circled each other once, twice. The air seemed to thin.
Alucard lunged first, rapier flashing toward Sebastion's shoulder. The greatsword moved with impossible speed for its size, parrying the strike with a ringing crack. Sebastion didn't counter. He stepped back, watching.
Alucard pressed again, sharper this time, aiming for the gap under Sebastion's arm. Another block — precise, minimal, as if Sebastion were conserving energy.
It took three more exchanges for Alucard to realize it.
Sebastion was holding back.
And not by accident.