Wood Grove residential
Periun city, Kettlia Region
Ashtarium nation
North American continent
September 26th 2019
The tower rose above the city like a blade of moonlit silver, its exquisite architecture a testament to both modern luxury and occult precision. Under the midnight sky, its polished surface caught and reflected the cold light, throwing sharp glimmers onto the neighboring rooftops. Every line of the structure seemed deliberately drawn, as if the building itself were a sigil etched into the heart of the city—a locus of hidden power.
Nico hovered silently in the night air, his crimson eyes narrowed with a predator's focus. He studied the shimmering lattice that veiled the uppermost floors—a barrier of structured energies, meticulously woven and formalized to repel the uninvited. Its sigilic threads shimmered in layers, denoting both wealth and paranoia. At its core was the penthouse suite, a sanctum reserved for someone who mattered more than most. Tonight, Nico's patience for etiquette had run thin. On another night, he might have stepped through the main doors, exchanged cold nods with the doormen, played the game of civility. But anger burned quietly behind his eyes—a smoldering resentment that cared little for protocol.
Even after his repeated warnings, the Vampires remained undeterred—relentless in their pursuit, shadows trailing him wherever he went. They prowled the city with predatory patience, stalking Nico through alleys and across rooftops, never straying far as he carried out his quiet duty: observing Jack, watching over him from afar. Their persistence gnawed at his composure, each encounter a test of his restraint.
He'd already taken meticulous care to ensure his manipulations remained undetected. The spells he had discreetly woven into the minds of those thugs—Jack's recent adversaries—were sturdy, subtle constructs, designed to erase all memory of Jack's involvement. The magic would muddle recollections, sow confusion, and shield the boy from suspicion. Not even the most adept sorcerer would notice the tampering, let alone trace anything back to Jack.
Yet despite his precautions, the city's Vampire coven had become a persistent irritation—a shadowy adversary, their attention growing ever bolder. It was their meddling that drew Nico here tonight, up to this moonlit tower above the city, annoyance simmering beneath the surface. He had come to deliver a message, one they would not soon forget.
He didn't bother with the front entrance, nor the labyrinth of silent security protocols. Instead, he let the wind carry him to the edge of the barrier, where the energies felt most rigid. His silhouette, framed against the gleaming spire, merged with the shadows. With a single, fluid motion, he pressed his will against the shield, probing its layers for weaknesses—not with brute force, but with the subtle, inexorable pressure of someone who had spent a lifetime bending forbidden thresholds.
Nico's eyes glimmered brighter, twin embers in the dark. For a brief moment, the air grew tense—charged with the promise of intrusion, a defiance of both arcane law and social expectation.
Tonight, he would not be denied. With a flick of his wrist, Nico conjured a feather—black as midnight, its delicate barbs veined with veins of shadow, almost ethereal in the moonlight. The air shimmered faintly around it, betraying the presence of an intricate spell formula woven into its core. This was no ordinary token, but a manifestation of Nico's Ability Factor: a singular technique known as Black Feather Vein.
Within the heart of the feather, layered with occult geometry and encoded intent, pulsed a spell designed for subtle intrusion. The moment it materialized in his palm, the surrounding energies seemed to hush, as if recognizing a predator among prey.
Nico pressed the feather to the barrier, and the spell unfurled—ribbons of black light snaking from its quill, silently slicing through the lattice of protective wards. Where raw force would have shattered alarms and drawn unwelcome attention, this magic parted the shield like silk, delicate yet absolute.
In the next breath, the shimmering wall gave way, leaving a gap just large enough for Nico to slip through. He alighted soundlessly on the balcony of the penthouse suite, the feather dissolving to shadow between his fingers—a silent signature, a promise that he could come and go as he pleased.
But slipping past the barrier was never going to be so simple. The moment Nico's feet touched the balcony's cold marble, a hidden spell array deep within the tower flared to life—a shrill, silent pulse that only those attuned to mana could sense. The building itself reacted as if waking from a dream, recognizing an intruder whose essence had never been registered in its arcane ledger. Within seconds, the air thickened with danger.
As Nico slid through the balcony window, the penthouse was suddenly alive with movement. Vampires surged from the shadows, their snarls echoing through the grand, dimly lit chamber. Their presence pressed down on him, a collective aura of hunger and aggression. Yet Nico's gaze passed over them without a flicker of concern—his eyes were already fixed elsewhere.
At the far end of the room, elevated above his kin, stood their leader. He appeared as young as Nico himself, perhaps in his early twenties, but there was nothing human about the beauty etched into his form. Silver hair fell in lustrous waves around a face too flawless, too cold—lilac eyes glimmered with predatory intelligence, their depths reflecting the faintest trace of cruelty. His skin was pale as polished bone, interrupted only by faint, jagged marks—like the remnants of old lightning scars—etching a story across that inhuman visage.
Around his throat rested a sigil choker, the reversed Pi symbol catching the light: an emblem of an ancient house, its reputation both revered and feared. His attire was immaculate—a white tunic and long-sleeved shirt, adorned with noble embroidery and edged with a runic pattern, each stitch radiating an understated authority.
He regarded Nico not as an intruder, but as a rival entering sacred territory—one step closer to a confrontation neither could avoid. Standing between Nico and their master were his lieutenants—the infamous Tri-Fangs of Dread. They formed a living barricade, their postures radiating predatory confidence and disciplined loyalty. At the forefront was the woman who had intercepted Nico not long ago: Razia, second-in-command to Silas and a name whispered in the city's shadowed circles. Though she claimed only the Adept realm, her aura belied her rank; it crackled with a keen, dangerous strength that set her apart from lesser fledglings. Razia was a New Blood Vampire, yes, but one with a gift for cruelty and cunning—her reputation well-earned.
Flanking her, Mavrek Vol and Selice Moura completed the trio. Mavrek, broad-shouldered and grim, exuded a brute's confidence—a heavy presence honed through countless battles. Selice, by contrast, was lean and spectral, her every movement calculated and precise, a subtle threat wrapped in elegance.
These three commanded Nico's focus. He spared not a glance for the lesser vampires crowding the edges of the suite—non-awakened thralls, more bark than bite, their auras little more than background noise in the tense atmosphere. The Tri-Fangs, while of lower blood and cultivation than Nico, could not be underestimated. In the presence of Silas, their combined force could tip the scales.
Silas himself was the true danger—a Master realm Ascendant, and likely not even at the lower rungs of his tier. Mid-Master, at the least. His strength, amplified by the unity of his lieutenants and the oppressive energy that saturated the penthouse, made the odds uncertain. Nico's instincts thrummed with warning: one misstep here, and it would not be a simple duel, but a slaughter.
"Nico, the Saint Crow—have you finally come to pay your respects?" Silas's voice echoed through the penthouse, smooth and laced with a mocking edge as he descended the spiral staircase, each step deliberate, measured, almost theatrical. His lilac eyes glinted in the dim light, their gaze never leaving Nico. "With all the chaos unraveling in the Old Continent, I must admit I'm surprised the Association would risk sending such a valuable asset to my little domain."
The Blitz Fang Coven, under Silas's iron rule, held the city in a vice. Every criminal syndicate, every street gang, every so-called mafia family ultimately answered to his authority—whether they knew it or not. Mundane lawbreakers received their supplies, their weapons, their forbidden drugs, all courtesy of the coven's shadowy largesse. While most ordinary humans remained blissfully ignorant of their true masters, a select few harbored dangerous knowledge, whispering tales of the city's unseen rulers. Their mere awareness was an affront—a violation of the Warden Association's ironclad policy of secrecy.
"The Association didn't send me here on your account, if that's what concerns you, Silas," Nico replied, his tone clipped and composed.
"Is that so?" Silas drawled, the corner of his mouth lifting in a knowing, razor-edged smile. With a casual flick of his wrist, he signaled for his lieutenants to withdraw. Razia hesitated, a subtle tension furrowing her brow, but a single glance from Silas—cold, commanding—was all it took. She nodded curtly, then turned, quietly ushering the others out. The lesser vampires melted away, their presence receding until only Silas and Nico remained.
Silas gestured grandly toward the heart of the penthouse. He led Nico through the opulent living room, its vast expanse illuminated by the glimmer of a white crystal chandelier suspended high overhead. A crackling fireplace cast golden light across the room, bathing everything in a shifting amber glow. Portraits of surreal beauty adorned the walls—artwork collected from every era, each piece a silent testament to Silas's taste and ambition. The space radiated calculated luxury, built not merely for comfort, but to flaunt Silas's triumphs—his success carved from shadows, wealth amassed without the crutch of his ancestral house.
Silas settled himself in one of the plush armchairs near the fire, the flickering light painting sharp contrasts across his pale features. He motioned for Nico to do the same, a host's gesture laced with expectation. Nico obliged, sinking into the chair opposite, the heat of the fire a subtle, grounding presence between them.
"Anything I can offer you?" Silas asked, voice smooth, the veneer of civility thin but unmistakable.
Nico, whose Warden upbringing demanded adherence to the old codes of hospitality, understood the dance of etiquette. Something Silas was raised in. He had no desire for Silas's generosity, but to refuse would be to insult his host—a misstep he could not afford.
"Tea will suffice," Nico said quietly.
Silas's smile sharpened. With a raised finger, he summoned a servant from the shadows—a young woman, spectral in her pallor, dark hair falling in silken waves. Her movements were measured and silent as she wheeled in a gleaming trolley laden with porcelain cups and delicate glassware. She set a tray at Nico's side, her gaze flickering up for a brief moment, eyes glazed with the unmistakable signs of thrallhood—pale veins threading beneath translucent skin, the mark of one who had tasted vampire blood but had not yet crossed the threshold to immortality.
Nico inclined his head in silent thanks, acknowledging the small courtesies even within the enemy's den. The faintest trace of sadness stirred in his chest, but he masked it well. In this room, courtesy was both shield and weapon—every gesture part of a greater game.
Nico lifted the porcelain cup, his eyes settling on the pale brown liquid that shimmered softly beneath the firelight. Its aroma was subtle, layered with the faintest trace of wild honey and bitter roots—expensive, carefully chosen, meant to impress. He watched the steam curl upward, thoughtful, before Silas's voice cut through the moment.
"You should take off your mask if you're going to drink it," Silas remarked, the words tinged with faint amusement as he brought his own glass to his lips.
Nico grunted in reluctant acknowledgment. With practiced ease, he unclasped the crow mask that concealed the lower half of his face, setting it gently on the polished counter beside him. The firelight revealed the full scope of his features—angelic and sharp, unmarred by time or hardship. For a heartbeat, the room seemed to hold its breath, as if Silas and the lingering shadows were both appraising and challenged by what was unveiled.
Nico took a measured sip, the warmth grounding him. He kept his eyes steady, wary but unreadable.
Silas regarded him over the rim of his cup, a smile ghosting at the corners of his mouth. "So, if you're not here for me, I suppose it must be about that spirit energy surge a few weeks ago." There was no accusation in his tone—only the calm, inevitable logic of one who played the long game. Of course, an Ascendant of Silas's caliber would have felt the tremor of an Awakening, just as the Warden Association had. It raised a silent question in Nico's mind: Why hadn't Silas moved to claim the source himself? Perhaps he'd been biding his time, letting the Wardens flush out the Awakener, or perhaps he intended to use them as bait—waiting for the right moment to strike.
Nico met his gaze, voice even. "The Accord states that any Awakening outside the jurisdiction of a Legal Faction falls under the Association's purview. I'm only doing my job."
Silas let out a low, derisive laugh. "Ah, the Accord." He savored the word, as though tasting something bitter and familiar. "That ancient millennial pact, hammered out by weak-hearted fools," he scoffed, letting his gaze drift toward a massive portrait on the wall. "The Great Race War—a thousand years past. A time when humanity bared its teeth. Alexander the Great, they called him—the Conquering Hero. If not for him, this shadow world of ours would have never taken root. Sometimes I wonder how things might have been if my ancestors had the courage to refuse that cursed treaty."
The fire cast shifting shadows across Silas's face, the runic light catching in his lilac eyes, rendering them for a moment more haunted than haughty. Nico could hear the bitterness threaded in his words—a longing for a different history, a different legacy. Yet beneath it all lingered the predator's poise, the certainty of one who would not bow easily to fate or law.
In that quiet, flickering moment, the real conversation began—not just between two men, but between the world they had inherited and the one they might yet shape with their choices.
Nico set the cup down with a gentle clink, the heat of the tea lingering in his hands. With quiet precision, he reclaimed his mask, the familiar weight settling into his palm. Rising to his feet, he stood tall, firelight casting sharp angles across his features.
"Fixating on the past—on what can't be changed—will only devour you from the inside," Nico said, his voice low but edged with finality. "I'm not here to fight old wars. I've done my part. I trust you'll extend me the professional courtesy to let me do my job."
Silas's eyes tracked him, cold and incisive—a predator studying an equal, not a guest. For a moment, silence stretched between them, tension coiling in the air like a drawn wire.
At last, Silas's lips curled into a mirthless smile. "No, I can't change the past. But I can claim my own destiny." His words lingered with a bitter resonance, defiance smoldering beneath their calm surface. Then, inclining his head in a gesture both regal and dangerous, he continued, "You're right—you've shown me respect. For that, I'll grant you passage. The territory is yours to work, for now. Do not mistake my tolerance for weakness."
Nico slid his mask back into place, the obsidian crow once again shrouding his face. He offered a curt nod, a silent pact exchanged between two predators beneath the chandelier's cold gleam, and moved toward the balcony, his shadow merging with the city's night.