Time flew by as I practiced my new mana-thread spell. The excitement had absorbed me so completely that I lost track of how many hours had passed. At first, creating the threads was a challenge, but once I mastered the trick, my fingers began to move fluidly, producing filaments with almost no effort. The sense of control, of shaping something so simple yet powerful, filled me with a satisfaction that was hard to describe.
These threads... I thought, as more and more ideas flooded my mind. They wouldn’t just be useful as tools for repairing or building things; they could also be my defense. I could already imagine how I’d use them, like spiders weaving webs to trap their prey. I’d be able to sense nearby enemies, slow them down, entangle them in my threads as if they were flies. But what intrigued me the most was the possibility of using these threads as weapons. I hadn’t perfected that aspect yet, but the idea lingered, pulsing in my mind like an obsession.
I recalled how, in my previous life, simple objects often had multiple uses. However, turning something so versatile into a deadly weapon wasn’t easy. My thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a biological need. Damn it... Aria’s soup. My stomach growled, pulling me back to reality. I needed to use the bathroom.
I got out of bed more easily than before; my legs had recovered from much of the clumsiness that had plagued them. I opened my bedroom door carefully, avoiding any noise. Moving stealthily, almost like a stalking cat, I crept down the dark hallway. The bathroom was at the end of the corridor on the second floor, and with a bit of luck, I wouldn’t wake anyone.
After finishing in the bathroom, I washed my hands and was about to return to my room when something stopped me. As I passed near the stairs, I heard voices coming from the living room near the kitchen. I recognized the tones of my mother, Lysa, and my sister, Aria. Their conversation sounded intense, almost like an argument. My curiosity rooted me to the spot. I approached the stairs, descending a few steps to listen more closely.
“You don’t understand anything about war,” my mother said, her voice tense. “You haven’t lived through what I have. It’s not the same.”
Aria responded with that calm yet defiant tone she always used when tired of someone else’s persistence.
“I’m an elite mercenary, Mother. I’ve faced things you can’t even imagine. I’m used to the battlefield.”
“It’s not the same!” My mother’s voice broke with sheer frustration. “This isn’t hunting monsters or taking down bandits. What’s coming... what’s coming is much worse.”
My heart sank. What was coming? What were they talking about?
Exasperated, Aria let out a sigh before asking, “Does Seraphiel or my uncle have anything to do with this?”
There was a long silence, broken only by my mother’s quiet sobs. I edged closer, holding my breath.
“I don’t want my children to live through the Era of the Empty Throne,” she finally said, her voice trembling with tears. “But it’s inevitable now. The Abyss King... is dead.”
I froze. My mother’s words drove into my mind like a dagger. The Abyss King... dead. And we were about to face the Era of the Empty Throne. I had no idea what any of this meant, but the desperation in Lysa’s voice weighed heavily on my chest. An uncle? My father?
I wanted to move, to return to my room and pretend I hadn’t heard anything, but my legs trembled with nerves, and I stepped wrong. The sound was subtle, but enough to alert them.
“Kaion?” Lysa’s voice carried a note of alarm.
I heard them both get up and start moving, searching for the source of the noise. I couldn’t let them find me. Without thinking, I turned and silently dashed back to my room. I closed the door as carefully as possible, slipped under the blankets, and shut my eyes just in time.
The door to my room opened softly. I held my breath.
“He’s asleep,” my mother whispered to Aria before closing the door just as gently.
Only when I heard their footsteps receding did I dare to open my eyes. I turned onto my side in bed, staring into the darkness of my room, trying to process everything I had just heard. I had no idea I had an uncle... or that my father was somehow connected to something as ominous as the Abyss King’s death. And now, the Era of the Empty Throne loomed over us.
There were so many questions. So many mysteries. I felt trapped in a web of secrets, and every thread I touched only seemed to tangle me further. Without realizing it, exhaustion overtook me, and I fell into a deep sleep, though the answers I sought continued to haunt me in the darkness.
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However, those dreams… the dreams where that white-haired boy appeared, stirred something different within her, something she would never have allowed to flourish in her soul before. Just seeing him made her spirit tremble. It was a reaction she neither understood nor could control. In her dreams, words she would never utter escaped her lips, and her body moved in ways that betrayed the reputation she had so carefully cultivated. The situation disturbed her, for she knew her kind were obsessive by nature. Yet, in some inexplicable way, she enjoyed it. It was something new to her.
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She recalled a particular instance when she had attended a meeting at the cathedral. Instead of paying attention, she had closed her eyes, eager to return to those dreams—only for the High Vicar to chastise her. Her father and Alasthor had also noticed her recent distraction. “What is happening to me?” she thought as she stared at her hands—long, pale fingers that had claimed countless lives without so much as a flinch.
She sighed. Memories of her mother came rushing back, one of the few figures who had ever meant anything to her. The only person who had ever offered her a sense of warmth amidst the suffocating darkness. A faint smile curved her lips as she rose and walked to her grand wardrobe. Amid the countless luxurious garments and sharp weapons, she reached for her collection of perfumes. She selected one, a scent both intense and sensual, spraying it onto her pale skin with an elegance that mirrored her calculating and perfectionist nature.
She moved to another section of the wardrobe, where her armor lay. A custom-made piece crafted from an ebony-like material, its surface adorned with intricate engravings of ancient vampiric runes. On the chest glowed the emblem of the Abyssal Judges: a red scale entwined with a serpent and flanked by outstretched wings—a symbol of justice and the peril of abusing power. Orphelia gazed at it with a mix of pride and disdain.
She had been named a Judge not by her own desire but through her father’s machinations. As one of the seven Ministers of Shadows, his influence—and the many favors her beauty had garnered—had secured her the position. Many sought her: as a wife, a concubine, or a warrior to command. To her, all these desires were nothing more than chains disguised as adoration.
She began to don her armor, fastening each piece to her body with a deliberate slowness that felt almost ritualistic. Each part fit her perfectly. Once fully equipped, she turned to the massive mirror in her room, framed by the grim, ominous décor typical of Noxumbria. Staring back at her was a vision of lethal elegance, her crimson eyes glinting with a cold sheen. She took up a comb and began arranging her long black hair, ensuring each strand fell perfectly into place. Despite her ferocity in battle, she never ceased being a lady. She loved the impact of her image, knowing that appearance could be as potent a weapon as any blade.
She painted her lips a deep crimson—the shade of blood—and added subtle touches of makeup to enhance her sharp features. Then she reached for a small chest on a table near her bed. Inside lay a collection of precious jewels, but one piece in particular caught her attention: a necklace bearing a red gem, forged from the legendary Blood Sky. It was a forbidden yet unique gift from the Sleeping King to her mother. Orphelia carefully put it on, feeling its weight as both a connection to her mother and a symbol of her own identity.
Satisfied with her reflection, she stepped back. She was imposing, deadly, and alluring. She was ready.
As she gave herself a final once-over, a thought crossed her mind: Perhaps this is what Mother meant… being born for someone, for something beyond oneself. As the idea settled, a newfound determination took root within her.
Orphelia strode through the long hallways of her mansion toward the entrance, the soft clack of her boots echoing over the plush red carpet that stretched across the second floor. The corridors were adorned with priceless artifacts and paintings, collected not just from Profundia but also from the farthest continents. The dim lighting illuminated the works of art and sculpted figures, giving the mansion an air of ancient solemnity, as if history itself breathed within its walls.
Servants bowed respectfully as she passed. Some belonged to exotic races, slaves acquired in battles or from the grand auction of Noxumbria. A law granted slaves their freedom after ten years of service, provided they requested it and their master was pleased. Few ever dared to ask. Among them was Neria, the head servant—a human from the surface who had served Orphelia for over a decade. Despite having fulfilled her term, Neria had never sought her freedom. There was something unspoken in her loyalty, a bond beyond mere words.
Neria intercepted Orphelia with her usual courtesy, though without the fear others exhibited. Her voice, tinged with warmth and respect, broke the silence.
“My lady, would you like something to eat before you depart?” Neria asked gently, aware her mistress was about to leave.
Orphelia, who would typically have dismissed such an offer outright, gave her a calmer look. Neria always knew how to address her—without fear, without hesitation. She was one of the few who seemed to understand her without requiring orders.
“No, Neria, I’m not hungry. But…” Orphelia began, only for Neria to anticipate her need.
“The Lumina Root tea for your headache is ready, my lady,” Neria said with a faint smile, gesturing with her hand.
Another servant appeared from the kitchen carrying a finely decorated silver tray. On it rested a beautiful cup adorned with motifs that reflected the house’s refinement. The young servant, Patricce, was a Sombrasylvan, a dark-skinned race with glowing tattoos from the subterranean forests near the surface. Orphelia’s crimson eyes narrowed as she inspected the girl.
“And who is this?” Orphelia asked, her tone carrying a hint of curiosity.
Neria, ever composed, explained, “She is one of three slaves your father, Lord Valefor, received as payment for a political favor. They are still untrained, so I was tasked with educating them properly.”
Orphelia took the cup with elegant precision, observing the vibrant green liquid within. The Lumina Root, a luminescent plant, was renowned for its calming properties and sweet, mild flavor, perfect for clearing one’s mind. After taking a sip, her crimson eyes locked onto Patricce, who visibly trembled under her gaze. In one fluid motion, Orphelia approached her, gripping the girl’s jaw with her free hand, applying just enough pressure to assert dominance.
“Listen carefully,” Orphelia whispered, her voice laced with dark malice. “If you or the others damage, move, or disturb anything in this house without my permission…” Her eyes glowed with a dangerous light as dark energy seeped from her, “you will become an appetizer for Baskerville.”
Terror filled Patricce’s eyes, and she barely managed to nod, trembling under the oppressive aura of her mistress.
Orphelia released her, handing the empty cup to Neria, who stood beside her with unshaken composure.
“Inform me immediately if my father decides to interfere in my household again,” she commanded with icy authority.
Neria bowed her head in acknowledgment. “It won’t happen again, my lady,” she replied with unwavering calm.
Orphelia waved dismissively. “Prepare everything for my return. I leave shortly.”
“As you wish, my lady. Alasthor awaits outside to escort you to the cathedral,” Neria added.
Suppressing a flicker of annoyance at the notion of an escort, Orphelia adjusted her stance. She preferred solitude, needing the quiet to gather her thoughts and quell the persistent ache in her head.
“Let’s not keep him waiting,” she murmured, stepping into the cold embrace of the night.