District 6. One week ago…
——
It was the kind of afternoon that made the whole world feel gentle.
Sunlight spilled through the trees in golden threads. Children shrieked and laughed across the wide, grassy field—chasing bubbles, playing tag, launching drones into the sky. Someone strummed a guitar beneath a flowering oak. The air smelled of caramel popcorn and sun-warmed bark.
Rhesa sat on a checkered picnic blanket, still as a sculpture, dressed in a flowing blue dress. A wide straw hat shaded her warm, golden-brown skin. Her posture was regal—but her forehead itched like mad.
'I'll be quick,' she thought. Her fingers twitched.
"Mom, don't!" Anya cried.
Rhesa sighed and dropped her hand. "How did you know?"
"You always look guilty right before you move," Anya muttered, her eyes locked on the small canvas in front of her. "And you always move when I'm halfway through the nose."
"Well, it's a very itchy nose," Rhesa replied with a grin. "It might be an emergency."
"No moving," Anya ordered. "Just one more minute."
Rhesa bit her lip, trying not to laugh. Her daughter was so serious when she painted—brows furrowed, tongue poking slightly out, little fingers smudged with streaks of green and blue.
"Mooom," she whined, "you ruined the face." Then, quieter: "…Okay, done."
She stood, brushing grass from her knees, and handed over the painting.
Rhesa studied it. The painting was wonderfully chaotic. The eyes were too big, the proportions all off, and her hat was somehow floating above her head—but there was a warmth in the strokes. A sweetness.
"It's beautiful," Rhesa said warmly. "You made me look taller and scarier than I actually am."
Anya giggled. "You already look scary. I made you look cool."
Rhesa pulled her in close and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
"I love it."
There was a time—only a year ago—when Anya hadn't spoken a single word. The silence had felt so thick it almost hurt. But now? Every sentence was a gift. Every sound from her was proof that love could crack through the heaviest stone.
Anya's voice was still soft, but it existed—and Rhesa guarded it like treasure.
Anya nestled beside her, still holding the brush.
"When will Dad and Ren be back?"
"Soon," Rhesa murmured, brushing hair from Anya's eyes. "They're not far."
Right on cue, footsteps crunched across the grass.
"Ladies," Simon called, holding up a pastry box. "Miss us?"
He wore a loose white shirt and black slacks, sleeves rolled, his smile just a little smug. Ren followed behind with drinks in hand, hair messy and damp at the edges, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
"Dad!" Anya sprinted to meet him, latching onto his side. "You took forever!"
"They had a line out the door at Sugar and Whisk," Simon said, laughing as he kissed the top of her head. "We got your favorite. Triple raspberry dream."
Ren held up the cups.
"And we get stuck with boring tea?"
"Detox," Simon shrugged. "Your mom's idea, not mine."
Rhesa stood, brushing grass from her dress. "Let me guess—you forgot mine again?"
Simon grinned and leaned in to kiss her. "Almost. Then I remembered your weird pistachio obsession."
He handed a drink to her. "Detox pistachio ginger… disgusting and overpriced. Just how you like it."
She chuckled and took the drink. "That's why I married you."
The family gathered back around the blanket. Anya tugged Ren down beside her to show him the painting.
Ren nudged her gently. "What, no love for your favorite brother?"
She rolled her eyes but leaned on him anyway.
Simon unpacked slices of cake. Rhesa leaned back and closed her eyes.
It was perfect.
Which is why she noticed immediately when the world changed.
It wasn't sound or movement—it was absence. The laughter faded first. Then the wind. The air went still.
And something in her chest tightened.
Then it came—the scent.
'Blood.' she thought. 'It smells like blood.'
Not a wound, not a scrape. The scent was old and unnatural—metallic and sour, as though the sky itself had cracked open.
She turned.
A figure was walking across the street toward them.
Pale-skinned. Slender. Crimson coat dragging along the ground. His hair was dark, his eyes unreadable, and the aura around him—Rhesa felt it like a blade sliding beneath her ribs.
"Anele," she whispered.
Simon blinked. "What?"
He felt her shift and immediately stepped closer.
"Hon…?"
"Get behind me," she said sharply, her voice low.
Rhesa stood and gently pushed Anya behind her.
"Simon. Take them and step back. Now."
"Rhesa…" he hesitated.
"Simon. Now."
Her tone cut the air like a blade.
Anya froze. Her small fingers reached instinctively for Rhesa's hand.
Ren's body tensed beside them. He felt it too. Not fear—pressure. Like the entire world had inhaled and refused to breathe again.
'Who… is this guy?
Why does it feel like the air's crushing me the closer he gets?'
The figure crossed the grass slowly. Deliberately.
A dozen families were already packing up, drawn away by some instinct they didn't understand.
"Ah. So this is where you've been hiding," he said. "Rhesa, Kyrios of the Iron Will."
His voice was wrong. Too smooth. It grated, like something pretending to be human.
"What the hell is going on?" Simon whispered.
Rhesa didn't answer. Her eyes never left Anele.
"What are you doing here, Anele?" she asked, voice flat. "You know this district is mine."
"No warm welcome?" he asked, spreading his arms like someone seeing an old friend after a long time. "Tsk. I expected more from you. After all, it's been years."
"You're trespassing," Rhesa said coldly. "No prior declaration of intent. You know the rules—Kyrios don't step into another's domain without one. So tell me, Anele… what do you want?"
Anele grinned, wide and unnatural.
"You always were so formal. Blame your affliction, I suppose—always so rigid. But let's speak plainly, shall we?"
He took another step forward. The air grew heavier.
"You missed the last Dominion Council. And the few before that."
He smiled without warmth—like someone who'd waited years for this moment, and finally had permission to enjoy it.
"Come now, Rhesa. That's not just rude." The smile twitched wider. "It's treason."
Rhesa didn't respond. Her face was still—empty, emotionless.
"You ignore our summons. You no longer show up to the Council of Kyrios. Why?"
He gestured lazily at the picnic, the blanket, the child clinging behind her.
"Because you've gone soft?" he said, lifting two fingers into mocking quotation marks. "Built yourself a family? A pretend little world?"
"Speak your purpose," Rhesa said flatly. "Or leave. You won't get a second warning."
Anele's smile vanished. What replaced it wasn't rage.
It was worse.
Disgust.
"I came here to kill you."
The words struck like thunder—loud, final, and completely sincere.
Simon instinctively pulled Anya behind him. Ren reached out, but his hand was trembling.
'Why are my hands shaking?
But I'm not scared…'
Then a deeper thought crept in—colder, quieter.
'Wait. Why am I not scared?'
"You're either with us, or you're in the ground," Anele continued, his voice now dead and toneless. "And you've chosen wrong."
Rhesa took a single step forward, her eyes cold.
"You've always been a monster," she said quietly. "You use our afflictions as excuses to indulge in violence. But this hatred—it isn't your burden. It's you."
Anele's smile returned—slow, stretching like a wound.
"Touching."
Rhesa glanced over her shoulder—first at Anya, trembling but silent, then at Simon, who gripped her daughter's hand, and finally at Ren, whose eyes burned with questions he was too young to voice.
She turned back to Anele.
"Let's not do this here," she said, steady and low.
"There are civilians everywhere. Families. Children. Humans with no means to protect themselves."
Her voice sharpened.
"If we fight, this district won't survive it. You know that."
Anele's expression shifted—like someone who'd just tasted something foul.
"Civilians? Humans?"
Then he laughed—loud and unhinged. He dragged a hand across his pale face, fingers threading back through his hair with mockery in every movement.
"Are you kidding me, Rhesa?"
His grin widened, savage.
"Do I look like someone who gives a damn about these lowly creatures?"
Behind Rhesa, Anya clung to her mother's dress with one hand, the other clutching her worn teddy bear against her chest.
The moment the pale man appeared, she felt it—something wrong. Not just cold, but something harsher. Needling.
Her skin prickled. Her breath hitched. Every instinct screamed to run, but her legs wouldn't move.
So she held on tighter.
Rhesa could feel it now—her emotions surfacing late, as they always did. Regret. Sadness. Rage.
A quiet sigh slipped from her lips.
She had only just begun to understand what it meant to be a mother. To feel warmth not as an idea, but as something real. And now, just when she'd finally grasped it—love, joy, belonging—it was about to be taken away.
Stolen.
She was powerful—one of the strongest Kyrios left breathing. Few in the world could match her. But Anele… Anele wasn't just strong.
He was wrong.
Twisted by a derivative that fed on violence, that grew stronger with every scream, every drop of blood. An abomination, cloaked in calm.
To stop him, she would need to release everything. Every seal. Every ounce of Vira buried in her vessel.
But her derivative wasn't made for control—it was cataclysmic by design. A force of ruin. If she truly let go, ten, maybe twenty miles would fall with her. Innocents caught in the storm. Lives shattered, not by Anele… but by her.
And worst of all?
Every soul lost would only feed him.
Make him stronger.
Make her sacrifice meaningless.
She watched as he slowly drew a blade from inside his coat. Nothing ornate, just polished bone and black steel. His expression darkened.
"Tsk. I really liked this coat," Anele sighed. "Should've worn something sleeveless… but alas."
Then, without hesitation, Anele plunged the blade into his own shoulder.
Simon flinched. "What are you…?"
Anya screamed.
The sound tore through the air—sharp, high, and full of terror. It was the kind of scream that didn't belong to a child who rarely spoke, that didn't belong to a child at all. It was pure instinct. Panic.
Simon reacted instantly, pulling her close and shielding her eyes.
Ren stumbled back a step, gasping, his eyes wide with horror.
But Anele… he smiled.
With eerie calm, he began to drag the blade from his shoulder down to his wrist. The slice was slow—deliberate.
The sound that followed was wet and unnatural, like muscle parting from bone.
Blood gushed—then halted.
A single droplet floated, then curled. Then another.
The crimson liquid shimmered, drawn upward like thread through a needle.
"Throne of the Bleeding Sky," he whispered.
The sphere pulsed—and split.
Dozens of tendrils shot out in every direction like veins bursting from an artery, slamming into the grass, the air, the sky itself. Screams tore through the park. The sun flickered. The clouds above began to turn crimson. The light changed, and the world looked… wrong.
Ren dropped to his knees, clutching his chest. Water pooled in his lungs. His body was reacting—resonating—and he didn't know why.
Anele's eyes rolled back.
The orb above him began to rise—enormous now, red as a second sun. Its surface churned like boiling blood, and within it, faces began to form. Twisted. Screaming. Weeping.
Each one warped by agony, trapped in a cycle of endless suffering.
Every living creature in the park knew instinctively: something ancient had been unbound.
Rhesa clenched her fists. Vira began to rise in her like a tide held back by trembling gates. The air around her shimmered faintly, distorted by pressure.
Anya whimpered behind her. Simon held her tighter.
She looked at her family one last time. Simon. Ren. Anya.
And for the first time in a long time… she felt fear.
Not for herself.
For them.