Elsewhere...
(Vale of Eternal Night. Second Outer Blade Confinement: Echoes of Olympus.)
Like all great Domains of the Vale, the Second Outer Blade Confinement did not believe in restraint. Excess was not avoided. It was curated — down to the last stone.
Monumental gates rose at its threshold, carved from seamless white marble. A golden Scarab Seal was hammered into the stone — wings outstretched, two crimson eyes set within the veined pattern, not decorative.
Beyond them, the ascent began. Pillared halls stretched upward in perfect symmetry. No runes. No obsidian. Only white marble, and the sound: steel on steel, blood on stone, breath breaking under strain, instructors barking orders that blurred into the walls. Grey and blue cloaks moved through it all, bone-white armour plated over their forms. They marched in pairs, in squads, or stood perfectly still in places where they did not need to be. Watching. A single glance from them was enough to force tired bodies upright, to drive cadets back into motion, to turn exhaustion into obedience.
Higher still, the symmetry held — but something beneath it shifted. Formations thinned. The noise softened. Time itself seemed to bend. Blue became crimson. Grey became black. Every cloak now bore the Scarab in gold thread — no longer a seal, a declaration.
The marble changed with it. Gold ran along the pillars like veins of old debt. Statues grew finer. Black banners threaded in gold unfurled overhead. And at the peak, it rose: the Hall of Fame. A temple in all but name. Carved from the mountain it crowned.
Within its upper corridors, three tall figures moved with quiet precision.
On the left, the First Shield of House Artyr. Sir Armon — encased in full crimson armour, crowned with the sacred horns of the Blood Scarab. An immovable object. On the right, the First Blade of House Artyr. Sir Elliott — white armour, seamless and razor-edged, a reflection of the Moon Shadow Scarab, his position unchanged for over a century. And at the center, Elder Riven, his expression resting somewhere between irritation and guilt.
Behind them: the sealed doors of Viren Nyxvalis. His vassal. His son in everything but blood. Those doors would not be opening to him again.
The shame Viren had endured during the feast was one thing. The Council's scheme costing him a knight — another. And now, a High Council decree ordering him into combat barely a moon after discharge. Not simple combat — a death match where loss meant the erasure of everything he had built.
Forgivable? Unlikely.
But the next part guaranteed a lifetime of resentment. Ordered to face a boy — the boy who had insulted him while cloaked in treachery. Armed with relics. A full statistical breakdown of a poised enemy. An arena engineered to murder him.
That was not honour. That was not justice. That was not how he had raised Viren.
Of one thing he was certain: Viren would not fight the boy. Not now. Not ever. Not through justice. Not through treachery. And certainly not at the Council's command — or their pleas.
His irritation deepened — not toward Viren, never toward his son. Toward the boy, perhaps. Toward the Council, without question.
He exhaled through his nose, and his shoulders settled. The mask slid back into place.
"Armon," Riven said.
The Shield inclined his head slightly. "Yes, Elder."
"Is my afternoon luncheon with Lady Rebecca set?"
"It is, Elder. She should already be waiting in the courtyard."
Riven nodded once. His pace tightened, just slightly.
_____
The courtyard lay open to the sky — cleared of all living presence, leaving only the artistry of its design. Exotic flowers. Intricate carvings in marble and polished stone. All of it arranged in quiet orbit around a finely curved pavilion at its heart.
Four pillars. Seven steps per side. At the center, a polished table set with a single porcelain tray — two cups, two plates, a kettle still steaming. Two seats faced one another across it. One occupied.
She was veiled in midnight silk, faint lines of silver and gold threading the seams of her gown. The only true light upon her was a Sol crystal resting loose at her chest — burning softly, not bright, but enough to draw the eye. Enough to invite you closer, even when every instinct said to keep your distance.
Riven exhaled once. His hand rose. Behind him, Armon and Elliott halted without question.
He advanced alone. Each step measured, closing the distance. At the edge of the pavilion he stopped, then bowed — ritual, exact.
"Lady Rebecca."
Her veiled gaze settled on him. Descending. Assessing. From head to toe, then back again.
Then she spoke.
"Elder."
Nothing more.
He straightened, ascended the steps, and took the empty seat without delay.
Her hand moved first — reaching for the kettle, pouring. A thin stream of amber filled the cup before him, steam rising in slow, quiet spirals. She set it down.
_______
Riven let the silence settle — long enough that courtesy itself began to demand a report.
"I see you are well, Lady Rebecca. The North has done nothing —"
"Spare me, Elder."
The words cut clean. Sharp. Final. "I know why you requested this meeting."
Riven fell silent. His gaze shifted — not to her, but to the cup in his hand. Steam curled upward in slow, deliberate spirals. He watched it. Listened to the silence that followed. Her gaze pressed into him. Deeper. And deeper still. Then, at last, it withdrew.
"Tonight," she said softly, "at midnight, I was to host a banquet." Her veiled gaze returned. "Tell me, Elder — can you assume the occasion?"
His breath stilled — only for a moment. He knew. Of course he knew. But guilt would not allow him to say it.
"One hundred and thirty years of unquestioned service," she continued.
"One ordeal after another. And still — you want more." A faint tilt of her head. "You want my aid… in convincing my beloved into yet another charade of your loose designs."
Riven's posture shifted — barely. The cup in his hand remained steady. "If there were another path," he said quietly, "I would have taken it. But there is none left to me."
"Am I to pity your circumstances? Is that it?"
His jaw tightened. "No." His gaze lowered. "Only assist me — in reaching him."
"Why should I? Why would I ever?" Her head tilted beneath the veil, the momentary anger dissolving into ritual hypocrisy. "You are the Elder. He is your vassal. Order him — as you always have. Send him to his death. Then wait for his return with another shining trophy. Why don't you?"
Riven exhaled slowly and set the cup down with deliberate care. "I understand —"
"You don't." She cut through him without raising her voice. "You are a self-serving, self-justifying shell of a man. Living for the praise obedience brings. Even when it cost your children — your grandchildren — you did nothing. You measure life by the honour it grants your name… not by the blood this House demands in return. I will —"
"Enough."
The word came sharp — rage flickering, then gone.
"I have done everything," he said, each word measured. "Given everything — for this House. My comrades. My vassals. My blood. None of it willingly. None without cost. But what choice did I have?"
His gaze lifted. Steady. Unflinching. "How much power do you think this title holds? I am one man — against twelve. I cannot be the strongest. Or the cleverest. Or even the most beloved. But I can be the one who survives. The one who ensures this House — and your future — survives."
"You want me to order him?" His voice lowered. "I will. I will abandon all pretense of being a father and decree it. And when he refuses —" because they both knew he would — "and the rest demand his head… I will be the one to take it."
"And give you a real reason to despise me… Daughter."
She went still. Something crossed her mind — something sharp, unwelcome. She burned it away.
She set her untouched cup down and rose. "I'll do it." Her voice was soft. Controlled. She turned to leave — then paused. "But understand this. If anything happens to my beloved —" her gaze hardened — "forget we share blood. Send your executioners for my head. Before I come for you."
"Father."
Riven nodded once. The bitterness rose, sharp at the back of his throat.
He watched her go. Armon and Elliott parted for her with ritual precision. Neither dared look twice at a pureblood Noctis.
______
When her hands finally stopped shaking —
and her mind found something resembling focus —
she lit the candle.
A timed one. Set to extinguish itself in exactly ninety minutes. Minus the five she had already wasted panicking.
Holding back a breakdown, hands moved.
Forceps.
Razors.
That dagger-thing.
Reagents.
Pinned skin.
Between her teeth — a glowing crystal. Bitten down hard enough to threaten fracture.
Whatever he had taken —
it hadn't just rendered him unconscious.
It had completely shut down the hyper-regeneration of their kind.
One mistake —
and he bleeds out.
Her thoughts didn't slow. They churned.
Risk my life to steal intel for you —
Oh, I did. Demand anything? No.
Expect sense.
Why did I even —
Blather about Spectacle. About Heresy.
Then what?
Provoke the Council.
Start some half-ancient blood ritual.
Drag my assets into your mess —
and forget to mention you were poisoned like a rat.
Her grip tightened.
Was that enough for you.
No —
Not even close.
Demand surgery on a hunch.
Write half-assed instructions —
hand them to me —
and give me a damn nod to cut you open.
I should kill you now.
End this nonsense.
Her hands didn't stop. Even as the thought settled in. Even as something colder followed it.
Her eyes strained harder —
not to kill him. Not yet, anyway.
Nyxvalis blood was black. And so was everything beneath it.
She was a blade major.
What in the stars did she know about anatomy other than slicing through it and moving on with her merry day.
Why the hell was she doing this?
She would have already thrown her hands up and left, if the faint blue channels of Current weren't present to guide her through this mess. At the very least, she knew where each ran close to where she shouldn't cut.
Barely.
Her gaze snapped back to the instructions. Again. And again.
Twelve millimetres left of the heart.
She bit down harder on the crystal.
How the hell I'm I suppose to measure that you bastard !
His voice echoed — uninvited.
Hold it like this.
Angle it — no, lower.
Sterilise here.
Don't hesitate.
Curse you, Chion.
Her fingers moved deeper. Too close. Far too close.
She felt it before she saw it.
Cold. Wrong.
A small sphere. Wriggling. Threaded with fine, twitching tendrils.
Disgusting.
A shiver crawled up her spine as she adjusted her grip — following his instructions. Precisely.
It was working.
It's working —
The thing opened.
An eye.
Not a curse. A Malifice.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. The structure shifted — alive.
Then it screamed.
A horrid, inhuman sound.
It ruptured.
Purple ichor burst outward — coating her hands, the instruments, him.
"By the gods — what have I done —"
Chion convulsed. Violently. His body arched, then buckled. Vessels ruptured beneath his skin. Dark lines spread, splintering outward, breaking.
Blood followed. Too much. Far too much.
Her breath hitched. Her hands froze.
No.
No —
He was dying.
She had killed him.