After that, Raina and I returned to my chambers. The palace, once humming with life, had surrendered to silence. It was the hour of sleep, and the halls echoed only with our footsteps, soft, hesitant, as though even sound feared to wander too far.
The moment we entered the room, my stomach turned. A metallic stench clung to the air, thick, unmistakable.
Blood.
Two figures sat on my bed.
The candlelight pooled weakly across the floor, unable to reach them. They were swallowed by the shadows. I couldn't make out their faces, only silhouettes, still as statues. But then one moved, she raised the hand of the other like a puppetmaster tugging strings.
The hand detached with a soft pop like a snap-together toy.
"Oops," she murmured, in a voice as smooth as velvet. "Wrong hand."
Raina moved on instinct. Her fingers flew to the hilt of her sword but before she could draw, the figure blurred forward. Silent. Effortless.
In the same breath, she was between us. Her pale fingers pressed Raina's blade gently back into its sheath, like a mother silencing a child.
Then came the sound—thud.
The second figure, the one who'd been held like a doll, slumped from the bed, collapsing to the floor with weight.
Unconscious.
Or dead.
We couldn't tell.
The woman turned to Raina. Her smile never reached her eyes. She raised a single finger and waggled it back and forth with feigned disappointment.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk," she cooed. "Careful now, dear maid. If you reach for that sword one more time..."
Her voice dropped, serpentine and gleaming with threat.
"I. WILL. KILL."
Her aura burst like a blade drawn in the dark, cold and suffocating.
Then, laughter.
"What sort of face do you think your master will make," she mused, "when he sees your lifeless body? Or should I bury you together instead? So deep, not even the maggots will find you."
Her eyes flicked toward me.
"Relax," she said, smiling wider. "I'm just joking."
She wasn't.
Every word dripped with truth.
And that voice, I knew it.
Velvet. Venomous.
I didn't want my room turning into a war zone, so I shot Raina a warning glance.
She saw it somehow and then lowered her hand. Tense. Reluctant.
"Forgive my rudeness, dear brother," came a smooth voice. The young woman stepped into the light, idly brushing golden strands from her eyes. "I was bored…so I killed your guest while I waited. Not exactly noble, I know. But then, you wouldn't understand nobility, would you?"
She smiled.
"Take it as a gift. From me, to you. She belonged to Nike, by the way. I imagine she was here to…"
She traced a slow line across her throat with one manicured finger.
"Well. You know."
Then, without warning, her fingers caught my cheek in a mockingly affectionate pinch.
"No need to thank me, little brother. Who wouldn't want to protect their cute baby sibling?"
This was no ordinary sister. This was the Wolfhard terror I had written into existence, the battlefield's blood-soaked demon, whispered in fear and awe:
Valkyrie van Wolfhard
Second child of Leia van Wolfhard, the first wife.
Third-born of Grey van Wolfhard.
Royal by birth. Wolfhard by blood.
Known to the world as the Wolfhard Bloodhound.
When I created her, I drew inspiration from the Blood Countess herself aka Elizabeth Báthory. But this one didn't bathe in the blood of virgins. No, but her rituals were also as brutal. She drenched herself in the lifeblood of those she struck down with her own blade, believing it preserved her youth, her beauty.
Immortality through slaughter.
Was she afraid of death? No.
It was aging that terrified her.
Whispers spread. That the Emperor's sister, her mother, had consorted with a vampire lord. That she was no true Wolfhard, but a child of vampiric nobility. Those who dared to breathe such rumors didn't get the chance to speak twice. Their blood was added to her next bath.
But the truth told another story. Her golden eyes, distinct, burning, were unmistakably of the Wolfhard line, shared by the patriarch and the ancestors before him. And that golden hair, bright as a sunbeam in a crypt, was the mark of royal lineage. Most emperors who ruled Stella had borne that same hue. It was her mother's gift to her.
She tilted my chin upward, "Say my name in the tongue of the constellations," she purred, her voice low and dripping with temptation. "It just turns me on."
The nightdress she wore, silk, crimson and merciless, it clung to her skin, more a weapon of seduction than a garment for sleep.
"Je maudis le jour où mes mains ont façonné un monstre tel que toi."
(I curse the day my hands shaped a monster like you.)
She bit her lower lip, her gaze sharp as a dagger cloaked in charm.
"Ah…why does it sound like you just cursed at me?"
"Mmm. It does carry the sting of a hex, doesn't it, dear brother? I ought to be offended."
She leaned in closer, the scent of blood and roses trailing after her like a haunting perfume.
"If you weren't my kin," she said, breath brushing my skin, "I'd have made you my paramour. Keep the Wolfhard bloodline pure."
She laughed, light and cruel.
"How romantic. But I imagine my fiancé would object. It would be most unfortunate to spark a prince's envy, such emotions have a way of turning kingdoms to ash and then there's the rather inconvenient stain of commoner blood running through your veins."
I sighed.
"What do you want, sister?"
She leaned closer, smile venomous.
"You fed me potatoes. Filth for commoners. So now, dear brother…
Convince me, right here and now, why I shouldn't take your head off and use your skull as a flower vase."
I had drawn the attention of a psychopath, one so ruthless, so unhinged, she'd spill her own brother's blood, full kin by both mother and father, if it meant claiming the Wolfhard throne. And now, because of me, the weight of that decision was knocking at my door. I had no sword, no shield, only words. And they had to be the right ones. Sweet, silken lies tailored for her ears alone. Words that could lull a killer back to sleep.
Her eyes locked onto mine.
"Are you going to say something?" she asked, her voice quieter now. Steady. Serious.
I said nothing.
"You were always forgettable," she murmured, each word deliberate. "Like a background obscure weathering painting in the back of a dusty room, blurred, unnoticed, gathering silence more than eyes."
She stepped around me, circling like a vulture.
"But now? Now you're trying to become a masterpiece. Bold strokes, vivid colors, daring to be seen. The kind of art that arrests a room, demands admiration." She stopped behind me, her voice lowering to a whisper. "And I've never been one to like surprises, dear little Arthur. You've drawn too much attention. Even the Emperor has eyes on you. That's…inconvenient."
She stopped before me again, tilting her head with a slow, deliberate grace.
"I intend to become the next Patriarch of House Wolfhard," she said, the word rolling off her tongue like a challenge. "Some say I can't, that for a woman, it's called Matriarch." A pause. Then a smirk. "But Patriarch...it sounds so much more deliciously masculine, don't you think?"
Her smile stretched wider, playful on the surface, yet the gleam in her eyes dulled, as if something colder stirred beneath the bravado.
"Alexander, gifted in swordsmanship, a master of political maneuvering, backed by a coalition of powerful Houses. On paper, he should be untouchable. And yet…the throne slips further from his grasp with each passing day.
Mercedes, the mightiest among us siblings, House Wolfhard's sword prodigy, rivaling the world's greatest aura wielders. Yet unlike the others, she does not seek power. She seeks peace, for all her siblings. The sword is merely her tool, a means to carve a path toward that peace. For how can one who despises the blade be worthy to lead the House of Swords?
Then there's young Caesar. A flicker of talent here and there, sure but spoiled to the bone. Always handed what he wanted. Never had to fight for it. A nuisance, not a threat.
But then there's you..."
"You forgot the most dangerous one of all, yourself. The crazy bitch, who gets off on the scent of blood."
But I bit my tongue before the words escaped.
She poked a sharp, lacquered nail against my chest.
"The quiet one. The one no one looked at. Now suddenly you're wielding powers that shouldn't exist? I wonder..."
She stepped even closer, her voice dropping to a whisper.
"...what did you sacrifice to gain it?"
I brushed her hand aside.
"I didn't gain anything," I said flatly. "I don't even have a mana core."
She blinked. Then laughed.
At first it was soft, like rain against glass.
Then it broke into sharp, mocking thunder.
"No mana core?" she gasped between laughs. "Oh, darling, is that your excuse now?"
"It's not an excuse, it's the truth."
I lifted my hands, a silent gesture of surrender.
"I never wanted the Wolfhard seat. The throne means nothing to me. The name, the bloodline...they're burdens, not prizes.
All I've ever wanted is to live in peace."
"For a Wolfhard," she said, her laughter fading, "you say the most boring things."
She turned away, only to whip a around and throw a hidden dagger, sudden, gleaming.
It embedded itself in the wall beside my head.
"Peace is not a luxury people like us get to have, youngest."
I didn't flinch. Just the slightest tremble in my hands, like my body knew what I wouldn't admit.
But Raina's hand twitched toward her sword again.
"Don't," I muttered.
She froze.
Valkyrie sauntered to the bed, stepping over the dead guest she had brought down like a gift.
"You say you're not interested in House Wolfhard," she said, drawing the curtains slightly, letting in a sliver of moonlight. "But the truth is, people like us don't get to choose. We're born into a war of bloodlines and legacies. The moment you drew breath, you were part of the game."
"I didn't ask to be," I said.
"No one does," she said softly. "But you're in it, whether you like it or not. And now that you've started making a name for yourself...you're on the board."
She turned to me again, this time more solemn.
"Stay out of my way, Arthur. Or I'll treat you like I treat the rest."
She dragged her finger across her neck once more, slow, deliberate.
"Sibling or not."
Silence thickened.
She smiled again.
"I must say, you do amuse me, maybe that's why I haven't gutted you yet."
She moved to the door, stretching like a satisfied cat.
"Oh, and Arthur?"
She paused.
"Your room's a mess. You should have your maid clean it before the smell sets in. Blood can be so clingy."
She slipped into the corridor, her laughter echoing down the dark halls like a lullaby sung by a lunatic.
I exhaled sharply, as if surfacing from deep underwater, my heart pounding like a war drum in my chest.
I turned to where Raina stood, the flickering light casting long shadows across her face.
"Don't you ever do that again, Raina," I said, my voice low, almost cracking. "I could've lost you."
She didn't answer at first. Just stood there, frozen. The weight of what almost happened hung between us like a ghost.
Then, after a beat, she gave a small smile. "I understand, young master."
I stepped closer to the crumpled body on the floor, and a chilling reminder echoed in my mind: I was no longer the author of this webnovel. My choices here didn't shape the plot, they balanced on the knife's edge between life and death.
"Fuck," I whispered, and let the silence swallow the word.