Lord Chancellor POV.
The Lord Chancellor stepped into his home on a bitterly cold night. Darkness greeted him at the threshold; no candle burned, no fire crackled—his home lay in unnatural silence. He shut the door behind him with a dull thud, the echo lingering longer than it should have, before his gaze swept across the shadow-drenched living room. Something felt wrong… profoundly wrong.
He ascended the stairs slowly.
"Honey, I'm home," he called out, his voice lacking its usual confidence as it dissolved into the stillness.
Reaching the top of the stairway, he extended a trembling hand toward the corridor light switch—but nothing happened. The darkness remained absolute. A flicker of unease curled into something sharper—fear.
He approached the door to his room and pushed it open.
The window stood ajar.
Curtains billowed inward, carried by the cold breath of the night. The room was empty—or so it seemed. His breathing grew heavier, uneven, as instinct screamed at him to leave. Yet before he could act, his eyes shifted—and caught something.
A silhouette.
Someone… seated.
There, upon the chair beside the fireplace.
The Chancellor staggered backward, panic seizing him. He turned to flee, but the door slammed shut with violent force behind him.
He lunged for the handle.
Locked.
From the outside.
"Why are you in such a rush to leave, Chancellor?" a voice asked—calm, almost amused.
The Chancellor turned slowly, dread crawling through his veins as moonlight spilled into the room, revealing the intruder.
A boy.
No—something far more unsettling.
A boy in his late teens, crimson hair cascading to his shoulders like spilt blood. In his hand rested a black blade, its edge faintly gleaming under the pale light.
"Who… are you?" the Chancellor asked, his voice trembling, betraying him.
The boy said nothing at first.
Silence stretched.
And in that silence, the Chancellor's fear deepened into something suffocating.
"Come now, Chancellor," the boy finally spoke, his tone quiet but laced with something dangerous. "You couldn't have forgotten me so soon. It's only been nine months."
The Chancellor's mind fractured under pressure. He scrambled desperately toward his wardrobe, fumbling it open with shaking hands. From within, he retrieved a heavy box—filled to the brim with money.
"If it's money you want," he stammered, his voice breaking, "I can give it to you. Any amount. Just name it."
The boy rose slowly.
Each step he took was deliberate.
The blade in his hand dragged along the wooden floor, carving a harsh, grating trail as it followed behind him. The sound alone was enough to make the Chancellor's stomach twist.
When the boy reached him, he seized the Chancellor by the hair and forced his head upward.
"Do you think your money can quell my hatred?" he asked softly.
The Chancellor swallowed hard, his throat dry.
"Who are you?" he whispered again, desperate, pleading.
The boy answered without hesitation.
"You need not know my name," he said, his voice cold. "But if you wish to know who your killer is… I am the Noura Zori—the one who will bring about change."
The Chancellor's body betrayed him completely. He trembled violently—so much so that he lost control, a dark stain spreading beneath him.
"Please… don't kill me," he begged, tears streaming down his face. "I… I have a wife… a child…"
The boy looked down at him—and chuckled.
A low, chilling sound.
"You beg for your life," he murmured, a sinister smile forming. "Tell me… when you pass judgment upon the innocent—do they not beg as well?"
The Chancellor said nothing.
His silence was answer enough.
The boy slammed his face into the wooden floor.
A sickening crack followed.
His nose shattered instantly, blood pouring freely as his cries turned into broken sobs.
"Tell me!" the boy roared, fury igniting in his voice.
"They do!" the Chancellor cried out.
The boy nodded slowly.
"And yet… you proceed. You condemn them regardless."
"I do!" the Chancellor admitted, desperation stripping him bare.
"Then why," the boy whispered, raising his blade to the Chancellor's throat, "should I care for your life… when you have never cared for theirs?"
The Chancellor could only weep.
"As for your wife and child," the boy continued, his voice eerily calm, "I will not kill them."
Hope flickered—
Then died.
"But I cannot assure their safety."
And with those final words—
Darkness claimed him.
...
Decker POV.
Decker paced slowly within his chamber, a blade held firmly in his hand.
It was not his.
It belonged to another.
A relic of a love long lost… and of a son he had never truly known.
He raised the weapon, staring into its blackened edge as though searching for something—regret, perhaps… or absolution.
A knock came from the door.
He ignored it.
Another knock followed, sharper this time.
"Who is it?" Decker called, irritation creeping into his voice.
The reply came instantly—firm, authoritative.
"It is your brother. Your Lord."
Decker exhaled before walking to the door and unlocking it.
Standing there was Arion Vermillion—the Lord of House Vermillion.
A man of immense pride.
And why wouldn't he be? He had fathered four legitimate sons, and a singilar daughter, each a prodigy in combat. Among them stood Adel Vermillion—one of the greatest Pillar leaders to ever exist. As for his illegitimate children… they were countless, unacknowledged, and unimportant.
"What do you want, brother?" Decker asked, returning to his seat upon the edge of his regal bed.
Arion's eyes immediately fell upon the blade.
He stepped forward, reaching for it—but halted the moment Decker's gaze sharpened into something venomous.
A silent warning.
Arion withdrew his hand.
He sighed.
"Why cling to the past?" he asked. "The woman you remember is long gone."
Decker's grip tightened.
"Yes… she may be gone," he said quietly. "But her son—my son—is still alive."
"That boy is a bastard," Arion replied bluntly. "No more your son than my bastards are mine."
In an instant, Decker raised the blade—its edge pressing against Arion's neck.
"He is no bastard," Decker said coldly. "I accept him as my son. No matter what you say."
Arion's expression darkened, though he remained composed.
"Careful, brother," he warned, gently pushing the blade aside. "If anyone else had done that… they would already be dead."
Decker clicked his tongue, standing and walking toward a large case resting against the wall.
He placed the blade within it.
Closed it.
Then turned back.
"Is there something you want?" he asked.
"Yes," Arion said simply. "I want you to accompany me to a meeting of the Five Great Families."
Decker raised an eyebrow.
Such meetings were rare.
Reserved only for matters of grave importance.
"A meeting?" he asked. "For what purpose?"
"The terrorist faction has grown increasingly violent," Arion replied. "We must decide how to deal with them."
Decker studied him carefully.
"And what role do I play in this?"
Arion chuckled, stepping forward and draping an arm around Decker's shoulders.
"You are my brother," he said with a grin. "That alone is reason enough."