The wind whispered through the tall windows of the mansion's wing, carrying with it the subtle promise of summer—a golden, slow warmth that seeped into the stone walls like a patient lover.
Outside, vine leaves danced under the slanted morning sunlight, and Dorian d'Argêntea watched it all in silence.
His eyes—cold as steel in the shade—were not those of a poet, but they fixed on the landscape as if deciphering the secret movements of the world.
Leaning on the marble windowsill, he murmured,
"Summer is coming to the northern Empire"
He turned.
The robe slipped from his broad shoulders, revealing a body forged not by vanity but by discipline. Firm muscles, carved like martial marble, marked each step toward the bath.
The hot water met his skin like a forbidden kiss. Steam rose in swirling coils, obscuring the world around him, highlighting the lines of his body, the old scar on his back—an Eldrath inheritance.
His hands moved with precision, almost laziness, as if even time hesitated before him.
Upon leaving, he wrapped a black towel around his waist. He stopped before the oval mirror framed with runic silver.
The mirror didn't reflect an image—it reminded him of what he had stopped being.
A small smile. Discreet. Almost dangerous.
"Ready, little monster"
He dressed like a prince of shadows: a fitted pearl-gray shirt, dark enchanted linen trousers, and a military coat threaded with refined mana. On the collar, the crimson rose brooch.
When he opened the door to his room, he was greeted by the ritualistic silence of the private manor.
Every servant knew where to step.
Every wall knew his name—and feared his wrath.
In the study, the world bent to the Executor d'Argêntea.
He sat on the chair of living obsidian, before a pulsating ebony desk. His fingers—sharpened with surgical precision—touched the magical surface.
He whispered,
"Crux Spatialis"
The air rippled.
Reality trembled.
A magic circle opened like a cosmic eye, revealing inverted constellations.
At the center, a man knelt, panting.
His coat was rumpled, and his hair still betrayed its pillow's betrayal. But his eyes were of someone who read realities like old pages.
He was sweating. Not from fear, but from the brutality of teleportation.
Dorian merely watched him.
"You're late"
The man recognized the room. He sighed deeply.
"Dude, you have a whole staff of servants. And still you drag me out of bed with that cursed ability of yours"
Dorian leaned back, one eyebrow arched.
"Harry. You know that will never change
Least of all when urgency is involved"
Harry huffed in defeat, slumping into the armchair across from him.
"Alright. What magical drama is it this time"
Dorian spun a crystal quill between his fingers. Then, with seriousness,
"It's happening. Ligia's Awakening Ritual"
Harry froze. His eyes narrowed.
An "oh" escaped. Long. Dense.
"That changes everything
We're going to need to prepare
In case... they try to intervene"
"Exactly"
The silence between them was old. Heavy with unspoken things.
After a moment, Harry spoke more softly.
"You really think they'd dare interfere again? Within House d'Argêntea's territory"
Dorian's gaze shifted to the sculpted crest on the wall—the crimson rose.
The lack of answer... was answer enough.
The Executor turned his eyes to Harry.
The silver glow of the magic circle still pulsed on the floor, like a heart buried beneath stone.
"They have eyes everywhere
Maybe they won't strike directly
But what about the ones who lurk at the edges
The ones waiting for a breach"
Harry rose slowly, stretching his shoulders.
"You mean the Awakened? Or the rogue descendants"
Dorian turned the ring on his finger.
"I mean all of them
Our ancestor sealed the pact with Velmor for power and dominion...
But he drew too much attention"
Harry tried to soften it with sarcasm:
"You d'Argêntea folks don't know how to play things low-key, do you"
Dorian raised a brow.
"That was playing low-key"
Both laughed. Or nearly.
The kind of laugh that doesn't lighten the weight—just makes it bearable for one more minute.
Soft footsteps in the corridor.
Harry turned.
"Already? Isn't it too early for another problem"
The door opened.
It was Dorian's head maid.
Rigid posture. Nearly firm voice.
But a subtle tremor betrayed her.
"Lord Dorian... Lady Ligia is in the gardens. Walking. Alone"
Dorian closed his eyes. Breathed.
When he opened them, they were colder. Sharper.
"She feels it
Even if she doesn't yet know what"
Harry crossed his arms.
"Are you going to tell her everything"
"She's not ready"
The words came dry. Not cruel.
"When she is... she'll make me
With words or with power"
He stood. Wore the invisible armor that separated brother from Executor.
"Secure the perimeter around the ancestral temple
Use the old runes
I want protection in every stone"
Harry was already pulling a grimoire from his dimensional pouch.
"And the blood hunter intel"
Dorian, at the door, replied without turning:
"Bury it"
His voice was steel
But his eyes... were still fixed on the garden
Where his sister walked alone.