The smell of the cellar was ancient.
Thick.
Made of memories that shouldn't have names.
The air moved like a wounded animal.
Dense. Stagnant. Almost solid.
The light flickered in candles fixed to iron holders, casting living shadows that danced like restless spirits whispering between chains and stone.
Chains rattled, but not from movement — more like a spasm of time.
And there were murmurs.
Not of voices.
But of shattered wills.
In the distance, screams echoed.
Old.
Hollow.
Already diluted in pain.
Those cells had no names.
No numbers.
Only absences.
And silence.
At the end of the corridor, where the flames seemed to shiver in fear, he was there.
Dorian.
Seated.
Arms resting on his knees.
Eyes closed.
He could have looked like he was praying.
But here...
Here, not even the gods came close.
Beside him, Harry.
Standing.
The grimoire floated in front of him, its pages flipping on their own, spitting symbols that burned in deep violet in the air.
It was a magic that didn't punish — it corrected. The kind that carved into bone, not skin.
In front of them, kneeling, suspended by his arms, the man trembled.
Arcane shackles fed on his breath.
His eyes no longer begged.
Not anymore.
"Not going to talk?" murmured Harry, dragging the words like an old addiction.
"You've passed the hard part. Now all that's left is the weight of silence crushing you."
Nothing.
Dorian opened his eyes.
Violet.
Cold.
Fixed.
His voice was a blade sheathed in calm.
"We have time."
And time... had always been the cruelest of executioners.
The cell shrank.
Not physically.
But in feeling.
Dorian's presence made space ache.
It was like staring into a mirror that shows you what's left after everything is taken.
The grimoire spun, tracing runes in the air that dissolved in purple smoke.
Harry leaned in, placing a hand on the prisoner's shoulder with an almost affectionate touch.
"When you dropped in the middle of the ritual, opening portals like windows at dusk... I thought, 'Wow. This guy must be important.'"
He laughed, dry.
"And look at you now. Hanging like second-rate meat. Trembling just from hearing my grimoire. Sad, huh?"
His name still hung there.
A cruel irony.
Rhelor.
A mage of renown.
Respected in the Ruby Tower.
Now?
Now he was just flesh and silence.
Dorian stood.
Not like a predator.
But like a judge.
His steps made no sound.
But when he spoke, the world seemed to listen.
"You invaded an ancestral rite of House d'Argêntea. You broke a sacred dimensional seal. And finally... you dared look at my sister during her Awakening."
Rhelor trembled.
"I... I was only following... higher orders..."
Harry laughed, mocking.
"Oh, sure. There's always someone above, right? Some faceless name who told you to tear apart a seventeen-year-old girl during her Awakening."
He leaned closer.
Face to face.
And whispered:
"But you liked it, Rhelor. I saw you smile."
Harry snapped his fingers.
The soul-pain spell reactivated.
Not explosive.
But continuous.
Like invisible hands slowly reopening old wounds with surgical precision.
Rhelor shuddered.
He didn't scream.
Dorian knelt before him.
The light vanished around him as if even the flames refused to witness.
"What were you hoping to accomplish?"
"That she'd break? That the bloodline would collapse? That I wouldn't be there?"
Rhelor wept.
"You don't... understand what she is. She... she shouldn't have awakened..."
Dorian tilted his head slightly.
Emotionless.
"But she did."
"And her blood burned through the chains you brought."
Silence returned.
This time, thicker.
Rhelor cried like someone who had seen the future... and wasn't in it.
Harry stepped back. The grimoire closed with a whisper of pages.
Dorian didn't move a muscle.
"You will tell us who sent you."
"Even if it means losing what's left of you."
Rhelor raised his eyes.
Shattered.
"I... already lost."
Dorian stood with absolute cold.
"Not yet."
He snapped his fingers.
The cell went dark.
Total darkness.
---
Harry sighed. Closed the grimoire with a snap.
The magic ceased.
For now.
"He'll give in, right?"
Dorian, back turned, replied with the tone that breaks wills.
"He will. Because he knows what comes if he doesn't."
They left.
Behind them, the cell remained.
Alive.
Hungry.
Rhelor was now just a name.
Waiting for oblivion.
---
But the shadow waiting for them...
Was something else.
It cracked.
Not metaphorically.
It cracked.
A fracture in the wall, dark and alive.
From it emerged a figure.
Hooded.
Eyes hidden behind ruby lenses.
Gloves bearing the d'Argêntea crest embroidered in crimson thread.
A Crimson Whisper.
The voice?
Sharp.
"Young Master Dorian. The heir of House Verdanel has made contact with the young lady."
Silence.
Total.
Dorian stopped.
The air froze.
Literally.
The stones around gained layers of frost.
The light hesitated.
It was winter awakening inside a man.
Harry swallowed hard.
Not from the cold.
But from what came with it.
Dorian spoke with lethal calm.
"And Ligia?"
"No harm. Just words. Flirting... subtle. He seems curious."
Dorian inhaled.
The ice retreated.
But not the danger.
"The message was delivered."
The agent vanished.
No footsteps.
No sound.
As if he'd never been there.
Harry exhaled. Laughed, shaky.
"Man... you change the season with a breath."
Dorian remained silent.
Until he answered.
"A foolish young man is looking for trouble, Harry."
Harry scoffed.
"Shame we can't kill the bastard. Ducal House and all."
Dorian descended the stairs, his boots clicking slowly.
"...not exactly."
The sentence hung in the air.
Like a blade hanging by a thread of shadow.
Harry smiled.
Not a happy smile.
But the kind that comes before war.
And House d'Argêntea... never forgot.
Nor forgave.