The guards wouldn't look at him. The servants avoided his gaze. The full weight of his actions hadn't struck him until he sat in Fraud's study, surrounded by the grim reality of what he'd done. Now, as he walked the cold, stone halls of Frosthaven, his right arm in a sling, he felt like a stranger in his own home. It still didn't feel real: breaking guest rights…there was no greater crime short of kinslaying. Even the most savage of wildlings upheld guest rights. But apparently, that was too much to ask of the heir of Frosthaven.

John moved toward the war room, guided by the distant clinking of the maester's chain. He briefly considered walking himself to the cellblock and sparing his family the trouble, yet here he was, heading to face their judgment.

He waited in silence as the maester announced their arrival. When the doors swung open, John saw his parents, Bjorn, and, to his dismay, the very last people he wanted to see.

"Hello, John," the giant spoke, his voice tinged with that same calm amusement that vexed John to no end. "How's your shoulder?"

"I'm fine," John replied, hesitating before adding, "Milord." His eyes flickered to the giant's wives, his voice strained with fear.

The courtesy sounded forced, but Lord Blackblood seemed unfazed. "I'm glad to hear it." Turning to the old maester, he pointed at the chains. "Would you mind releasing him from those?"

John was caught off guard by the request. He shook his head slowly. "I'd prefer to keep them on, Milord. This sin is mine alone."

"I insist." With a simple gesture, the chains fell to the ground with a metallic clatter.

John and his mother stared in surprise, though Alaric and his circle seemed almost accustomed to such displays by now.

"Now that the family is all here," Lord Blackblood continued, his tone taking on a more serious edge, "Lord Stormraven, you asked if I had proof of my connection to your family, did you not?"

"Yes," Alaric confirmed, his voice steady though his eyes were wary.

"First of all, I still have the original gene-seed of both progenitor-parents—" Lord Blackblood paused, noticing the confusion on the faces around him. He snapped his fingers several times, searching for a more straightforward explanation.

"Your bloodline pattern," the crow interjected helpfully.

"Yes. Appreciate it, dude. Forgive me, but to be blunt, you're all quite... primitive compared to us. So, ja, the terms I'm going to use may sound like... metal scraping against stone."

The giant pulled out a metal flask, its size modest in his large hand, but for anyone else, it would have been twice the size of a typical mug found in taverns or soldiers' barracks. He poured the flask's contents into his palm, revealing a clear liquid that did not spill but formed a complex structure in mid-air, which Alaric had never seen in his lifetime.

"DNA, known as the 'blueprint of life,' is one of the most significant discoveries in modern science," Boss explained. "It's a type of molecule that carries crucial genetic information, determining the biological characteristics of every organism. Have any of you ever wondered why children often resemble their parents? DNA is the answer."

"As for gene-seed, it's a catch-all term for the genotypically-engineered version of those DNA molecules. Think of it as transforming a normal human into a literal superman—warriors capable of tearing down cities and fortresses like they were nothing but withered leaves, completely impervious to primitive weaponry."

"Because of my nature as a Stellarborne and my current state of being, I can see things others cannot. The blood running through your veins is a pale shadow of my friends, like a firefly on the blackest night. Yet, you and your children bear that blood nonetheless. I could have my people test your blood, Lord Stormraven, and your children's, to compare it against—" He paused, shaking his head with a sigh. "But then again, I doubt you would believe it. Many would and had called me a demon, using sweet words to prey upon the gullible."

He paused, letting the gravity of his words sink in. The fluid returned to the flask before he returned it to his vest. "Which brings me to the second reason, blunt and straightforward. Your family possesses something that belonged to your forebears, something I created long ago."

Lord Blackblood pointed downward, and for a moment, Alaric and his people were confused. But then, realization dawned on Alaric. He understood where Lord Blackblood was pointing.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

That direction... Below the floor, on the ground level. The crypt of Frosthaven.

"The sword, Soul Edge," Lord Blackblood continued, his voice softening as he asked, "Tell me, has anyone in your family's history ever managed to wield it? To unlock its full power?"

It was like a waterfall crashing down on them. The fact that Lord Blackblood was privy to this secret was enough to leave Alaric and his people reeling.

"No, I'm not reading your mind," Lord Blackblood interrupted Alaric's thoughts, shaking his head with a knowing smile. "In my professions, one eventually learns to read emotions and thoughts just by observing people."

"And, dear me," he chuckled softly, the sound unsettling in its gentleness. "You're all nothing but open books. But let's return to the matter at hand. I want to show you that my words are more than just words…"

He then extended his palm forward. A sudden, loud noise filled the room as something shot in through the window, landing in his outstretched hand. It was the hilt of a greatsword, though, in his massive hand, it appeared almost like an ordinary weapon. The wooden handle was adorned with intricate gold engravings, while the crossguard resembled an inverted number eight, with the lower loop smaller than the upper one. The top, where the blade would attach, was capped with fanged, metallic tips that seemed to echo Lord Blackblood's own visage in a subtle, eerie manner.

"Jeez, look at you. Nothing but a dust catcher now," Lord Blackblood murmured, shaking his head as he inspected the hilt. Though he smiled, there was a note of sadness in his voice as if remembering a long-lost companion.

He casually tossed the hilt between his hands before announcing to the other party. "You'll probably know its name already. Soul Edge. It's a soul weapon, the first of its kind. This sword has a will of its own. When I created it, I placed a restriction on its use. Only two people can wield—or even pick up—this sword. The first is its creator: me. The second is my friend, your progenitor. An exception was made for those my friend trusted completely or his chosen successor. Such a one would be deemed worthy by Soul Edge or your progenitor."

Lord Blackblood held the hilt outward, ready to return to its glory.

"In war, victory," he intoned, and the large upper loop in the crossguard immediately began to glow. A ball of white light tinged with blue formed in the center.

"In peace, vigilance," he continued as the light intensified, shaping itself into a radiant six-winged star.

"In death, sacrifice," from the core, a blade emerged—simple, slender, and bathed in an ethereal light.

The sword now fully materialized in his hand. With each movement, it gave off a distinctive hum.

"The blade is made purely from psychic energy. Soul Edge is an empathic-type soul weapon. The stronger the emotions, the more powerful the blade, which can be indefinite depending on the nature of the emotion."

"And by the way," Lord Blackblood added, raising a finger as he glanced at Alaric and his advisors, "Soul Edge was originally a polearm." With a swift shake of the sword, the wooden hilt extended into a spearstaff, which he rested casually on his shoulder.

"Now, Lord Stormraven," he asked. Turning to Alaric, his voice steady and sure, "What do you think about my offer beforehand?"

-------------

The guest group was now just a few miles from the gate of Frosthaven, the night wrapping them in a cool, serene embrace. The Boss had decided to walk, taking in the rare beauty of the night sky.

"Welp, that was… likelie th' least fin pairtie A've ever gaen tae," Noira murmured, her attention fixed on the handheld console she was playing with, nestled comfortably in the crook of the giant's arm. Her gaze was fixed on the screen, but her mind replayed the dull affair they had just left behind.

"What did you expect?" Boss remarked, his tone a blend of amusement and resignation. Both of his arms were occupied, one making sure Noira was comfortable enough, the other tightly hugged to death by Legien.

"If ye hae a pairtie 'n' na yin is poisoned, is it pure a pairtie? Hmmpf." Noira pouted, her lips curling in a mixture of frustration and disappointment. "At least there're aye some pumpin' silver linings," she mumbled.

"And then what? Call them all lightweights?" he asked, a curious tilt to his head.

A mischievous glint flickered in her eyes. "Duh, 'course A'm. Ah improved th' dram fur me. Nae mah fault thair weak-ass livers cannae handle it. Lmao."

"I'll admit," a small sigh escaped him, "I'm grateful you didn't go full ballistic on their house. The past few parties you dragged me to… let's just say, they were traumatic at best."

Beleive me, Ah wis pure gonnae. Jobby fairn, jobby dram, jobby taste—aside fae th' twins." Her words trailed off, but an unusual softness in her tone caught Boss off guard.

"Oh?" His eyebrows raised in genuine surprise. It wasn't often Noira acknowledged anyone's presence, let alone with something resembling interest. "And what's so special about them?"

"They're oddballs, 'n' thay lik' mah claes. Plus point," she replied with a nonchalant shrug, though the faintest smile betrayed her amusement.

"Say, luv..." Noira's voice softened as she tapped his chest, her game console forgotten momentarily.

"Ja?" He glanced down at her.

"Urr ye sure yi'll waant that bairn tae be mah student? ye ken whit happens tae they wha dinnae catch up wi` mah standards, richt?" Her gaze flickered briefly to Legien before returning to his. " N' isnae he... Lik'...?" Pointing at Boss, there was a warning in her eyes, a sharp one.

"He's got potential," Boss nodded, his tone unwavering. "Just needs to be sharpened, and he'll be ready. Besides, whether he likes it or not, his family fate is tied to mine now."

"Trauchle magnet," Noira laughed, the sound echoing softly in the night air.

"Getting him to deal with you will prepare him for anything," he said, half-joking but entirely serious.

"Doubt the kid would be sane after that, buddy," Mnemon's voice cut in, and even Legien had to nod in agreement.

"He's at a low point right now. Not the lowest by our standards, but low enough. It's in despair that one finds the most profound hope."

"Or," Noira interjected, raising a finger, "he cuid dae his-sel a favor: grab a shovel 'n' howk deeper."

"Noira..." The Boss's voice was a soft warning, but Noira only grinned, mischief dancing in her eyes.

"Aye. Shutting up. Jeez."

"Honestly, dude, I think it's just your sadism acting up again," Mnemon said, his voice tinged with exasperation. "I still can't believe two sadists married each other. And that's coming from your own conscience, shithead."

"I'm not a sadist," Boss replied, his tone firm.

"Luv," Noira patted his chest with a knowing smile, her voice dropping to a whisper, "takes one to know one."