The morning light split through the glass towers of the Liam Estate, washing the blue-stoned halls in a pale glow. The household stirred — soldiers, servants, cadets, all already moving with the rhythm of discipline.
Inside one of the chambers, Modred adjusted his gloves, pulling the leather tight against his knuckles. His reflection in the polished metal plate stared back — green eyes clear and focused, hair falling just enough to shadow them.
Behind him, one of the maids tripped over a bucket, nearly spilling water all over his boots. She was petite, brown-haired, her ponytail bouncing clumsily as she apologized over and over.
"You sure you're not doing that on purpose?" Modred asked dryly, arms crossed.
Her face turned scarlet. "I— I didn't mean—"
He smirked. "Relax, I'm just teasing you. You're too easy."
Before she could respond, a sudden snap echoed through the doorway.
"MODRED!"
Carla Liam's voice cut through the air like a whip. She stood at the door, fiery as ever, eyes narrowing dangerously.
Modred froze. "Ah… Grandma, I was just—"
"You were just about to mop the floor, weren't you?"
"...Exactly."
She stepped closer, and Modred darted for the window. "Not again, old man's probably laughing right now!" he muttered before disappearing out the back, Carla's furious footsteps chasing behind.
The courtyard opened before him — the cadet grounds, a sprawling section separated from the main household. Rows of training rings, dorms built from stone, and banners carrying the Liam crest — a knight's helm crossed by two spears wrapped in blue silk.
As he strolled through, he heard laughter. Cruel, mocking laughter.
He turned the corner and saw them — a ring of cadets surrounding a smaller boy curled on the ground. The boy had soft features, light brown hair, and blue eyes glistening with tears. His body was frail, his arms trembling as he shielded his head.
"Maybe if your blood wasn't so diluted, you wouldn't be so weak!" one sneered, driving his boot into the boy's ribs.
"Your brother and sister are high ranking on both the Acdemy and the Royal Guard! And you? A failure."
The others laughed.
The boy whimpered. "Please… stop…"
Modred stopped walking. For a moment, he just watched. Then he sighed — long, tired.
"Hey," he called out.
The group turned.
"What do you want, you mountain filth?" one snapped. "This isn't your problem."
"Maybe not." Modred rolled his shoulders, his expression dead calm. "But watching cowards hit one kid at a time makes my stomach sick."
The ringleader stepped forward. "You calling me a coward?"
Modred didn't answer. His fist did.
It crashed into the guy's face with a sound like breaking wood. Blood sprayed. The boy dropped instantly.
The others froze — then charged.
Modred grinned. "Finally."
He moved like a storm — unrefined but fast, raw muscle and instinct forged by mountain wind and hard labor. One swung a stick; he ducked low, slammed a knee into his gut, and threw him into another. The ground trembled with every hit.
By the end, the bullies limped away, bruised and bleeding, muttering threats they didn't have the courage to keep.
Modred stood over them, breathing hard. Blood dripped from his split lip, a bruise forming under his eye.
He turned to the boy. "You good?"
The kid nodded shakily. "Yeah... Taren. Taren Liam."
"Modred." He grinned through blood. "You shouldn't let them bully you that way, you gotta fight back."
Taren hesitated, then took his hand.
Later, Modred walked him to the servant quarters. A woman ran to them, her face pale with worry — Taren's mother.
"My son! Are you hurt?" she cried, pulling him close.
"I'm fine, Mom," Taren said, glancing at Modred. "He helped me."
She bowed. "Thank you. Truly."
Modred waved it off. "No need to worry, hope you repay the favour with some food next time."
She laughed softly through her tears.
As Modred turned to leave, Taren called after him, "Why did you help me?"
Modred shrugged. "Didn't think I needed a reason."
As Modred was walking away, Taren quietly observed him, reminding him of a person who had the same smile as confident as his.
The judgment hall stood at the core of the Liam estate, a structure with tall arched windows that climbed the walls, their glass tinted in deep blue that muted the daylight into a cold, steady glow. The ceiling rose in layered vaults supported by ribs of pale stone, each joint stamped with the Liam family crest.
The floor was polished to a mirror sheen, dark enough to reflect the light. At its center, a long strip of white marble marked the path to the dais where the elders sat. The benches on either side were tiered upward, arranged with precision. Every footstep echoed cleanly, brass torches and brackets lined the walls, burning with a low, steady flame that filled the air with a faint metallic scent.
The doors opened with a heavy scrape, and the air inside shifted. Two soldiers in silver-trimmed armor — insignias of the Ardes, the joint army of the Liam and Valcrest houses — stepped forward, escorting Modred and Taren into the hall.
Their boots struck the polished floor in sync, the echoes climbing the stone ribs overhead. Neither boy spoke. The sound of armor and the soft clatter of their chains were enough to draw every gaze in the chamber.
Along the left benches sat rows of high-ranking nobles and family elders, each draped in the muted blue and grey of House Liam. Every face wore the same composure — distant, evaluating, already judging.
Near the dais, Taren's sister, robed in the white uniform of the Royal Academy, stood with her arms folded; beside her, his older brother in the uniform of the Royal Guard, jaw tight, eyes refusing to meet Taren's.
At the front sat Carla and Igred. Carla's expression was unreadable — somewhere between disappointment and quiet protectiveness — while Igred simply leaned on his cane, his weathered eyes half-closed, watching.
And above them all, on the central dais beneath the banner, were the three figures that ruled this gathering,Magnus Liam, the Premier of the Royal Guard, silent and sharp, his armor black-blue and unadorned except for a single crest on his shoulder, Artreus Liam, the Patriarch — broad-shouldered, his gaze heavy as stone, a man who looked born of the very hall around him, And the Patriarch of the Valcrest, clad in white and silver, his every movement smooth and calculated, a faint smile that never reached his eyes.
The soldiers stopped halfway down the marble strip and stepped aside, leaving Modred and Taren standing alone beneath the cold light that cut down from the skylight. The silence after their steps faded was almost physical — a waiting tension that pressed against the chest.
Modred glanced sideways at Taren.
The boy's shoulders trembled slightly, but his eyes — pale blue under the shadow — didn't lower. Modred smirked, whispering under his breath,
"Relax. The worst they can do is throw is in the streets."
Taren exhaled through his nose, a hint of a smile breaking despite himself.
Then Artreus Liam leaned forward, his voice carrying across the hall — calm, deliberate, but with a weight that pinned them where they stood.
"Bring them closer."
The accusation hit like a hammer, and before either of them could respond, the hall erupted.
Voices clashed — nobles, elders, and guards barking their judgment like vultures circling over the scent of blood.
"He struck a member of the household!"
"He's an outsider — what else could we expect?"
"And that boy—Taren—he's supposed to be a Liam, yet sides with trash!"
The noise built, layered with disdain and false righteousness, until Modred finally looked up and let out a low, humorless laugh.
"Funny," he said, voice sharp enough to cut through the uproar. "You talk like you've never seen blood before. Your arrogance suprises me."
The words froze the room.
An elder slammed his hand on the table. "You dare—!"
"I damn do," Modred cut in, tone cold and steady. "You think being born here makes you better? You sit on your gold chairs while people out there bleed just to survive. So don't try to put yourselves in some noble posotion."
Gasps followed. A few nobles rose, outrage burning in their eyes.
But Modred didn't care. His crimson-tinged gaze swept across the hall like fire.
Beside him, Taren's breath trembled. His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles went white.
He turned — seeking a single face that might stand for him — but found only the hollow stares of his brother and sister. His brother's jaw was set, his eyes filled with disappointment. His sister's lips parted slightly, but she said nothing.
That silence hurt more than the accusations.
Taren's throat tightened. His vision blurred for a moment — and then the sound of the courtroom dimmed.
He remembered sitting by the fire years ago, his father's calloused hand on his shoulder, the smell of smoke thick in the air.
"You're a smart kid, Taren. Not the strongest, not the fastest — but your mind's sharper than most blades. Use it.
Find someone you trust, someone who'll fight beside you even when the world spits on you.
And whatever happens… trust your gut. If it feels right, it's right."
The memory faded, replaced by the cold eyes of the hall. But Taren's fear was gone.
He inhaled deeply, stepped forward, and whispered something to Modred.
Modred listened — his grin spreading slow and dangerous.
Then Taren raised his head.
"You all keep talking about honor and bloodlines," he said, his voice quiet but unwavering. "But I've seen more rot in this room than in the alleys outside these walls."
The crowd murmured. The Patriarch watched in silence.
"If standing with someone who actually fights for what's right makes me a disgrace," Taren continued, his words gaining weight, "then I'll wear it. Because I'd rather stand beside one honest bastard than kneel with a hundred cowards."
Taren stepped closer to Modred, their shoulders almost touching. The hall was dead silent, every pair of eyes locked on them.
Modred tilted his head. "You sure about this?"
Taren didn't answer with words.
He raised his hand to his mouth — and bit down.
Hard.
Skin split. Blood welled instantly. A few nobles flinched in disgust.
Modred's grin sharpened.
"Alright then."
He lifted his own hand and sank his teeth into the flesh just below the thumb, ripping it open enough for blood to drip between his fingers. His voice deepened as he began the ancient words.
"By the hand that bleeds and the breath that burns… from ash to ash, vein to vein, we are one pulse in the dark.
I make this oath with witness to the goddess of retribution — Hemara."
The torches flared, casting long shadows on the stone. Modred stepped forward, matching him word for word. Their voices merged — two tones, one dark and rough, the other firm and clear.
The air thickened.
A chill swept the room.
And from the darkness above the hall, something began to move.
A skeletal figure draped in shadow emerged from the ceiling, its jaw stretched into a grin too wide to be human. Its presence was suffocating — ancient, predatory. With a motion that blurred between flesh and mist, it reached down and drove its claws into their chests.
Black veins flashed beneath their skin — searing, pulsing — and then vanished. Both boys gasped but didn't flinch.
The figure lingered, whispering in a voice only they could hear. Then it dissolved into dust.
Silence.
Everyone stared — nobles pale, elders frozen, even Magnus Liam's composure briefly shaken.
The boy who had been beaten earlier finally shouted, desperate to break the weight of the moment.
"They're crazy! They've brought darkness into this hall!"
Modred turned, blood still dried on his lip, and in one brutal motion punched him square across the face.
The crack echoed. The boy collapsed, dazed and bleeding.
"You talk too much," Modred said, eyes burning. "Next time, back it up."
Noise erupted. Guards took a step forward, but Artreus Liam raised his hand slightly — not in disapproval, but in consideration.
Modred straightened, wiped the blood from his nose, and looked at everyone with that same wolfish grin."You think I'm just a mountain rat?" he said quietly. "Good. Then savour this moment when I climb higher than all of you. I'll crush each every one of you."
No one spoke.
Even the Valcrest Patriarch leaned back with a faint smile, amused.
Artreus finally rose. His presence silenced the room."The goddess Hemara herself witnessed this oath," he said calmly. "To punish them would be to insult divinity. They are to be sent to the lower barracks."
Before the verdict could settle, a deep voice rose from the side benches.
"I'll take them," said a scarred man with iron-grey hair. "Let me make good use of them."
The Patriarch studied him for a long moment, then nodded once.
The hall exhaled as if waking from a nightmare. Guards stepped forward to escort the two.
Their bruises still hurt, but both were laughing — genuine, rough laughter that echoed through the cold air.
"So," Modred said, glancing sideways. "What's that oath you made me make, bitting through my skin wasn't easy."
Taren looked at Modred qith a slightly guilty expression. "It's one of the forbidden curses in the Liam Archives .... it was actually meabt for binding slaves."
"Fine by me." Modred leaned back, eyes reflecting the stars. "We'll make it to the Academy anyways. Both of us. And we'll beat the shit out of anyone who says otherwise."
Taren's blue eyes shone. "Brothers in everything, right?"
Modred nodded once, smiling. "Brothers till the end."
The moonlight framed them — two figures laughing quietly under the vast night sky, unaware that somewhere in the darkness, that same skeletal figure still lingered… smiling.
"Well," it whispered, voice like cracking bone, "this is getting interesting."