It was the evening of the following day.
The manor no longer trembled with the impact of arrival; it had settled into its natural rhythm once more. Yet beneath the marble floors and silver-veined walls, something had shifted. Forty thousand boots had knelt beneath a blood moon only hours before. That kind of gravity does not evaporate in a single sunrise.
I lay upon my bed staring at the muted grey ceiling, where thin filaments of silver inlay caught the fading sunlight from the western windows. The heavy Arabian curtains were half drawn, allowing strips of amber light to fall across the Persian rug below in elongated bands of gold and red. Dust motes drifted lazily in those beams, turning slowly like suspended constellations. The air held a faint trace of jasmine and sandalwood, but tonight it was layered with something else polished steel, pressed fabric, the subtle metallic breath of armor stored and maintained throughout the estate.
I replayed the docking station in my mind.
The blood moon rising.
The synchronized kneeling of forty thousand men and women.
The scale of the ships bearing our crest tearing through crimson sky.
Father stepping forward beneath indigo shadow.
The pressure humming from his serpent's body.
Sextus descending like something dragged from old myth.
I had witnessed it all from within the formation, not as heir, not as favored son, but as subject among subjects. That distinction mattered. My data hub pulsed faintly against the bedside table, pulling me from memory. Quentin's name appeared across the projection surface. I rolled slightly onto my side and activated the message.
"Heading to Zull early," his voice transmitted through compressed audio. "Father has a two-day summit in Europe. I convinced him to let me accompany him. I'm breaking free before diplomacy suffocates me."
I allowed myself a quiet smile and replied through text projection. "Oh? The princess has escaped her tower, aye?" There was a short delay before his response flickered into view. "Mock me while you can. At least my imprisonment includes wine and state banquets. You'll be the one covered in dust when we meet."
"Better dust than silk chains," I sent back. He responded with a laughing icon and a simple, "See you in Zull." The conversation steadied me more than I expected. Normalcy, however brief. Then came the knock. Three deliberate strikes against my chamber door. Not urgent. Not casual. Measured.
I rose immediately, crossing the rug, the fibers soft beneath my bare feet, and opened the door to find Whitescale standing in the corridor's dim amber light. His posture was relaxed, but there was something quieter behind his pale blue eyes.
"Your father requests your presence," he said evenly. "Dress formal. We are gathered as guests within the manor tonight, and he will address the family." It was the phrase "address the family" that altered the air. I nodded. "Thank you." He inclined his head slightly and stepped aside. Before he departed fully, I added, "When this is concluded, if you are free, I would like to continue Diltric."
A faint corner of his mouth shifted. "After." The door sealed behind him with a low mechanical whisper. I did not rush, but I moved quickly. The shower activated at my approach, water cascading in controlled streams across skin still warm from thought. Steam rose, carrying the clean mineral scent of purified flow. I washed deliberately, grounding myself in ritual rather than speculation.
When I stepped out, I selected a formal silk shirt in muted silver. The fabric slid over my skin with fluid ease, cool at first, then warming to my body. It caught even minimal light and returned it as a restrained sheen rather than brilliance. I paired it with tailored black trousers and a narrow black tie, knotting it precisely at the throat. My family crest ring settled upon my finger with familiar weight, its metal cool before gradually aligning to my warmth. A restrained spray of cedar and citrus perfume lingered lightly against my collar, never overwhelming, merely present.
I secured my gravity boots, the soft magnetic seal humming briefly as they locked into place. The short family blade rested at my waist not ceremonial tonight, but symbolic. The eastern guest communal hall was already guarded.
The Crimson Unit stood along the corridor leading toward it, red and black armor reflecting the low interior lighting in muted gradients. Their posture was immaculate; shoulders squared, chins level, weapons holstered but ready. These were the three hundred most hardened among Father's forces, trained directly under his command in armed combat and asymmetrical warfare. Their presence altered the temperature of any room they occupied.
I raised my fist to my chest, pressing it firmly over my heart. "May the gates of death never call your name." Five nearest responded in unison, voices low and unwavering. "Not today." Their reply did not echo loudly. It did not need to. Inside the hall, the atmosphere felt heavier than it had the night before. Tall windows admitted the last embers of sunset, casting long streaks of amber across polished stone floors. Floral arrangements lined the walls white blossoms and deep violet stems whose scent carried faint sweetness beneath the sharper note of polished metal and ceremonial oil.
Father stood at the center of the room. Mother beside him. Diana to one side. Sextus leaning near a carved pillar. Whitescale positioned slightly behind Father's shoulder.
And Lucius M. Vaillancourt my uncle standing broad and immovable in red and black armor marked with the crest. I saluted.
Lucius closed the distance in three strides and enveloped me in a crushing embrace before I could speak, compressing air from my lungs with affectionate brutality. "You grow," he muttered approvingly as he released me. "I attempt to," I replied, forcing breath back into rhythm.
He studied my shoulders, my stance, my expression, asking in rapid sequence about health, education, combat development, and academy discipline. I answered each with measured honesty. His satisfaction was visible. When I turned to greet Mother, her eyes held something quieter than warmth. Not fear. Not pride alone. Something anticipatory. I saw it then across all of them. The knowledge. Shared. Held. Waiting.
Father stepped forward slowly, and in his hand was a rolled piece of parchment sealed with dark thread. Against the silver architecture of the manor, it appeared almost archaic textured, heavy, deliberate. When he spoke, he did not raise his voice. "Cruoris Tractus." The words settled into the room not as announcement but as inevitability. In that instant, memory struck with merciless clarity. I would turn fifteen in two months.
The dryness in my throat returned, swallowing difficult as understanding aligned with ritual. The Cruoris Tractus was not ceremonial. It was not symbolic. It was survival stripped of inheritance. I stepped forward and lowered myself to one knee before him before my sovereign, before my father head inclined, posture exact.
"I accept," I said.
He extended the parchment toward me. When I took it, I felt the weight of it not physical mass alone, but decree. The rules were absolute and ancient. I was forbidden from speaking of its contents to anyone within this manor. Not to Mother. Not to Diana. Not to Sextus. Not to Whitescale. Not even to Father once the letter had been received. The only individual permitted to hear my words concerning it would be the Seer at the Gateway the one who stands at the threshold between civilization and the lands of Cruoris Tractus, and who alone determines whether passage may be granted.
I was to forgo all developed technology. No ray shield. No pulse shield. No firearm. No enhanced instrumentation. I could carry any blade of my choosing short or long, sword or axe so long as it bore no technological augmentation. I would wear only fabric of my selection trousers or jeans, nothing reinforced beyond primitive means. I would enter the Gateway alone.
I would survive for three days within the lands beyond. I would hunt. And I would not die. The air in the hall felt denser, the scent of flowers suddenly sharper against the metallic undertone of armor. Somewhere beyond the walls, I could hear distant footfalls echoing along corridors, unaware of the shift that had just occurred within this room. I rose slowly, parchment secured in my grasp. And though no one spoke further, I felt it unmistakably The line had been drawn. Childhood had ended not in spectacle beneath a blood moon, but here, in quiet decree within silver walls.
The temple lay beneath the manor. Not within its foundations, but older than them. I knelt naked upon stone that had known blood long before my name had ever been spoken. The floor was cold, not simply in temperature but in memory, the kind of cold that rises through bone and settles somewhere behind the ribs. Above us, the ceiling curved in a low dome carved from silver-grey rock, veins of mineral threading through it like frozen lightning. The blood moon filtered faintly through a narrow aperture high above, its crimson glow touching the stone in muted streaks that turned grey into bruised violet and shadow into something nearly alive. The air was thick with scent.
Rosemary first sharp and resinous.
Then horsetail green and bitter.
Then sage dry and sacred.
And beneath all of it, iron.
Not metallic in the distant sense. Fresh. Sweat and blood. Eight figures surrounded me.
The Flamen Martialis.
They stood tall and elongated, each near seven feet five inches, draped in red cloth that hung from narrow shoulders like banners soaked in ritual. The fabric clung in places where old stains had stiffened it. Their presence was not entirely human. They did not move like men who belonged to the developed world. They moved like creatures that remembered before language.
Their eyes were enormous and black, reflecting the dim red light of the moon without warmth. Their ears were clipped close to their skulls, barely visible beneath the folds of skin and dried paint. Their nostrils were slitted like a serpent's, expanding and narrowing as they inhaled the air around me as though scent alone could measure my readiness.
Each of their hands bore four elongated fingers, the nails curved and darkened, caked with layers of ash and crushed herb. Dirt lined the grooves beneath them, infused with ritual substances prepared for what they called astral leaps rites of perception and altered threshold. Their teeth, visible when their thin lips parted slightly, were filed into layered points, serrated and irregular like the interior of some predatory maw. Their skin was painted in streaks and patterns of dried predator blood, darkened to near-black against flesh rarely seen by those outside this chamber. Their heads were slightly narrower at the crown, tapering toward the jaw in a shape that evoked serpent lineage more than man. No words were spoken because speech was not permitted here. One stepped forward.
The tool he held was unlike any blade I had trained with. It was curved and narrow, not sharp in a refined sense but edged for tearing rather than slicing. When it touched my shoulder, the pain was immediate and precise, a white-hot line that split skin before my mind could prepare for it. I inhaled sharply but did not cry out. Another tool followed across my back, then along my chest. Each incision shallow but deliberate. Blood flowed warm against the cold air, running down my ribs and dripping onto the stone beneath me.
The smell intensified.
Iron thickened in the air.
My skin burned.
When the cuts were complete, two of them stepped forward carrying shallow bowls filled with fine grey ash. Without hesitation they pressed the substance into the open wounds. The contact was immediate agony. The ash seared deeper than the blade had cut, as though it sought entry into bone rather than flesh. My vision blurred momentarily as heat radiated outward from every marked line. I clenched my teeth hard enough to feel pressure along my jaw and forced myself to remain upright. By the Emperor, it burned.
The ash was not simple cremation. There were compounds within it unknown, ancient, prepared only by their order. It carried bitterness and heat and something acrid that clawed at the back of my throat with every breath. The scent of sage intensified as they rubbed it deeper into my wounds, and the floor beneath my knees felt rougher, sharper, as if the stone itself rejected weakness. Another stepped forward and in his hands was a bowl.
The liquid inside was dark, nearly opaque, with a faint sheen that caught the red moonlight. Even before it reached my lips, the smell coiled into my stomach and twisted. Thyme. Catnip. Lathered fat. Something fermented. Something metallic. Something that should not be ingested by a creature that wished to remain steady. He held it out as I stared at it for a moment longer than was wise. No words were permitted gently I took the bowl. The stone beneath me felt colder against my shins as I lifted it. I inhaled deeply once, steadying my breath, then drank quickly.
The taste struck like a physical blow, Iron flooded my tongue first, metallic and thick. Then thyme, sharp and intrusive. Catnip and animal fat layered beneath it in oily bitterness. There were other elements too bitter roots, crushed bark, something sour and unfamiliar that clung to the back of my throat. I swallowed fast, desperate to finish before my body could revolt. My stomach clenched violently. My throat convulsed once in protest. I forced it down. When the bowl was empty, I lowered it slowly and the world tilted.
My vision doubled at the edges, the stone floor shimmering faintly as though seen through heat. The ash coating my wounds began to pulse with dull warmth rather than fire. My limbs felt distant, heavier than they had moments before. The temple walls seemed to expand and contract subtly with each breath. The eight Flamen Martialis closed in around me. Their silhouettes merged into a ring of red and shadow beneath the blood moon's dim intrusion. Then the sound began. It did not resemble song in the civilized sense.
It emerged first as a low vibration in their throats, a deep guttural hum that seemed to resonate within the cavity of the temple rather than above it. Then it rose layered, discordant, overlapping tones that scraped against each other like bone against stone. Their slitted nostrils flared as breath forced through narrow passages, producing a sound somewhere between a howl and a chant. The vibration crawled across my skin, entered through my ears, and settled in my skull like a second heartbeat.
It was ugly.
It was holy.
It was terrifying.
The moonlight above flickered faintly as my vision fractured further. The silver veins in the rock shimmered as though alive. The ash on my skin felt no longer external but integrated, sinking beneath flesh and into muscle. My legs trembled. Strength left them in steady withdrawal.
I fell forward onto my knees fully, palms scraping against the hard stone, feeling its roughness against my skin. The scent of blood and herb and ash swirled violently around me as the chant intensified. I looked up one last time and saw the eight towering forms surrounding me, their black eyes unblinking, their red drapes shifting in slow motion beneath the moon's crimson glow. Darkness did not strike like a blow. It came like familiarity. Like something that had always known my name. And then I surrendered to it.
Consciousness did not return to me cleanly. It rose in fragments first came sound a low, distant hum vibrating through metal beneath my spine. Then came motion, a subtle rocking that suggested air rather than ground. My eyelids fluttered, heavy and unwilling, and through blurred vision I saw the dim interior frame of a hauler aircraft, its reinforced walls lined in matte grey plating. There was no one seated beside me. No guard. No Flamen Martialis. No familiar. Only the faint pulse of onboard systems and the distant murmur of the aircraft's AI calibrating atmospheric trajectory.
The air tasted sterile, filtered, stripped of scent. My body felt distant from itself, ash still clinging faintly to my skin. I tried to lift my hand but the effort dragged through resistance, as though gravity had thickened around me. The hum deepened then faded. Darkness came again, but this time it did not feel like absence. It felt like descent. I opened my eyes to ice.
Not snow as I had known it on distant training grounds, but a vast frozen expanse stretching beneath a sky veiled in smoke. The cold struck instantly, not merely on skin but within bone. It crawled through marrow, tightening muscle, sharpening breath into brittle shards. The air carried no scent of life, only frost and something ancient, metallic, waiting. Somewhere beyond the frozen horizon, something thrashed.
The land itself seemed to pulse in the distance, ice rising and collapsing in slow violent rhythm as if something enormous moved beneath it. I could not see it clearly, only the distortion of the terrain responding to its motion. Smoke curled upward in thin columns from fissures in the ice, coiling like spirits released from burial.
Then I heard it a voice not external, not shaped by mouth or throat. It raged within my skull, layered and deep, syllables breaking against each other in languages I could not identify. It did not speak to me. It spoke through me, as though testing the chamber of my mind for weakness. The sound reverberated so violently that my vision blurred at the edges.
The cold intensified until it felt as though my lungs might crystallize with each inhale. The ice beneath my feet trembled, fractured. A crack formed directly beneath me and split outward in jagged lines. Then it gave way and I fell. The sensation of falling was immediate and endless, my stomach lurching upward as air vanished from my lungs. The cold vanished too, replaced by rushing darkness. I jolted awake with a violent inhale, the hum of engines was gone, the air was no longer sterile. It was sharp and thin. Mountain air.
I lay upon stone, the surface hard and uneven beneath my shoulder blades. The sky above me was open and vast, painted in deep indigo, the blood moon now higher in its arc. Its crimson light washed across jagged mountain faces that surrounded the temple complex. The rock gleamed faintly silver-grey under that light, veins of mineral catching the moon's glow and reflecting it like distant embers. The cold here was real, but not biting. It touched my skin without penetrating bone. I pushed myself upright slowly.
My blades lay beside me, both wrapped carefully in red cloth. I wore only light red cotton trousers, the fabric thin but durable, brushing against my legs with familiar texture. My chest still bore the faint sting of ritual cuts, though the ash had hardened into darker streaks along my skin.
The Seer's Temple.
I rose to my feet fully and inhaled deeply. The air carried the scent of stone and distant pine, layered with something older dust, dried lichen, faint traces of smoke carried from unseen fires. The mountains loomed around the temple in vast irregular arcs, their silhouettes cutting sharply against the moonlit sky. Ahead stood the gates.
They were immense, carved directly into the mountain face itself. The stone doors rose high enough to dwarf any warship hull I had stood beneath. Runes were etched across their surface in lines so fine they appeared like fractures at first glance, yet as the moonlight struck them they shimmered faintly with latent energy.
I unwrapped my blades carefully and retrieved the parchment from within the cloth binding. The thread sealing it remained intact, dark and deliberate. I stepped forward onto the stone threshold and raised the letter in both hands. My voice felt small against the mountain. Yet it carried.
"I, Aziri Marcellus Vaillancourt, son of Aquila Marcellus Vaillancourt, son of Claudia Superba Au'Ghoul, born under the watchful gaze of Perthro runes and the Ouroboros, raised beneath Seiðr magic and the whispers of the Flamen Martialis, have arrived to be blooded." The words did not echo in the conventional sense. They seemed absorbed by the stone and returned subtly altered.
I lowered myself to one knee upon the cold surface. The rock scraped lightly against skin as I drew my short blade. Without hesitation I made a vertical cut across my chest over my heart. The pain was sharp and immediate, cleaner than ritual. Blood welled quickly. I allowed six drops to fall upon the parchment. They struck the surface and spread slightly, dark against ancient fiber. For a moment, everything ceased. The wind stopped. The faint rustle of distant mountain currents vanished. Even my own breathing felt suspended.
Then I heard it a rattle-like bones shifting deep within the mountain's marrow. Then suddenly wind returned in a low whisper that moved through the narrow mountain corridors, threading between peaks and descending toward the gates. The massive doors trembled faintly, stone grinding against stone in a sound that vibrated through the soles of my feet. They opened slowly. Darkness lay beyond them, but not empty darkness. A figure stood in the center of the threshold.
Draped entirely in black, fabric falling from head to ground without seam or ornament. No skin visible. No feature distinguishable beneath the layered folds. The being did not appear tall, yet something about its proportion defied measure. It was not its height that unsettled me, it was the absence of scale. It felt closer and farther simultaneously. I remained kneeling. "I greet the watcher of all," I said steadily. "The merciful one behind the gates. I ask to be guided."
The figure spoke the sound did not travel across distance. It arrived within me multiple voices layered into one male and female, old and young, harsh and melodic. Languages overlapped, some familiar in cadence, others entirely alien. The words were incomprehensible and yet understood in essence. Before the final syllable formed fully in my mind, the figure was no longer at the gate. It stood directly before me. There had been no movement. No shift in air. No displacement of stone. It was simply there.
A hand emerged from the black drapery, slender and long-fingered. The index finger touched my forehead. The sensation was heat intense, searing, as though a brand had been pressed against skin. I did not flinch. The heat burned for only a moment, then withdrew and left behind a cold trail descending from the center of my brow to the tip of my nose. I could feel the mark without seeing it. When I looked up again, the figure had returned to the threshold of the gate. I did not understand how. Physics had not been consulted. Gravity had not been acknowledged.
I rose slowly to my full height and stepped forward. The Seer moved, and I followed. The being's shape did not sway or stride like a man walking. It seemed to glide, not touching the stone in ways I could measure. Its drapery shifted in unnatural rhythm, as though wind obeyed only it. Without perceiving the transition, we stood before another gate.
This one narrower but equally ancient. The mountain here felt closer, the stone darker, veins of mineral glowing faintly beneath the moonlight. The wind carried a deeper tone in this corridor, whispering through cracks and over jagged edges like distant breath. The Seer turned toward me.
"Your choice lies ahead," the layered voices spoke, overlapping in dissonant harmony. "Follow the path given, or stray and carve your own. The watchers and the witches wait upon your decision."
My heart pounded so forcefully I could hear it in my ears. The taste of iron lingered faintly on my tongue from the cut upon my chest. The air smelled colder here, sharper, tinged with frost. "When you are ready," the voices continued, "enter." I lowered my gaze briefly and saw something new. Runes.
Lines and symbols etched faintly across my hands and forearms, inked in dark pigment I did not remember receiving. Verses written along my skin in scripts older than the manor, older than Father's reign. I did not know when the Seer had marked them. I lifted my eyes again and there the figure stood still waiting. I nodded once then I turned toward the gate and stepped forward into whatever path would answer me.