The sun crept over the devastated land, spreading light over what remained — not to reveal, but to confirm.
The marks on the ground ran in a single direction.
Drag.
Impact.
Interruption.
Nothing there suggested combat.
Just passage.
Éreon did not slow.
The marquis's castle already rose ahead, its silhouette carved against the dawn light, far too intact for what surrounded it.
Movement.
The shadows by the gate shifted first.
Then came the shapes.
Armor.
Spears.
Knights positioned before the entrance, partially concealed by the light against the horizon, as if the castle itself had kept them there, motionless until that instant.
One of them stepped forward half a pace.
"There's someone coming."
The figure emerged from the brightness, still distant, but steady enough not to be ignored.
The silhouette did not hesitate.
Did not slow.
Did not avoid the bodies in the path.
He walked through them.
As if he already knew where to step.
"Look at the way he walks…"
The voice came lower now.
"That's not someone looking for entry."
The formation adjusted.
Spears lowered.
Bodies aligned.
The distance shortened.
Details began to surface.
Dark cloak.
Clothing that did not belong to that territory.
And then — the black eyes.
"He's already seen us."
The realization came flat.
The spears lowered almost at the same time.
The knights stepped forward, forming a line before the gate.
"Halt," the voice came firm, trained.
"Identify yourself before taking another step."
No response.
"You stand before territory under the count's jurisdiction," another added, harsher. "Speak… or you will be treated as an invader."
Éreon did not stop.
The next step came as though the words meant nothing.
One of the knights moved first.
The spear came in a straight line, aiming for the center of the chest.
The distance closed.
Éreon dodged with a minimal motion — the body turned just enough.
His hand was already on the blade.
A short cut.
Diagonal.
The shaft of the spear split at the instant of impact.
The knight was still trying to understand when the second movement came.
Lower.
Closer.
The blade closed the space between them and opened his flank.
The body gave way.
No scream.
Another came from the left.
Heavy step.
Sword high.
Éreon moved into the strike.
The shoulder collided first, breaking his stance.
The blade rose next.
Short.
Precise.
It slipped under the guard.
The air left him before the pain arrived.
The third hesitated.
Only an instant.
Enough.
Éreon was no longer where he was looking.
He appeared at his side.
The blade passed.
Clean.
The body remained standing for a second longer—
and then fell.
Silence.
The weapons still trembled on the ground when the movement ceased.
Éreon did not look back.
He moved on.
The blood still ran along the blade.
Slow drops marked the path —
from outside…
to inside.
The interior of the castle was cold.
The air seemed still —
as if it had not been disturbed for far too long.
The corridors stretched long, lit by torches fixed to the walls, their flames wavering as if reacting to something they did not yet understand.
The sound of footsteps did not spread.
It was swallowed by the walls.
One of the knights frowned in the distance, interrupting his own march.
"Who ordered the posts to be abandoned?"
Silence.
He turned his head.
Then his body.
And saw.
The figure advanced down the corridor.
Dark cloak.
Upright posture.
The blade still stained.
The knight did not freeze.
His hand was already on the sword.
"You—"
He did not finish.
When the knight realized—
Éreon was already within distance.
The front foot slid.
Short.
Controlled.
The hand deflected the knight's wrist out of line.
The blade rose — too close for defense.
It entered below the clavicle.
His body locked.
No air came.
Éreon twisted the wrist.
Pulled.
The knight fell before the sword fully left the sheath.
The impact echoed through the corridor.
Dry.
Other footsteps answered the sound.
Faster.
More than one.
Three knights appeared from the next turn, hands already on their weapons.
They did not advance immediately.
They stopped.
Looked.
The body on the ground.
The blood spreading.
And then—
him.
Standing at the center of the corridor.
Motionless.
The blade low.
Still dripping.
One of them shifted half a step to the side.
Another closed the opposite space.
The third held the front.
Formation.
"He's not a common invader…" the voice came low, controlled.
"No…" the other answered, without taking his eyes off — "And he's not even trying to hide it."
Éreon did not move.
For an instant—
he raised his head.
Slowly.
The dark hair, tied back, revealed the face.
And then—
the eyes.
Black.
Deep.
Unhurried.
Expressionless.
There was no doubt in them.
The air in the corridor seemed to press down.
The three felt it.
But they did not retreat immediately.
One of them cast a quick glance to the other.
Silent decision.
"Go."
The chosen one nodded, already stepping back.
Then another.
Without turning his back.
The two remaining advanced, closing the space, blades firm — not to win, but to block passage.
Behind them, the retreat turned into a run.
Heavy steps echoed through the corridor.
The two remaining advanced.
The distance closed fast.
The first strike came direct, trying to halt the advance.
Éreon entered inside the line before the impact.
The deflection was minimal.
The response was not.
The blade rose short and passed through the guard.
The knight lost his breath before understanding.
The second was already on him.
More aggressive.
He knew he couldn't prolong it.
The strike came heavy, trying to force space.
Éreon did not yield.
The blade deflected with enough precision.
The body pressed in.
Too close for reaction.
When the knight tried to adjust—
he was already late.
The cut came clean.
The body fell beside the other.
Silence returned for an instant.
But it did not last.
In the distance, the footsteps still echoed.
Fleeing.
Too late.
Éreon raised his face slightly.
Listened.
And then moved on.
Without haste.
But without pause.
The corridor stretched ahead, curves of stone, closed doors, unmoving tapestries.
The sound of flight struck the walls.
Irregular now.
Tired.
Closer with each step.
"Alert—!"
The voice came ahead, tearing through the silence of the hall before fully taking shape.
"My lord, there is a—"
Interrupted.
The body locked still at the threshold of the door —
as if it had crossed a limit from which there was no return.
The fingers lost strength.
The rest of the sentence never came.
He fell into the hall.
The impact drew every gaze.
Swords were already being drawn when they noticed the blood.
And then the footsteps came right behind.
Unhurried.
Regular.
Echoing from the corridor into the hall.
Éreon stepped forward.
He stopped. The dry sound of the step echoed through the hall as the light remained behind him, as if the entire space darkened around him.
The presence filled the space like a sentence already passed down.
His eyes moved.
Slow.
Precise.
They moved through the hall without haste, passing over the knights already positioning themselves — some with tension evident in their hands, others firm, motionless, holding the gaze like men trained not to retreat.
No one advanced.
No one spoke.
For an instant.
Maybe two.
The black eyes kept rising.
Without deviation.
Without interest in what had already been measured.
Until they reached the seat at the back.
And then they stopped.
The man who occupied it did not move.
His presence filled the space in a different way — not by immediate threat, but by the accumulated weight of power, command, and permanence.
The right eye, red and piercing, remained fixed, while the left, closed under a deep scar, marked a past that did not need to be explained.
The reddish hair, combed back, met a well-trimmed beard, and the dark attire, adorned with golden embroidery, chains and medallions, left no doubt as to the wealth… nor the power that sustained it.
The high collar, lined with black furs, elevated his figure even more.
The upright posture, absolute, showed no sign of defense.
The man on the seat held the gaze.
There was no haste in him.
No surprise.
Only assessment.
When he spoke, his voice crossed the hall effortlessly, firm enough to reach every corner, as if it were already accustomed to being heard without needing to rise.
"If you made it this far, I assume you are not one of the first. Those I sent before you… served another purpose."
The red eye remained fixed on Éreon.
"Even so, few would pass through my men and remain standing before me."
A brief silence formed, heavy, controlled.
"So tell me… who are you?"
The gaze dropped for an instant, meeting the still-marked blade.
"And by what path did you arrive here?"
He lifted his chin slightly, without changing posture.
"You certainly did not come here to pay courtesy."
The knights around adjusted their positions when Éreon moved again.
Slow.
Direct.
The swords rose almost at the same time.
Tension broke the air.
"Stand down."
The order came simple.
Irrefutable.
No one hesitated.
The blades did not lower completely, but space opened.
Enough.
Éreon continued.
His steps echoed through the hall, measured, without any change in rhythm, as if each movement had already been decided before it was executed.
He stopped a few meters from the seat.
Silence remained between them for a moment.
The count tilted his head slightly, as if adjusting his own assessment.
"Even so…"
The voice came lower, but no less firm.
"to pass through my men and reach this hall is not the feat of just anyone."
The red gaze narrowed a little, attentive.
"There is courage in that. Or something close enough to deceive less attentive eyes."
He rested one arm on the seat, without looking away.
"My knights fulfilled the role given to them. Their blood… does not alter the course of what stands before us."
A brief pause.
Calculated.
"For that reason, I grant you a choice."
The weight of those words was not in the offer—
but in the certainty that it would be accepted.
"Kneel."
Simple.
Direct.
Irrefutable… for any common man.
"Acknowledge to whom this territory belongs… and I will consider the matter closed — the moment you raised your blade against those who serve me."
The gaze remained fixed.
Cold.
Certain.
"You will rise not as an enemy… but as someone who was allowed to remain."
The silence between them did not break immediately.
Éreon held the gaze.
Motionless.
As if that offer had never existed.
Then he spoke.
The voice low.
Cold.
Unhurried.
"Seven years ago… it was I who took your eye."
No change in his face.
"Today… I came to take the rest."
For an instant, nothing moved.
The count did not answer immediately.
But his hand rose.
Slowly.
The fingers touched the closed scar over the left eye, as if confirming something that memory had already recognized before the words.
The red gaze fixed even more.
More attentive.
Deeper.
"Impossible…"
The voice came low, carrying contained disbelief, not surprise.
"That child died that day."
Silence returned.
But it was not the same.
Something had shifted.
Then it came.
The memory.
Not as an image—
but as a voice.
Clear.
Unchanging.
"If I fall… another will come. And after him, another. You are not fighting me… but something that never ends."
The count exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh.
Brief.
Dry.
The tension did not leave him.
But something in him… accepted.
"So that was it."
The corner of his mouth lifted, minimal.
Without warmth.
"First Diana."
The name came as record, not as lament.
"Then Nika."
The gaze settled again on Éreon.
"And now…"
A short pause.
Measured.
"And now… some boy stands before me… as if he had any right to end what I began."
The hand left the scar.
The posture remained intact.
The count's gaze did not waver.
"For a moment, I considered allowing you to continue breathing under my domain."
A short pause.
"That was a miscalculation."
The dry sound of fingers snapping crossed the hall.
It was not loud.
But it was enough.
The knights advanced in the same instant, without hesitation, steel cutting the air in coordinated movement — not like men in fury, but like instruments obeying an order long trained.
And then—
the air changed.
It began as a subtle distortion.
Then, heat.
Not the heat of torches.
Something denser.
Older.
Enough to make one of the knights halt half a step before reaching Éreon.
It was in that instant that the flash crossed the hall.
Blue.
Violent.
Too fast to follow.
A presence cut through the space between one heartbeat and the next, forcing the air to shift around it, silencing for a moment the sound of steps and steel.
When it ceased—
she was already there.
Between Éreon and the advance.
Kneeling.
One knee firm against the stone.
A hand resting on the sword.
The blade still sheathed.
But far from restrained.
The heat now was undeniable.
It rose from her.
Breathed with her.
And then the flames came.
Not as an explosion—
but as an answer.
A circle formed around them, closing the space with precision, rising in intense blue, contained enough not to touch the ceiling… but alive enough to make the air vibrate.
No knight advanced beyond that.
Not by order.By instinct.
The count's eyes narrowed slightly.
There was no surprise in them.
But there was recognition.
"So… you have finally arrived."
The voice echoed with the same control as before, but now carried something denser.
More interested.
"Isabela."
A brief pause.
The name was not thrown to the wind.
It was placed.
"Valkyrie of the West."
The figure raised her face.
Slowly.
Blue eyes met the count's single red eye without any hesitation.
No reverence.
No deviation.
The knights around adjusted their formation, not fully retreating, but not advancing either — held at that invisible line between duty and survival.
The heat kept rising.
The flames sustained the space.
And, for the first time since Éreon had entered that hall—
the balance had shifted.
Not broken.
But tilted.
And everyone felt it.