Night ruled the sky.
A moonless canopy of black stretched endlessly above the land, broken only by distant stars that glimmered like dying embers.
Beneath that oppressive silence rose an ancient fortress carved from obsidian stone and shadow.
Its towering spires pierced the darkness like spears aimed at the heavens, each etched with crimson runes that pulsed faintly, as if breathing.
A black iron wall encircled the estate, reinforced by layered blood formations invisible to mortal sight.
And within its perimeter, the air itself felt heavier, as though intruders were being weighed by unseen eyes.
Sentries moved soundlessly along the battlements.
They wore armor the color of dark blood, cloaked in shadow, their presence betrayed only by the faint shimmer of enchanted steel. Each carried weapons etched with enchanted sigils—tools forged not merely to kill, but to erase.
From watchtowers embedded in the manor's outer ring, lanterns glowed softly, bathing the grounds in a muted red light that never fully chased away the darkness.
No alarms rang. They were unnecessary.
Every inch of the castle existed under constant surveillance—by wards, by blood-bound beasts hidden beneath the stone, and by watchers whose senses extended far beyond sight.
Past the outer defenses, the manor's inner sanctum stood in stark contrast to the brutal exterior. Vast arches of black marble framed towering doors engraved with scenes of conquest and dominion. Within, corridors stretched endlessly, lit by floating flickering flames spilling their glow to honor the grandeur before them.
At the heart of the estate lay the Crimson Hall.
The chamber was vast, its ceiling lost in darkness, supported by pillars shaped like coiled serpents. A single throne of dark crystal sat upon a raised platform, its surface veined with crimson light.
At the hall's balcony stood a man
He was tall, dressed in flowing black robes trimmed with silver thread that caught the dim light like moonlit steel. His long dark hair fell neatly behind his shoulders, framing a face carved with sharp, aristocratic features—handsome, cold, and utterly unreadable.
He did not move.
Didn't speak
Yet the air around him bent subtly, as if reluctant to exist too close.
A suffocating pressure radiated from his presence—not explosive, but controlled, refined, the kind born of absolute authority. This was the aura of someone long accustomed to being obeyed.
But even then, danger lurked beneath that calm. Like a dormant volcano waiting for something foolish enough to stir it awake.
The silence of the night was broken by the cry of an infant— thin, fragile and alive.
The cry seemed to disperse the pressure radiating from the man— albeit not entirely. His crimson eyes opened slowly, glowing faintly in the darkness.
And within the Crimson Hall, Duke Draven Ebonhart allowed himself a thin, soft smile and suddenly the air itself felt lighter and the room brighter.
Then, without a sound a presence manifested behind him, seemingly out of nowhere.
It was a maid
She appeared without sound, as if the shadows had decided to wear a human form.
Her maid's uniform was immaculate, black trimmed with silver thread, every crease perfect. Her dark eyes were lowered in reverence, yet nothing in her posture suggested weakness
The oppressive feeling in the air returned with its dominance.
"My lord, the lady awaits you in her chambers" the maid spoke, in a graceful yet subservient tone.
Just as the duke was to give his reply, the world seemed to halt, the air thickened, the stars in the sky seemed to have lost their brilliance.
The runes flared crimson as if awakened by an ancient force, even the aether in the air came alive and seemingly drawn towards the inner sanctums of the castle.
A shadow fell over the castle—not ordinary darkness, but a rising cloud that gathered unnaturally outside the windows, black as a void and swirling with purpose. It churned, dense and alive, as if drawn from the very bones of Heaven itself.
At its core, blood-red lightning arced and twisted, dancing violently across the black expanse like the veins of a god. The light pulsed with rhythm as if resonating with something unseen.
A gust of cold air suddenly slammed into the chamber, carrying with it the weight of inevitability. The servants froze mid-step, eyes wide, breaths held in terrified obedience.
The aura was suffocating, intangible yet absolute. Gargantuan pressure pressed down from the heavens, bending the air and anchoring every mortal to the ground. It was not just fear—it was submission to the will of the cosmos itself.
The duke, himself, was no exception in this scenario. Although his strength could afford him make small bodily movement but his feet were firmly rooted at a spot.
Before anyone could comprehend what was going on, the lightning bolt struck— fast, swift and merciless.
But the expected cataclysmic eruption that would come with such an event never came, it was like the lightning vanished as mysteriously as it came try, like it never existed to begin with.
Just as quickly as the clouds came, they receded, taking the mountainous pressure along with it.
As the pressure lifted, the maid who came to deliver the news to the duke collapsed on one knee, taking deep breaths to stabilize herself.
As she turned to face the duke with eyes seeking answers to what just transpired.
Only to find the place where the duke stood empty, the duke had left without any trace, but she new where he was headed.
She rose with her hands and feet still shaking, a reminder that what happened wasn't an illusion but reality.
...…..
The duke burst into the chambers of his wife with the expression of worry painted on his face, as he knew that the lightning bolt had struck close to her chambers.
The door swung wide, and his crimson eyes widened at the sight that greeted him.
The room was a scene of quiet carnage.
The polished marble floor was marred by pools of blood. The lifeless forms of maidservants and guards lay scattered, twisted in unnatural angles, eyes wide in horror. The faint smell of iron hung thick and suffocating.
On the bed, pale moonlight spilling through the tall windows, the duchess sat, cradling the infant in her arms,looking detached from the scene around her.
Her dress was torn, stained with blood, and her pure white hair is disarray but her posture was serene, almost regal.
She held the child protectively, her eyes glowing faintly in the candlelight, not with fear, but with recognition—recognition of the primal force that had just been awoken.
Draven's gaze shifted to the only other living figures in the room: two personal guards, kneeling with perfect composure on one side of the duchess.
These guards, bound not only by duty alone but by a blood contract of absolute loyalty. They had sworn, by heart and vein, to serve the ducal house even at the cost of their own lives.
The duke took the scene in for a little while before focusing on his wife and asking
"Elanor what happend here"
After that was silence, a silence lasted for a few seconds before the duchess spoke up
"Draven, come see your child.
He looks a lot like you, but took my hair, the only thing this child saw worth of taking from me"
Duke Draven stood in silence
If he as asked anyone else a direct question, the person will be shivering in fear and would answer immediately without fail.
But this was the Duchess of house Ebonhart, the brains behind the ducal house.
While Draven handled the political matters of the house, she manages the administrative affairs. And besides he loves his wife dearly.
He sighs helplessly and stepped forward
As he arrived at her side, she turned to him with a smile on her face.
Seeing her face adorned with a smile, the duke paused.
The duchess seemed like she was sculpted from moonlight and tide.
Her white hair flowed like freshly fallen snow under starlight, each strand catching the faint glow of the chamber as though it belonged to something not entirely of this world.
Her eyes were the blue of the deep ocean, vast and unfathomable—calm on the surface, yet hinting at hidden currents capable of pulling one under without warning.
It framed her face in soft waves, lending her an otherworldly purity that contrasted sharply with the quiet authority she carried.
She did not need adornment to command attention. Beauty clung to her naturally, quiet but overwhelming—a beauty that did not beg to be admired, but demanded reverence.
"Hold the child Draven"
Her voice snapped him back to his senses, he looked straight into her deep blue eyes before shifting his gaze towards the child.
Cradled in the duchess's arms was a newborn boy, His fair skin was flawless and unblemished, pale like polished ivory.
Soft tufts of white hair crowned his head, fine and silken, mirroring the duchess's own yet purer, almost luminous in the dim light.
"He definitely has your charm" Draven said as he chuckled.
"That's true, I don't want him having your brutish face, Malrik already inherited a lot of that"
The duke instantly choked on air
He looked at her only to see with a sly smirk on her face.
Seeing this he let out an amused chuckle
After that,he stretched out his hand to carry his son
He carried him gently, as though he would shatter like porcelain if he moved too much.
But as he was admiring his child that's when he felt it
Blood energy, so powerful and dense, like a sleeping ancient beast waiting to be awoken.
The blood energy from the child even faintly suppressed his own, making the blood in his veins restless.
This was not something a child should possess
Draven swiftly turned his head towards his wife who was smiling softly towards him.
He couldn't help but ask
"What the hell happened"
As she was about to reply a presence appeared at the door and a voice soon followed soon after.
"My lord,the clan ancestors and grand elders seek an audience with you in the clan hall"