The night was steeped in a bone-chilling quiet as High Elder Irin Remington travelled to Venor Crain’s manor, his carriage slicing through the fog-laden streets like a dark spectre. The city was long asleep, but shadows flitted across his path as if even the night itself knew to clear the way for him. His destination loomed ahead, a monolithic estate bathed in moonlight, its towering iron gates swinging open with a creak as the carriage slowed to a halt.
A servant bowed with guarded eyes, leading Irin through dimly lit halls heavy with shadow, where opulence and secrecy seemed to intertwine. Irin’s eyes swept over his surroundings, noting the opulent decor and the layers of shadow clinging to the edges of each room they passed, lending the place an air of tightly held secrets.
Two more servants fell into step beside him, escorting him through the winding passageways until they reached the thick wooden door of Venor Crain’s study. With a final nod, one of the servants stepped forward and knocked softly, only opening the door after receiving an approving murmur from within. Irin inclined his head in silent thanks before stepping inside.
A thick silence fell as High Elder Irin Remington crossed the threshold of Venor Crain’s grand study. The room was cloaked in darkness but for the low glow of a single lantern resting on the mahogany desk. Irin’s expression was coldly unreadable as he entered, his eyes catching on the faint flickers of light against the wall. Venor gestured for him to take a seat, his face shadowed yet revealing a glimmer of anticipation.
Silence cloaked Venor Crain’s grand study in darkness, broken only by the low glow of a single lantern. Irin crossed the threshold with a cold, unreadable expression, meeting Venor’s shadowed, expectant gaze. Irin’s expression was coldly unreadable as he stepped into the room, his eyes catching on the faint flickers of light against the wall as Venor gestured for him to take a seat across from him.
With a soft rustle, Irin produced a neatly folded piece of parchment from within his coat. “I made sure every noble on our side has one.” Irin held out the parchment, his voice taut. “Consider it my honour to bring yours personally.”
Venor took the parchment, unfolding it with careful fingers. His gaze sharpened as he scanned its contents. At the very top of the list were the names of two high elders written in dark red ink: Marcus Remington and Ceryn Remington. Venor’s lips pressed into a hard line, his eyes lingering on Marcus’s name. He set the paper down and looked at Irin with a frown.
“Ceryn, we can manage” he began, his voice calm but tense.“But Marcus? Even if we gathered every Tier 4 we have, he’s… untouchable.”
Irin didn’t immediately answer, his fingers tracing the edge of the desk as he considered Venor’s question. The concern was justified, and both men knew it. The Tier 5 realm was a transition that separated mortals from something far greater—a line only a few in recorded history had crossed. To reach such a state was to almost leave behind mortal limitations, touching on realms of existence the living could barely comprehend.
Tier 5 Soulweavers were few and far between. Tier 5 was the Transitioning Realm, where the weaver’s spirit could pass beyond the mortal coil and manifest powers so overwhelming that few dared to challenge them. For one to face, a Soulweaver in that state was akin to staring into the abyss itself, a confrontation almost too fearsome to imagine.
Venor’s eyes moved from the list to Irin. “If you expect us to go against a force like that…”
“Sir Lian Chen said that someone else will take care of him,” Irin replied smoothly, folding his hands over his lap. “We’re only to focus on our own targets. Marcus’s presence is not our concern.”
Venor’s gaze softened with some relief, and he nodded. “Fine.” His fingers tapped against the edge of the desk. “And what about Tannin?”
Irin’s expression remained stony as he replied, “Sir Lian Chen mentioned that Lord Tannin is in the city as we speak. He will play his part in the conflict.”
Venor’s mouth twisted into a cold smile, satisfaction glinting in his gaze. “Good,” he murmured. Venor’s smile grew sharper. “Good. Let him wash his hands in their blood, as dirty as it is. Maybe it will offer him some peace.” He took a long breath, seeming to relish the thought.
Irin’s lips curved, though he said nothing. After a moment, Venor unfurled a city map across the desk, drawing Irin’s focus as they planned their next steps.
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The morning sun barely crested the treetops as Sullivan Lonestar strode out of the manor, the cold mist clinging to the ground like a veil. His expression was sombre as he turned toward Silas, who stood at the entrance, arms folded, his gaze piercing and unwavering.
“Kael and Kaede are both off on some errands today,” Sullivan said, his voice carrying a slight hesitation. “Uncle Chen, as well... So, I need you to keep an eye on the manor while I’m out.”
Silas nodded curtly, his face impassive. There was a glint of something unreadable in his eyes—a restrained disappointment, perhaps—that Sullivan could only meet with a resigned nod of his own.
The once-warm bond between father and son had slowly chilled since Sullivan’s revelation about his mother’s death. A vast silence had settled between them, leaving only a sense of distance that Silas seemed unwilling to bridge. As the months passed, Silas became sharper and more withdrawn, the wound left by his mother’s sacrifice festering into a quiet bitterness. In moments like these, Sullivan could see the flicker of resentment in his gaze—a fire he didn’t know how to quench.
As Sullivan turned, the words Silas hadn’t said hung in the air, a bitterness he felt with each step down the stone path. He cast a glance back, hoping for a trace of warmth—but Silas was already gone, the manor door shutting behind him with a finality Sullivan couldn’t ignore.
He began his descent along the stone path leading away from the manor. Silas’s mind lingered on the conversation for a moment before he turned away, missing the glint of Sullivan’s weapon as it caught a sliver of early morning light. The Starfire Blade, the Lonestar Legacy weapon, hung by Sullivan’s side—replacing the usual sword his father had carried for as long as Silas could remember.
As the manor faded into the mist behind him, Sullivan sighed. Once he was far enough down the road, he paused near a narrow, empty alley, glancing over his shoulder. The streets were empty at this early hour. Reaching into his coat, he withdrew a menacing wooden mask and slipped it over his face, the familiar weight settling against his skin. The world felt cooler and sharper behind the mask, and a strange clarity settled over him as he applied Spirit Infusion on his legs.
The morning was silent as he moved fast, save for the occasional metallic clink of the Starfire Blade at his side, its heavy presence a reminder of the purpose that led him into the dawn-shadowed streets. Shadows stretched longer, swallowing his outline as he slipped through alleys and over fences, leaving no trace.
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The grand hall was alive with murmurs and nervous whispers as nobles gathered for the second council meeting. Despite the polished opulence of the chamber, tension rippled in the air. Rows of seats were filled as nobles exchanged glances, the recent turmoil in Amberheart dominating their discussions. Even the Seven Elders looked restless, their eyes shifting toward the door in wait for the remaining council members. The War Counselor Sullivan, Queen Marika, and Crown Prince Edward had yet to arrive, leaving an anxious void among the council.
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A sudden, deep rumble echoed through the chamber walls, making the polished chandeliers sway and tremble as if they, too, felt the impending doom. The floor beneath them shivered violently, then cracked open, sending up clouds of fine marble dust. The nobles barely had time to react before a thunderous explosion erupted outside, followed by a second, even closer, tearing through the grand hall with the force of a storm. Walls shuddered, ancient stone splintered, and dust and mortar cascaded from the high ceilings like ash from a funeral pyre.
Panic swallowed the room. Nobles, wide-eyed and pale, stumbled back, their voices rising in terrified screams as the smoke and dust slithered in from the shattered corridors beyond. Some of the younger nobles leapt from their seats, while others froze, caught between disbelief and horror. But in the chaos, not everyone seemed overcome by fear.
A knowing, ruthless gleam flickered in the eyes of a few—High Elder Tyris Remington, High Elder Irin Remington, High Elder Venor Crain and a few nobles shared a quick, dark glance, their lips twisting into cruel smiles as if revelling in the carnage.
Through the shattered windows and down the once-grand corridors, a few wings of the royal palace descended into an inferno. Flames roared as they consumed the wooden beams and tapestries, casting everything in a hellish glow. The fires spread like vipers, licking at the walls, hungry and merciless. The thick smoke clouded the air, searing the lungs of those close enough to inhale its deadly fumes.
In the distance, bodies could be seen thrashing amid the flames, silhouettes writhing and convulsing as their clothes ignited and their skin began to blister and blacken. Their tortured screams pierced the chaos, raw and primal, as their flesh melted, curling away to reveal charred bone beneath. Carried by the breeze, the smell of burning hair and roasting meat filled the grand hall, sickening those still lucid enough to smell it.
But even within the heart of the hall, the bloodbath had only begun.
Cutting through the cacophony of panic came the sound of laughter—harsh, guttural, and close by. Duke Brandar moved with deadly precision, his eyes gleaming with sadistic delight. In one swift motion, he plunged his infused sword into the back of the unsuspecting Count before him. The blade tore through flesh and muscle, driving deep until the tip erupted through the Count’s chest, slick with blood and viscera. The Count’s eyes widened in horror, a spray of blood bursting from his mouth as he gasped, each breath rattling with his final, agonised efforts to cling to life.
Brandar twisted the blade, slowly, cruelly, grinding the steel against bone and sinew, savouring every wet crunch and crack. The Count’s body convulsed as blood poured from the wound, hot and thick, pooling beneath his feet in a dark, spreading stain. He gurgled, a gruesome wet sound as his lungs filled with blood, and his fingers scrabbled uselessly at the Duke’s arm, leaving smears of crimson in a final, desperate plea for mercy.
In his last moments, a choked gasp escaped the victim’s lips. His eyes twitched as realisation dawned on him—his day of reckoning had come.
Brandar sneered, ripping the blade out with a brutal yank, tearing through ribs and tendons. The Count’s body slumped forward, his life spilling out in a gory cascade, staining the marble with a sickening splatter. As his corpse collapsed to the floor, some nobles screamed, and others gagged, their faces pale as the full weight of their situation crashed upon them.
“What… what are you doing?” High Elder Verida Sinton stammered, backing away in shock as more figures sprang into action.
With a wicked grin, Marquis Kailem unsheathed his dagger, lunging toward the neighbouring nobles as Countess Elara drew a concealed blade from beneath her cloak. With a sly smirk, Marchioness Margaux slipped through the fray, her slender rapier flicking out in precise, lethal strikes, dispatching those who had once been ‘allies’. At her side, Countess Cassandra, eyes cold yet alluring, drove her dagger into the chest of a stunned Marquis, her movements swift and merciless.
The hall dissolved into chaos as more nobles from the allied faction struck, their weapons flashing as they moved with deadly intent. Caught in the shock of what they deemed betrayal, several targets fell without a fight, their bodies collapsing in pools of blood. Others, realising the assault too late, fought back with desperate fury, turning the chamber into a battlefield.
The nobles not targeted in the massacre stood paralyzed, minds reeling as they tried to make sense of the bloodshed erupting around them. Should they step in to aid one side or flee while the chaos overtook the hall? As the battles raged, the air became thick with the clashing of weapons, flashes of spirit energy illuminating the scene in eerie bursts.
Duke Brandar, his hands soaked in the blood of his latest victim, turned to the other nobles with a feral grin. “Choose wisely, my lords and ladies,” he sneered, eyes gleaming in the dim light. “This is a new age—one that doesn’t need the traitorous... or the ungrateful.”
Outside, the flames claimed more victims, the unlucky souls caught in the inferno. Some ran wildly, their bodies ablaze, trailing thick black smoke as they stumbled and fell, skin peeling from their bones, eyes bulging in terror and pain. Their voices rose in a twisted symphony of agony, each scream more desperate than the last as the fire consumed them whole, leaving nothing but twisted, charred remains in its wake.
Meanwhile, High Elder Tyris Remington broke through the crowd, his eyes fixed on one target alone. He spotted High Elder Ceryn Remington across the hall and moved like a viper, hurling a Soul Shackle in Ceryn’s direction. Ceryn’s eyes widened as he dodged the attack just in time by using Spirit Infusion on his body. The two elders locked in a fierce battle, their power sending ripples through the room.
High Elder Irin Remington and High Elder Venor Crain locked their sights on High Elder Marcus Remington, who stood near the head of the chamber. With dark intent blazing in their eyes, they advanced, weapons gleaming as Marcus narrowed his gaze, instantly sensing the threat.
“So, you think you can take me on?” Marcus growled, his voice a low rumble that sent a chill through those untouched by the bloodshed. “Are you insulting me, worms?!”
Ignoring his taunts, Irin and Venor circled him, eyes gleaming with unshaken determination. In a flash, the air thickened with an overwhelming force as Marcus unleashed his aura, a heavy, crushing wave of power that swept through the hall, pressing down on everyone in its reach. Tier 5 was a realm few reached in their lives—a transitional stage, marking the threshold between mortal limits and powers that brushed the edges of something greater. In every scripture, Tier Five Soulweavers were described as having shed their mortal coils, as if transcending their previous self.
As the pressure descended, everyone staggered under the intensity, their breaths coming shallow and strained as if each gasp might be their last. Only Tier 4 soulweavers like Irin and Venor had a comparatively easier time. However, even they felt like they lost a large chunk of the power under the pressure.
Irin’s voice cut through the din, low and mocking. “You don’t see it, do you, Marcus? Your time was over the moment we entered this chamber.”
Yet before Marcus could respond, an even greater force washed over the chamber, drowning his aura like a pebble in a tidal wave. The atmosphere turned leaden, an unforgiving weight pinning everyone to their places. Walking calmly, Sullivan emerged, his face obscured behind a menacing wooden mask, his gaze a searing judgement that seemed to scald through his adversaries. The strength radiating from him was palpable, unmatched, and exuded a ruthless finality.
Sullivan’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and merciless. “You’re just a pathetic, treacherous rat, playing at power,” he spat, the disdain in his tone sharper than any blade. He shifted his gaze to Irin and Venor, who exchanged uncertain glances, their scepticism apparent as they stared at the masked figure with narrowed eyes.
After a tense moment, Sullivan’s voice thundered again, dismissing them as though they were little more than an inconvenience. “You two—find somewhere else to make yourselves useful. Don’t waste my time.”
Despite their initial hesitation, Irin and Venor finally turned away, casting sceptical but wary glances over their shoulders as they departed. Sullivan’s aura weighed on Marcus like chains, a pressure that went beyond the physical, one that reminded every soulweaver in the room of the gulf between them and the power wielded by the masked man. Under the oni mask's piercing gaze, even the most defiant among them found themselves shrinking back, not daring to provoke the force looming before them.
Marcus staggered, as his aura was own spirit pressure clashed with Sullivan’s. His fury and humiliation twisted his expression as Sullivan’s gaze bore into him. The weight of his pressure left the once-fearsome High Elder struggling and speechless. His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths, his pride simmering into barely suppressed rage. Still, he hesitated; some primal instinct warned him that the man behind the mask was a danger far beyond his reach. His instinct also told him that even if he could somehow break through the pressure, he was in for a bad time.