Fortunately, they didn't have to wait for much longer.
The great gates of the Diavolo estate swung open with a metallic creak, their black expanse yawning wide like the jaws of a waking dragon.
From outside the gates, six shadows slipped through, moonlight shining faintly behind them, haloing them so they read as a singular massive silhouette, a treacherous shadow, leaving its master in the dust.
Heavy hooves slammed against the polished floor. Three massive mounts thundered through the gates, their bodies a hulking mass of brown muscle, cloaked in a sheet of fur that looked more like flowing starlight than any mane.
Their faces were horrifying, shifting shadows. One second, the head would appear to be a normal horse; the other a horned beast, face made of pink skin, saliva dripping down its side, hissing as it met the floor.
On top of the leading Whiteshadow sat a man in his mid-thirties. Short black hair clung to his brows, and icy blue eyes burned with a steady, dangerous heat.
His body was a well of power, densely packed muscle fitted together to make a broad frame. A coat of obsidian fur rested loosely on his shoulders, held together by a sword-shaped clasp. A sheathed great sword hung at his back, thin black waves of suppressed blood lust emanating from the blade.
The man was Erik Di Diavolo, Patriarch of the Diavolo family, guardian of the northern border of the Vindbridge Empire, and the man known as the Masterless Monarch.
His eyes traveled over the entire estate, taking everything in with one steady gaze.
His eyes paused at his one and only daughter, Astrid Di Diavolo, the most precious thing in his life. It was common knowledge for anyone living in the Diavolo dukedom that the only thing that could push the duke into fighting even the Sanctum itself wasn't his land, his money, or his title, but his family.
As soon as Astrid's blue eyes caught her father's own, she waved frantically from atop Stella's shoulder, swaying with every move.
Loki looked at his kid sister moving like a drunk balloon, and his heart almost melted at the sight.
He couldn't help but think, How can a single person be so cute?
His sister was the incarnation of playful chaos, yet she looked like she belonged in a painting.
Loki jumped down from his black stallion and started moving towards his beloved sister. Astrid, finally noticing her brother walking towards her, impatiently tapped Stella on the head, a clear sign she wanted to get off.
Stella obliged with her lady's command. She grabbed Astrid by the waist, prompting the child to let out a giggle, and set her down on the ground.
Astrid's feet touched the ground with a soft thud, a small amount of dust and dirt displaced from the impact. She saw her brother's open arms and the smile on his lips, and immediately took off, eager to nestle in his embrace.
Astrid silently hovered a few feet above the ground, watching as her younger self played with Loki and her father. There was something about the way that children played that calmed the ever-constant storm in her heart. Their oblivious nature, perhaps? Or maybe it was the way they could smile, not having to worry about countless different things?
Her gaze shifted to her brother, Loki. He was smiling, a perfect, flawless smile, warm, but by now Astird knew better than to take things for what seemed on the surface.
Every tilt of his head, the way he laughed, grabbed her hand. Every move he made suggested the perfect heir, the ideal heir, the best big brother; that's what he must have thought others saw, but to an experienced tactician such as herself, it was all clear as day.
Astrid caught Stella looking at her brother; her gaze was soft with something unrequited, a love that would never be reciprocated, longing for warmth. Astird couldn't even bring herself to find Stella's action distasteful, as she herself had once been deceived by that smile. Loki was wearing so many masks at the same time that even he himself couldn't tell where one began and the other ended.
She studied the scene with the composure of a collector looking at a particularly depressing artifact when they had expected something worthwhile. Nothing escaped her notice, her father smiling, yet his hand on his sword, the flash of black hair that would appear in her mother's room every 15 seconds.
It seems father had already been expecting the betrayal, and mother too. Astird was, in simple words, stunned, even if nothing showed on her astral face. If her parents had known what his brother would do, why had they let him?
Is this why they say that love is blind, yet parents see too much and understand too little?
Astrid practically thought aloud, her consciousness, a mind shaped through loss and betrayal, couldn't understand the reason why people would let love blind themselves from facts. No, that wasn't right. She knew why, but just didn't want to admit it.
Astrid recalled the last conversation she had with her father; reflecting silently on his words, "Astrid, always remember that Blood is thicker than water," he had said that while ruffling her hair.
Astrid had pouted back then, completely overlooking her father's weary expression and the words he had said after.
"I finally understand what you meant by 'thicker still than reason.' " Astrid shifted her ghostly body towards her father, staring straight in his eyes, "you knew, yet you did nothing. You knew your own son was plotting your downfall."
By this point, hatred practically radiated from Astrid, her eyes burning with rage, her beautiful face twisted in an unslightly expression, torn between loath and longing. Resentment at his weakness, at ruining her and Stella's life, and longing for his gentle touch, for his love, for his voice that used to stop her from crying at night.
What an unslightly sight, Astrid could no longer bear to look at her father. She tried to walk away but couldn't.
It seems my body is no longer under my control as long as I'm here. Interesting, not being able to control my own memory, but it makes sense, I suppose.
It won't exactly be a perfect memory if I can meddle with it now, would it?
While she answered her own question, she was also busy trying to make sense of why she wouldn't be able to control her own skill. Skills were, after all, Blessings bestowed upon a person because of The Book's generosity.
Astrid wanted to see the description of her skill. She remembered it word for word, but as it's said, looking at things makes them feel more real.
She willed for her profile to appear, and it did; a hovering window of luminous glass blinked into existence in front of her.
————〔 PROFILE 〕————
Name: [Astrid Di Diavolo]
Age: [21]
Race: [Demon]
Awakening: [Second]
Affinities:
Elemental: — Conceptual: [Dominance] [Perfection]
Titles: [The Sole Survivor of Ruin] [Youngest IBI Detective Captain] [The Pallbearer] [Saintess of Evidence] [Priestess of Solace] [Veiled Bullet] [The Pale Mistress]
Skills: [Aura of Regret] [Archive of the Obscure Observer]
Blessings:
- Mind (Cognitive Potential): Nirvana (Stage 8)
- Body (Physical Potential): Origin (Stage 8)
- Spirit (Energy Potential): Eternal Source (Stage 8)
- Dominion (Authority Potential): Sovereign Imperium (Stage 8)
....
....
....
There was a lot more information after the first part of her profile, but Astrid ignored it. It was not of consequence as of yet, and she would look at everything peacefully when she got out of her...dream.
For what she hoped would be the final time, Astrid willed her profile to show more information on her second skill.
————〔 Skill: Archive of the Obscure Observer 〕————
Type: Cognitive Skill
Origin: Awakened upon Astrid's 2nd awakening at 21
Related Page: Page of Mind
Description:
A skill born from the stillness between thoughts, where memory ceases to be memory and becomes matter.It allows the user to preserve objects, recollections, and, should the mind be vast enough, concepts themselves, storing them within the inner world where no time passes and no space exists.Nothing living can be taken, for life is the one thing that refuses to be contained.
Verse from the Page of Mind:
⟪ Every mind is a library, but only a chosen few are permitted to rearrange the shelves.
What is stored is not lost; what is forgotten is not gone.
In the silence between thoughts, Lysera leaves her fingerprints. ⟫
. . . . . .