The shadows still danced around Vael like serpents made of enchanted smoke—loyal, sensitive to tension, hungry for command.
The butler crossed his arms, tilting his head slightly with the air of a maestro before an out-of-tune orchestra. His eyes, like freshly tempered blades, analyzed the invaders with the coldness of a gardener inspecting pests among roses.
The silence was absolute, except for the wind—a cold whisper hissing along the cliffs, whistling ancient secrets between rocks.
Across from him, the invaders waited. Tense. Angry. But there was something in their eyes—a primal fear, masked by bravado. The kind of fear felt by those who sense they've already lost but don't yet understand how.
One of them, thinner, with features sharp as needles, discreetly slid a hand beneath his collar. A pulse of red light flashed. A call for backup. A signal of desperation.
But before a response came, Vael's voice sliced the air.
"So..." he asked with lethal softness, "will you retreat like rational men, or die like off-key notes"
A two-meter brute answered with fists.
He charged.
Footsteps like hammers. Muscles like walls. Each punch seemed to carry the fury of a runaway train.
Vael dodged with the precision of a celestial dancer, his feet guided by shadows as if each move had been choreographed before creation itself.
"Better..." he murmured, sidestepping a brutal hook, "but still unbalanced"
The man spun, throwing a side punch laced with murderous intent.
Vael caught it with a single hand. His fingers closed around the fist like shackles forged by a silent god.
"Oh... you tried to take me seriously"
The brute tried to pull back. He couldn't. His hand was stuck. The air around it seemed frozen like solid glass.
Before Vael could demonstrate the consequence of such boldness...
The sky exploded.
A white flash tore through the clouds like a rip in the world's tapestry. And then, two bodies fell from the sky, landing with a crash that made the rock tremble.
"ARGH... SHIT...!" Harry shouted, landing sideways and immediately vomiting into the snow, "THIS SHOULD BE ILLEGAL in at least three planes of existence!"
Beside him, elegant and unbothered, stood Dorian.
His violet eyes gleamed with imperial coldness. His black cloak shifted like the mantle of a storm king.
He surveyed the battlefield with a single glance.
Counted the bodies, the survivors, Vael's position, the smell of blood in the air.
Then... he looked at Harry.
"Idiot"
Simple. Precise. A diagnosis.
Vael released the brute's fist, and the man collapsed to his knees like a crumbling altar.
"Young Master" said Vael, raising an eyebrow, "what brings you here"
Dorian sighed, as if replying out of duty rather than emotion.
"Waiting for Lígia to come out"
Vael crossed his arms. The gesture radiated restrained critique—and a hint of disguised pride.
"You could show more affection for your sister"
Dorian looked away, but didn't respond.
Harry, still balancing between nausea and sarcasm, wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
"He plays the gothic lead in a tragedy drama... Mr. Vael"
The butler smiled.
Slightly. Almost imperceptibly. But it was real.
Dorian, on the other hand, only pursed his lips. If it were anyone else, he'd have snapped back. But he knew—Harry wasn't entirely wrong.
The shadows around Vael calmed, like war dogs recognizing their alphas.
The snow seemed to fall more slowly, as if the world held its breath.
And below... something was marching toward the mountain.
Vael felt it.
Dorian already knew.
Harry just prayed not to vomit again.
Vael sighed, a sound almost gentle.
"Let's end this quickly. There are more coming"
Dorian stepped forward. His boots sank into the snow with a muffled sound, like the beat of a funeral drum.
His violet eyes gleamed with the glow of a poisoned star.
He raised his hands.
"Nihvar Ethral'nox" he whispered
The world froze.
Literally.
The enemies stopped mid-motion. Every cell in their bodies suspended in dimensional tension, as if invisible threads had hung them between time and death.
They tried to scream.
Nothing came.
Only wide eyes. Soundless panic.
And then...
Came the cuts.
Thin.
Precise.
Surgical.
The space around them split like torn silk. Invisible blades danced through the air, slicing through bodies with savage grace.
Arms were severed with cruel precision.
Legs fell like autumn leaves.
Throats opened like goblets spilling scarlet wine.
All in silence.
Not a single lament.
Only eyes... until death dimmed them.
Dorian lowered his hands. His gaze still carried the coldness of the beyond.
"Weak" he declared
Vael simply nodded, turning back to the mountain's view.
The lights on the horizon flickered like hollow promises.
"The sky is clear enough..." he murmured, "for it to snow blood"
Beside him, Harry dropped to his knees, pale as a forgotten sheet.
"The air smells like rust and death..." he groaned, and vomited again
Vael, without turning, commented
"Perhaps you should strengthen your body before playing with planar folds, Mr. Harry"
Dorian rolled his eyes.
And for a brief moment, as blood mixed with snow, and the shadows withdrew to rest...
The mountain fell silent.
But the war wasn't over.
It had only... learned to wait.