Half-veiled by wisps of low, creeping clouds, the moon hung like a silver sickle over the cobbled roads that led to a grand mansion situated at the peak of a hill. In contrast with the silence of the streets below, the mansion was brimming with light and life, a golden light spilled into the night, lending the estate an inviting glow.
Inside the ballroom, chandeliers of gilded crystal shimmered with an opulence one could imagine only in legends or fairy tales, their light refracted a thousand ways as they danced above the polished marble floor. The walls, dressed in deep blue velvet tapestries embroidered with silver, seemed to breathe with the pulse of music and laughter that filled the space. Guests in elaborate gowns and fitted suits moved gracefully in currents, their voices soft as they exchanged compliments, secrets, and calculated smiles. Jewels flashed at wrists and throats, as if each person there wore a fragment of the stars upon their skin.
Among them, Haemon stood near the edge of the crowd. A young boy with dark, inky hair swept back just enough to reveal a striking pair of crimson eyes, eyes that even among the noble-born faces around him, captured attention. He wore the best suit his family could afford, well-tailored though modest compared to the extravagance around him. He moved carefully, conscious of each step, as if afraid of disturbing the elegance of the event. Though his posture was steady, his hands hovered uncertainly over his pockets, betraying his discomfort.
A fleeting moment of wonder flickered through him as he considered how different his life might have been if he had been born into this world of grand halls and fine silks. The merchants at his father's level could rarely hope to glimpse such gatherings, let alone receive an invitation. It was only by a stroke of luck, or perhaps curiosity on the part of his wealthy patron that he was here tonight, an outsider among the elite.
But despite the dazzle of crystal and silver, something in the air felt thick, as if the night outside had crept in, hiding in plain sight... As if the shifting shadows dancing over the tapestries were foreign to such gatherings.
"Attention everyone!"
Haemon's heart skipped a beat as the loud voice of a man broke him out of his daze. Standing at the head of the hall, an imposing figure raised his hand, silencing the guests with practiced ease.
Lord Ardain Flintvale commanded the attention of everyone present. A reputable noble and the event's organizer.
'Lord Flintvale... There sure is something different about someone with a rank 4 Essentia.'
Haemon thought to himself as his attention was completely drawn to the noble in front, whether it was his dignified air or the quiet authority he projected, the man sure left a memorable impression. Even though Haemon's knowledge on soul imprints and their types was limited to common folklore and public information, he knew that someone with a rank 4 Essentia would be regarded as a high ranking figure anywhere they went. In some way or another, it was part of the reason why Ardain Flintvale was a noble of such class.
"Esteemed guests, I thank you all for joining me on this monumental night!"
Lord Ardain said, giving the audience a light bow with his right hand pressed against his chest. After the courteous act he straightened his posture and continued his speech.
"As many of you already know, tonight we honor my first son, Orran, as he makes his first steps into the world of soul imprints. The birth of a new inscriptor is certainly worth celebrating, such achievement will be my pride and your prosperation as friends and colleagues of mine! Tonight, I stand before you not only as a father, but as a man who values tradition, loyalty, and the resilience that built these lands."
Silence swept through the ballroom, as if no guest dared to speak before Lord Ardain had finished. Still, as a skilled merchant, Haemon needed no words to discern their thoughts. A mixture of emotions was painted in everyone's eyes, from pure glee and joy, to pride, excitement and some rare cases of greed and jealousy.
"And so, I invite you all to drink to my son, to the endurance of our lineage and the prosperity of the kingdom! May the gods watch over us as we continue to carve our path, the same way we carve the very stone we stand upon!"
A ripple of applause swept through the hall and guests lifted their glasses, cheers ringing out. Haemon found himself caught up in the energy, lifting his glass, his thoughts momentarily swept away by the grand peroration. The music began again, albeit a little softer to let the guests chat with ease. Lord Ardain stepped down, nodding graciously to the musicians and guests alike. Meanwhile, his son followed behind, the boy had golden hair as opposed to the autumn brown color of his father's, he was tall with a slim build and had a noble demeanor despite his young age. Soon enough, the father and son pair was assaulted by a swarm of people, all eager to send their praises and good willed words to the newborn inscriptor.
Albeit the cheers, the sense of celebration felt oddly fragile; Haemon couldn't shake off the creeping dread that seemed to curl around him, tightening with each passing second.
That is when he saw a group of figures he hadn't noticed before, as if they appeared out of thin air, their faces half-hidden, their gazes sharp and unfeeling like a pack of wolves watching their prey.
In the next moment a scream tore through the music, slicing it like a blade through silk. It came from a young noblewoman near the entrance, her face twisted in horror as she stumbled backward. In front of her, the head of a guard went flying, his neck sliced cleanly in a single motion.
For a heartbeat, everything froze.
Heads turned.
Breaths held.
Most of all, fear washed over the crowd in silent, chilling waves
"Thrive in the shadows!".
A hooded man near the exit shouted, marking the moment when chaos ensued.
---
As minutes passed since the first blood was drawn, the situation seemed to only escalate. More assailants emerged, some disguised as guests in fine garments, their formal attire a macabre contrast to their deadly intent, while others wore light armor, their faces hidden beneath hoods. They all had some type of weapon and from the way they moved it was apparent that they were skilled inscriptors. Most seemed to be in the second stage of their Essentia just as the guards under Lord Flintvale's command. Yet, the guards could not keep up with their numbers, the gap in power widening with each clash.
Haemon's heart felt like it was pounding out of his chest. His eyes were wide as he watched the assault from beneath the table he had scrambled under. He wanted to run but his body felt heavy, his thoughts were all over the place and the idea of ending up like the other guests paralyzed him, rooting him to his hiding spot. The painful screams and the loud sound of clashing metal placed and invisible weight on him, and he knew exactly what it was.
Fear.
'What's happening? Who… who are these people?'
A bunch of questions appeared in Haemon's mind while the inside of the mansion turned into a battlefield between the uninvited guests and the Flintvale's family guards. From his spot beneath the table, Haemon could see a rough defensive line forming. The guards even if outnumbered, positioned themselves as a barrier before the nobles, fighting desperately to hold back the attackers.
Peering through the folds of the tablecloth, Haemon glimpsed familiar faces among the sheltered guests, one of them was Orran, Lord Ardain's son, who looked pale and terrified. The sight of the young noble struck Haemon deeply. If even someone of Orran's status wasn't safe, then his own odds felt even slimmer. But in that same moment, a spark of determination flared up in him. There was a chance, however slim, that he could make it through the night alive.
He just had to reach the defense line.
With his heart still pounding, Haemon steeled himself and fixed his eyes on the line of guards ahead. He knew he had to cross the open floor to reach them, a daunting stretch under normal circumstances but terrifyingly exposed now, surrounded by chaos. He gulped, crouching low, each nerve screaming to stay hidden yet driven by a primal urge to survive.
With one last glance around, he rose from under the table and made a break for it. Darting between toppled chairs and shattered glass, he kept his gaze trained on the defense line. Panic flooded his every step as flashes of swords and streaks of blood filled his peripheral vision. He stumbled over a fallen goblet but pushed forward, teeth clenched, hoping he would blend into the swirl of panicked guests and go unnoticed.
'This is it! A little bit more!'
A small smile appeared on the boy's face as droplets of sweat rolled down his face. He couldn't contain his emotions, his crimson eyes locked onto the guards with visible anticipation.
Perhaps he got too excited, or his luck ran out because right at that moment he glimpsed a shadow separate itself from the panicked mass. A burly man blocked his path, a wide grin present on his warrior face. Even if he did not wear a hood it was obvious he was one of the attackers, his intimidating presence, the bloodthirsty eyes and the red liquid dripping from his weapon was enough to make that assumption.
"Little lost lamb, trying to run away?" The man taunted, a dark satisfaction in his voice as he approached Haemon with chilling excitement.
A sinister smile spread across his seasoned face, his broadsword glistening with the killing intent of an experienced fighter. A gauging scar stretched from his forehead to his left eye, which only heightened the frightening aura he exuded. This man was different compared to the other individuals, it wasn't just his uncovered face that set him apart, there was something about his presence that filled Haemon's heart with an unfamiliar sense of dread, suffocating and much less mundane.
A wolf. That's what he felt like he was facing, a predator, terrifyingly large and utterly inescapable. There was no point in running away, even if his legs could obey him now.
One more step, and the man was in attack range. Yet strangely enough, no slash followed. His smile faltered for a moment as he studied the black-haired boy.
"I see..."
The man suddenly shot his left hand forward, grabbing Haemon's thin neck and lifting him off the ground with ease, as if he weighed nothing.
"Ignominia, mark him."
The man commanded in a monotonous tone, despite no one else being nearby. In the next moment a strange liquid seeped from under his wrist. It slid through his fingers and snaked around the boy's neck, slowly blending in with his skin and forming an intricate, black mark that covered the front side of Haemon's neck.
"Agh-"
Haemon groaned, grabbing the hand holding him in the air out of reflex. He did not understand what was happening, who did the man talk to? What was this soft yet aching feeling enveloping his neck?
After the mark settled in, Haemon was indifferently thrown to the side. He crashed into a table, shattering it and likely breaking a few ribs. A scream tore from his throat as his vision blurred, and he fell to his knees, clutching his chest in agony.
He struggled to breathe and break out of his disoriented state, the foreign intensity of the pain fuzzing up his senses. It happened too fast, Haemon could not even react to the enemy's hand. He was a normal human after all, powerless when facing such abnormal strength
---
Minutes passed, and the situation offered less and less solace. The assailants still outnumbered the defenders, and the grand hall had transformed into a blood-soaked battlefield.
It seemed that the defense line still held, mostly due to Lord Ardain. The noble moved like a living tempest, every strike of his blade precise and devastating. He seemed like an impenetrable fortress in defense and a whirlwind in attack. No matter how many assailants threw themselves at him, he cut them down with ease, his mastery of battle and Essentia was unmistakable. Sparks danced in the air with each slash, illuminating his form in brief, brilliant flashes as if the blade itself wielded power over the elements.
"Not just any guard tonight, are you, Flintvale?"
The brawny man's voice was low, almost mocking, as he strode forward with ease. The jagged scar over his left eye gave him a sinister air, a permanent reminder of battles he had fought and survived.
Lord Ardain turned to face him, his sword gleaming under the flickering chandelier light, streaked with the blood of those who had dared challenge him moments before.
"Damned cultist... you'll regret setting foot in my home." Ardain said, his voice calm but unyielding.
"Bold words," the man replied with a smirk. "But tonight, it's not your home, it's your grave."
Without further warning, the scarred man lashed out. Black chains materialized from thin air, glowing faintly as they shot towards Ardain with terrifying speed. They moved as if they were alive, twisting and coiling as they sought to catch him.
Ardain raised his sword in a smooth motion, and with a sharp swing the blade intercepted the chains. Sparks flew as steel met the cursed metal, then the noble sidestepped, avoiding the tightening snare by a hair's breadth. With a stomp, Ardain summoned a wall of stone from the ground, its jagged surface blocking another volley of chains that would have crushed him and the other nobles standing behind him.
The attacker did not sit idly, his broadsword carved through the air with a brutal swing, cleaving the wall cleanly in two. Shards of stone exploded outward as he surged forward, his eyes locked onto his adversary.
However, his actions were anticipated by the noble. Just as the stone wall broke apart, sharp stones formed near lord Ardain's foot, coiling until their tip was razor-sharp like the fangs of a beast. The stones shot towards the scarred man, forcing him to assume a defensive stance and block the projectiles. Due to his quick decision-making only a couple stones grazed his shoulder, the other were intercepted by his broadsword and vambrace, causing him to grunt from the impact.
Without wasting a single second, Ardain strenghtened his foothold and twisted his body. He extended his arm with inhuman speed, aiming to break the other's defence with a pierce of his sword. An ear-splitting sound boomed throughout the hall as black chains intercepted the strike, breaking the marble floor below the impact zone and sending both the noble and the scarred man backwards.
Both of them found their balance shortly after the recoil and readied up for another clash. Ardain took the initiative, he swung his hand in a wide arc and the earth responded with a thunderous quake. Massive slabs of marble erupted from the floor, tilting and shifting to throw his opponent off balance. At the same time, he thrust his sword forward, sending a wave of razor-sharp stones cascading towards the man.
For a moment, the ones watching thought that the scarred man would be overwhelmed. But the attacker planted his feet firmly and raised his hand in the air. The cursed chains surged upward, weaving into a barrier around him. The stones slammed against the links, shattering harmlessly into dust.
After protecting himself, he lowered the chains and dashed forward, using a combination of sword slashes and chain assaults to attack the noble.
The clash was relentless. Every strike, every maneuver, seemed to shake the very foundation of the mansion. Ardain moved with the precision of a master swordsman, each motion calculated and purposeful. The scarred man fought with brute force and unyielding ferocity, his cursed chains lashing out like wild beasts.
It was like watching two forces of nature collide. One was the earth, steady, immovable, and unyielding. The other was chaos incarnate, his curses and chains spreading like a storm, tearing through everything in their path.
It seemed like their fighting power was even, but in truth, Ardain was superior. There was a crowd of people behind him that he had to protect after all. It was definetely not easy dealing with such a vicious enemy while his focus was divided.
After a few more clashes the two found themselves in their initial positions and a short moment of silence followed in which neither of them dared to make a move.
"To think they would send you out of everyone else..."
Ardain frowned, his gaze showing signs of recognition.
"Oh? The mighty Flintvale family knows of me?"
The burly man asked in a mocking tone, his lips curled up in a smile.
"It isn't easy for inscriptors with a rank 4 Essentia to remain unknown, especially for you, Kaelthar, the Chain Warden."
The man named Kaelthar showed no reaction, he knew very well that the lord of the Flintvale family was informed about all the matters of the world and so he would have heard about his name and his deeds from rumors and stories.
"Anyways, it was exciting fighting you, Flintvale. Too bad tonight's victory isn't measured by swords."
Kaelthar said, resentment filling his last words.
"Ignominia... We are leaving, take the vessels with you."