The sound wasn't loud. It was absolute. It wasn't just palm striking palm. It was a shockwave that swept through the cathedral like an invisible guillotine, severing reality. In a single fraction of a second, all sound died. The roar of magic, the cracking of ice, the shrieks of the terrified guests, the hiss of the fire—all of it was erased. Only a vacuum remained. A heavy, dense, unnatural silence that plugged the ears and pressed against the chest like a physical weight.
Friedrich, his hand still outstretched for the extraction, froze mid-motion. The air around him, vibrating with power just moments before, was suddenly dead and empty. Confusion reflected in his eyes, quickly transitioning into the primal inkling of terror.
Everyone in the hall turned in a single direction as if on command. Toward the entrance.
There he stood.
A figure in a perfectly tailored dark suit and a long black, hooded cloak that looked as if it didn't belong in this world of pomp, colorful gowns, and ancient rituals. But what drew everyone's gaze wasn't his attire. It was his face. Or rather, what covered it.
A mask.
Its upper half was pitch-black, matte, and bottomless, with ornate edges around the eyes. The lower half of the mask was the exact opposite—brilliant white. And it wasn't solid. The substance upon it shifted slowly, lazily, resembling calm waves on the surface of a thick, milky sea. It was a hypnotic, deeply unsettling movement that contrasted sharply with the stillness of the rest of the hall.
The man bowed slightly, almost theatrically. A gesture of courtly politeness in the middle of a battlefield.
"I hate to interrupt a family gathering," he stated. His voice was the only sound in the entire space. It wasn't shouted, yet it resonated in every corner of the cathedral, clean and cold as a scalpel. It sounded calm, tinged with chilling irony. "But I have come for someone."
He straightened up and stepped forward. He didn't run. He didn't hurry. He walked with a slow, relaxed stride that radiated a confidence bordering on divine arrogance. Clack. Clack. Clack. Every footfall of his boot on the floor echoed in the silence like a hammer strike.
The Architects, the members of the von Riese family, recovered first. They were proud people, accustomed to ruling the world, and this intruder insulted their majesty. Three men from Friedrich's personal guard, elite water mages, immediately hurled their power at him.
The air grew cold. Dozens of sharp, deadly icicles erupted from their palms. They flew through the air like a swarm of silver hornets, aimed directly at the man's chest and head. It was a volley that would have torn a bear apart.
The man didn't slow down. He didn't dodge. He didn't even blink. The moment the ice spikes reached his immediate vicinity—within arm's reach—something happened that defied the comprehension of everyone present.
They didn't shatter. They didn't melt. They simply ceased to be. One second they were deadly chunks of ice, and the next they disintegrated to the atomic level. No impact. No sound of collision. Just the absolute nullification of existence. The spells didn't touch him. They capitulated before him.
The guards stood with their mouths agape, arms still outstretched in an attacking gesture, but their eyes held nothing but emptiness. Their lifelong belief in the supremacy of their magic had just shattered against the man's suit. It shot through the hall like an electric shock. The Architects stared in disbelief. Some gasped for air; others covered their mouths to keep from screaming. It was as if they were watching a natural disaster unfold live.
In the corner of the room, behind one of the massive pillars, stood Hanna. She was shaking all over. Her hands were pressed convulsively against her mouth, her eyes wide with shock. She watched the figure, and the chill running down her spine had nothing to do with ice. It was recognition. That posture. That way of walking. The way he tilted his head slightly as he passed one of the petrified guests. That's impossible, she screamed in her mind, while her rational mind collapsed.
On the podium, Friedrich descended into madness. He saw how his best men had failed. His face flushed with deranged fury. He opened his mouth, screaming the vilest curses at the intruder, the veins in his neck bulging, but not a single sound escaped his throat. His absolute power, his voice, with which he commanded men and elements, was gone. Stolen. In desperation, he thrust his hand out. He wanted to create a barrier, anything to stop the man. The air rippled before him; for a moment, it looked as though a massive glacier was forming—hope glinted in his eyes—and then came a quiet, humiliating poof. The wall of ice disintegrated into millions of microscopic crystals before it could fully materialize. They crumbled to the ground like harmless snow.
He let go of Ema. He couldn't hold her anymore. Her limp body slipped from his grasp, hit the cold stone of the altar, and slid limply to the floor. She lay there, a broken doll with eyes staring into the void, on the very edge of consciousness.
The man in the mask reached the steps to the altar. Hilda, standing nearby with her hand outstretched, her whip of fire having just extinguished within it, went as pale as a sheet. She was a warrior; she knew death when she saw it. Her instincts screamed only one thing: Run. With a gesture of her hand, she commanded her people to immediately retreat into the shadows. She didn't want to stand in his way.
But Friedrich lacked her wisdom. His pride wouldn't allow him to retreat. When his power failed, all he had left was a primitive, animalistic fury. With bulging eyes, he lunged from the podium directly at the man. "I'll kill you!" his mute mouth formed. He drew back his fist, determined to smash that mask to pieces with his bare hands. It was a desperate, clumsy, pathetic lunge. The man in the mask didn't even stop. He made no unnecessary gestures. He simply, fluidly, almost casually, positioned his leg and used Friedrich's own momentum against him. One precise, technically perfect throw. Friedrich's body traced an arc in the air. With a dull, ugly, wet thud, he landed headfirst right on the stone corner of the step. His eyes rolled back into his head, his body twitched and went slack. The great Architect, the lord of ice, lay in the dust at the intruder's feet like a discarded rag.
The man stepped over him as if he were merely an unevenness in the floor. He knelt beside Ema.
Her world was blurry. She saw only smudges. She heard only the rushing of her own blood. The pain was receding into the background, replaced by cold. And then she felt a touch. It was gentle. Warm. A leather-gloved hand stroked her cheek and brushed the sweaty, matted hair from her forehead. Ema struggled to focus. Above her, she saw only a black-and-white blur, rippling like the surface of water.
In her heart, in that last sober shred of her mind, she hoped it was him. The man gathered her into his arms. He lifted her effortlessly, as if she weighed nothing. Ema instinctively buried her head into his shoulder. She recognized his scent. Viktor? she wanted to say, but her lips wouldn't move.
The man turned to leave. And then, in the gloom at the foot of the altar, he noticed something.