Chapter Three: Defamed.

  Vanaheim pushed open the guard-office door and stepped into the spacious, luxurious break room. He sank into one of the leather chairs, armor and tools creaking as he settled.

  As always, his gaze drifted to the wall of the armory. There, displayed like some grim trophy, hung a set of interconnected silver shackles. Even looking at them made his eyes prickle and the hairs on his arms rise. The chains were forged from purified silver. The eight gold rings attached by runed links. Every segment was etched in elegant, flowing glyphs. More unsettling still, the inner edges of each ring bristled with teeth-like spikes, reminiscent of a shark’s maw.

  He still didn’t know precisely how the device worked, but he’d learned enough during training to know who it was meant for, if not what it did. Ever since piecing that much together, every shift had set his nerves on edge. Whatever kind of being required such a dreadful magical restraint… surely it was only a matter of time before it decided it had waited long enough.

  A silent figure crossed the room, gliding rather than walking. Orbeck placed a hand on the young vampire’s armored shoulder, catching him staring at the shackles again, and body tense as a drawn bowstring. At first, Orbeck had found the habit amusing. Now, there was only genuine fear in the fledgling’s posture.

  Vanaheim jerked, muscles coiling, hand darting toward his dagger before he caught himself. He looked up, recognition replacing instinct.

  “Melotrix! Don’t sneak up on me like that, Orbeck,” he exhaled, voice breathy with surprise. His thick rural accent bled through, irritation slipping free before restraint could catch it.

  The commander absently brushed dust from Vanaheim’s pauldron, dismissing his alarm with a casual swipe.

  “Listen, young blood. You’ll want to hear this.” His tone shifted, crisp and commanding. “You can stop staring at the Argentum Restrainer like it's about to bite you. We’re escorting the young lord of House Argentum to court before sunrise.”

  Vanaheim swallowed hard. The words sank in slowly, bringing not relief, but a fresh, deeper dread.

  He had hoped knowing would help. It didn’t. It only made the reality more terrifying.

  “Wait.” Vanaheim lifted a hand, eyes narrowing on Orbeck as the realization hit. “Our prisoner isn’t some kind of monster… he’s the heir of House Argentum?” His voice climbed as bewilderment grew, arm flailing toward the armory wall.

  “How in all the darkest hells is that meant for a vampire? Why would anyone make something like that for someone younger than me?”

  Orbeck only chuckled, then laughed outright. It dragged on long enough for Vanaheim to stew in humiliation, cheeks heating with anger and embarrassment.

  At last, the commander calmed enough to speak again. “You really thought we were holding a monster in there? Why the hells would we do that? Don’t be ridiculous. And those restraints weren’t forged for him specifically; they were made for one of his ancestors. And for a few others in the bloodline who shared his particular… gift.”

  He leaned over Vanaheim’s chair, looming until the younger vampire sat stiff as a board. Orbeck exhaled, recognizing the curiosity burning through Vanaheim’s nerves.

  “We’ve never actually needed to use them. They’re a contingency.” His tone shifted becoming weighty and, reverent. “The truth about the False-Silvers isn’t just their potion-tolerance or bloodcraft talent. Their line is prone to producing vampires with multiple cores. And under the right circumstances…”

  He bent closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “With enough sacrifice, they can produce not only a multi-cored pure-blood… but an Eidolon pure-blood.”

  Vanaheim’s eyes went wide; his jaw slackened before he forced words out. “That’s impossible. You’re messing with me. Vampires, supernaturals, can’t create Eidolons. That’s… that’s dragon territory”

  His mentor chuckled, clapping him on the back hard enough to jostle armor. “Damn near. Which is exactly why every guard since the seal was invented has thanked the crown the Argentums are loyal. Imagine trying to get that thing on an Eidolon-blooded pure-blood.”

  Vanaheim shuddered. “Even if he’s just a child…”

  “It’d be hell,” Orbeck finished, voice suddenly sober.

  Vanaheim blinked, then frowned. “If all this is secret, and only a handful in the lineage qualify, how do you know Kainen is one?”

  Orbeck straightened, brushing back his dark hair, as though smoothing guilt or hesitation. “I don’t know for certain. But there are signs.” He settled across from him and retrieved a canteen that frosted the air around it as he moved. Taking a long sip, he continued.

  “Historically, the Argentum Eidolons always had a multi-cored mother and father. And near the time of birth, the mother… disappears. Same with Kainen’s mother. His father too. But there’s one more reason I’m convinced.”

  Another swallow. His gaze hardened.

  “I’ve been doing this a long time. I’ve babysat a few of the Argentum clan, including those from the main Ebonhart branch. The Palace has never sent the restrainer for them. Only other time I had it in my armory was when we were holding Kathleen von Dark-Spire af Ebonhart.”

  They fell silent at the name. Vanaheim needed no further explanation, the pieces clicked into place, turning fantastical war stories from his homeland into something suddenly real, far less exaggerated than he’d once hoped.

  A distant bell tolled, dragging them from their thoughts.

  “Come on, Van. Carriage is here.” Orbeck flashed a crooked grin. “Let’s prep our little Eidolon for transport.”

  He slung the spiked manacles over his shoulder, vicious things forged to restrain a monster, not a boy, and they descended into the dungeon. The rustling chain haunting their steps.

  When they reached the young master Ebonhart’s cell, Vanaheim stopped short, breath catching. Orbeck only grimaced, already accustomed to the sight.

  Kainen stood in the dimness, arms open in an inviting posture, eyes bright, smile wide and, welcoming, even charming. But that meant nothing in the dark. His gaunt, predatory face made the gesture feel wrong. Disturbing.

  Like all highborn vampires, the boy practiced that aristocratic body-freezing ritual. But the Argentums went further, carving themselves into hungry statues, accentuating sharpness and starvation until they looked… ravenous.

  Shameful what they do to these kids. The thought struck Vanaheim unbidden, lingering like a sour taste. For the first time, he wondered what price these children paid for that noble, monstrous aesthetic.

  Orbeck hooked the restrainer to his armor and slid a bronze key into the cell lock. The door groaned open.

  “Young master Ebonhart,” he announced formally, “your carriage awaits. If it pleases you, we will escort you to court now.”

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  The boy’s smile vanished. His arms fell to his sides. His eyes emptied, going flat and lifeless.

  “What do you mean, escort me to court?”

  Orbeck hesitated, clearly aware that a poorly chosen word could get him executed by the clan later. “Orders arrived. You are to be presented before the court regarding your… alleged attempted murder and…”

  He shut up, the second accusation sticking in his throat. Fortunately for him it didn’t seem like he needed to backhandedly call him an oath breaker to piss the young lord off so much he killed him since he was getting there all on his own.

  Kainen’s jaw tightened, lips peeling back into a feral snarl before he forced the anger down, molten fury freezing into cold malice. He inhaled, composed himself, and looked up, half-lidded eyes burning with restrained violence.

  “Why has my clan not already dismissed these baseless claims?” he asked, voice low and controlled. “A trial is preposterous under these circumstances.”

  For a heartbeat, Vanaheim could swear the cell felt too small to contain him.

  Orbeck spoke carefully. “My apologies, my lord, but I cannot provide a full account of your family’s actions. I do know they submitted multiple requests for dismissal, among other efforts. Yet the trial continues.”

  He finished with an awkward bow as the young lord’s aura flared blood suppression crushing his shoulders like a mantle of lead. Then, just as swiftly, the crushing weight evaporated.

  Kainen exhaled sharply, stretching his arms and arching his back until his joints gave soft pops.

  “Fine. Bring me before the courts, then. We’ll end this little circus with a finale.” He stepped out of the cell on his own, leaving both guards staring, scrambling to follow after him.

  I could.

  The thought resurfaced as I walked myself out of the unimpressive holding cells, boots tapping along uneven cobbles and rough woodwork, peasant construction everywhere I looked.

  I reached for the exit handle just as Orbeck hurriedly blurted, “Please, my lord, allow me to—”

  He didn’t finish. The hinges shrieked, stone around the lock cracking as the door swung open beneath my hand. I released it, and the studded oak slab toppled flat to the floor.

  “My patience wears thin. Turned.”

  Without waiting, I climbed into the modest carriage. Tarnished polish, dented edges, chipped veneer. A single hard-wood bench on either side. No family waiting inside. A faint sigh escaped as I sat, resigned, while the armored fools scrambled aboard.

  A distant bell tolled low, mournful, echoing through my skull.

  The beasts pulling us slowed; my eyes opened. Through the shutters, the Crown Court rose ahead, black and gold marble carved in impossible sharpness: sweeping arches, speared towers, every inch streaked with gold like veins of sunlight trapped in night stone. Windowless walls. A courtyard swallowed in shadow and gilded cosmos. The doors of iron and brass--— colossal and cruel.

  Before I could step down, the older guard cleared his throat theatrically, lifting silver rune-carved manacles.

  “Fine.” I offered my wrists. Burning silver bit into my flesh; my gifts flickered, guttered, and collapsed. Even the foul-bloods beside me suddenly felt stronger.

  They escorted me forward, one on each side hands hovering near my shoulders but refusing to touch me. Cowards. Predictable.

  My heel struck the first marble step.

  And a presence surged through me, warm and ancient. Our blood-bond reignited, and certainty flooded my veins.

  Everything would be fine. My clan was here.

  The bloodthirsty gaze of the ancient vampire bore into Darvneev from the gallery, hatred rolling off him like a storm. Then suddenly, the rage broke, replaced by something far older and rarer.

  Fear.

  No... why did you come, weren’t you warned?

  The chamber door behind the judges creaked open. An old enemy took the high seat.

  “Malficium Wraithtide,” he spat.

  Just then, the double doors to the courtroom swung open, and Vanaheim and Orbeck finally found themselves relieved of their charge. They slipped away like cowards who’d held their breath too long, not even escorting me past the threshold.

  The instant the doors opened, I stepped forward. My eyes found my father’s immediately, yet something was wrong. He was thrumming with pressure, on the verge of bursting with power. I didn’t even get a heartbeat to question why.

  Because for the first time in my life, I saw fear in his eyes.

  Not fear of me. Not fear of the court.

  Fear of what he was about to do. And perhaps… a sliver of regret.

  Then he spoke.

  “D’Harukta’raknathal.”

  The word of power hit the air like a sword drawn in a silent cathedral. No roar of mana, no crack of spellfire.

  The casting was eerily mute, so subtle that no one realized he was spellworking until it was already done.

  Veins bulged beneath pale skin like writhing serpents. His shadow swelled, ballooning to monstrous proportions, crawling up marble floors, coiling over walls, swallowing the vaulted ceiling in a tide of black. The darkness thickened until stone groaned beneath its weight, then wrapped itself around the Lord of Mercury like a living mantle.

  When that shadow spoke, ancient syllables grinding like tectonic plates, no one could mistake it for mere words.

  The air shuddered. Darkness deepened so completely that even vampires strained to see.

  “Barshka.”

  Shadow detonated, splitting into dozens of pitch-black chains that lashed outward. They slammed into every soul in the chamber but me, binding court nobles and predators alike in a heartbeat. In the next breath, they evaporated, darkness receding as if nothing had ever happened at all.

  Everything looked untouched.

  Everything felt wrong.

  My father now wore a manic grin, hungry, triumphant as he stared into Malficium’s horrified face.

  I froze, stunned. Barely a moment had passed. I had barely crossed the room. And he had cast that.

  The realization struck me like silver to the spine. I knew exactly what he wanted.

  I turned and bolted.

  My footsteps hammered through the grand corridor. A scream tore from the chamber behind me, raw and ancient, followed by the thunder of spellfire dozens of detonations rattling marble, shaking the bones in my body.

  I skidded at the hall’s turn, catching the wall with my shoulder, wrenching myself into a sprint again. Then a blur tore through the air behind me. Faster than sight. Faster than thought.

  It hit me like a battering ram.

  I flew crashing through a door into a records archive, parchment scattering like startled birds. My body folded and twisted wrong; I shoved myself upright as bone rotated under skin, femur slotting back into place, kneecap sliding into alignment with a grating snap.

  Then the blur became a man.

  “I…” I gasped, each breath ragged, robbed of the endless stamina I had once taken for granted. “Am not in the mood for this, Darv. Be gone… or die.”

  The bastard smiled slow and, smug, savoring it as he stalked forward.

  “You’re not going anywhere, False-silver. You could barely overpower a human in those cuffs, let alone a pure-blood.”

  He planted himself in the doorway, sealing my exit like a tomb. Arms crossed, voice dripping honeyed poison, he continued, “Look, I’m not even angry about the duel. Truly. So if you simply accept your fate and, become the sacrifice the world needs, I promise to make it painless.”

  He spread his hands grandly, basking in his own rhetoric.

  “It’s perfect, isn’t it? You get to serve our kind, your favorite tired mantra since returning from the front. And I, in turn, gain power enough to uplift our people. Think of it as… an early wedding gift.”

  His grin widened.

  The room reeked of arrogance, old parchment, and the metallic scent of promised blood.

  Disgust churned through me at the thought of this monster marrying owning and, tormenting my closest friend. Rage flared, cold and absolute. My core surged to life, cycling like the eye of a void opening in my chest as mana flooded through me. Then another core ignited, deep crimson, rippling outward like an ocean of blood beneath a storm.

  A furnace of flame roared awake within me, a forge igniting in the depth of my soul. Veins rose beneath my skin, writhing along my face and around my eyes. But instead of darkening with vampiric ichor, they blazed, pulsing red, blue, violet raw power bleeding from every inch of me, a brilliance on the edge of rupture.

  “I hope this kills you,” I hissed. “You bastard.”

  And then I let everything go.

  My mana control snapped like overstrained wire. Arcane fever shredded the last threads of logic and restraint. I didn’t try to guide the power, I couldn’t. I simply unleashed it, three forces erupting at once in a wild, suicidal cascade. Blood-red energy misted from my skin as fire mana and psi tore out with it.

  They met in the air and immediately attacked one another, clashing like rabid beasts. Half-formed spells sputtered into existence only to be devoured and collapse in violent bursts. The energies searched desperately for anything but each other to shape, to burn, to bind.

  Then, with no warning at all, the chaos decided.

  The world turned white.

  The room detonated. Tendrils of blood burst from the spell’s core, snapping around both Darvneev’s ankles and mine, yanking us into the air like toys. We rag-dolled through the shrapnel-filled haze, our bodies scorching, blistering, flesh boiling as uncontrolled magic ripped past our skin.

  And then gravity reclaimed us.

  We struck stone with a brutal, wet impact, a jagged, bone-cracking splatter that shook the world.

  The last thing I heard before consciousness broke apart was a sound deeper than thought,

  a bell tolling from some ancient abyss beneath reality, resonant enough to rattle my bones as darkness swallowed me whole.