The gates of House Kito stood before him, black and towering, forged from metal mined in the early days of Somid—when the stars were young and the family's pride was even younger.
Kael walked the path in silence.
Each step echoed with memories—shadows of childhood, of laughter that turned to scorn, of family dinners that became cold interrogations.
He stopped before the gate. His old blood still sang in the metal—it knew him.
But it would not open.
He unsheathed the Ego Knife.
Without a word, he drew the blade across his palm. The cut was clean. His blood spilled, thick and shimmering, and dripped down his wrist.
Kael reached out.
The blood fell on the lock.
A hiss. A sizzle. A sudden, brilliant burst of blue flame.
The gate shuddered.
The ancient metal warped, blackening at the edges. Flames ate through it with terrifying calm, reducing centuries of grandeur to molten slag.
When the gates collapsed inward with a thunderous groan, Kael stepped inside.
The courtyard was just as he remembered—cold marble, silver statues, a garden of glass flora untouched by time.
But the silence didn't last.
Ten guards poured in from both flanks, clad in gleaming obsidian armor, the House sigil—three thorns in a circle—emblazoned across their chestplates.
Kael didn't flinch.
The first came fast, spear leveled at Kael's throat.
Kael sidestepped with precision. The Ego Knife struck once—low, fast. A knee gave out. Another flick of the wrist and the guard dropped, blood hissing into the stones.
Two more lunged in tandem.
Kael spun between them, carving a crescent of flame mid-air. The dagger dragged across one's throat as the second met a swift jab between his ribs—shallow, then deep.
The others hesitated. Mistake.
Kael exploded forward, Hel blood igniting on the blade's edge. He moved like shadow and fire, his strikes surgical. Not wide swings—just short, precise punctures: tendon, artery, neck, lung.
One tried to retreat.
Kael let him.
Let him scream.
Let the House hear.
Nine bodies fell to the marble floor. The tenth lay gasping.
Kael stood still, blood dripping from his palm, smoke rising from his blade.
The great double doors of the manor groaned open.
Boots echoed in the silence.
Out stepped a towering figure clad in ceremonial crimson plate, edged in gold. A Grand Knight of Kito—Kael remembered him.
Sir Daemon Vel.
The butcher of the Ember Rebellion. His father's favored executioner.
The knight lifted his massive greatsword and pointed it at Kael.
"The prodigal child returns," Daemon said, voice like gravel on steel. "Come to burn what raised you?"
Kael's eyes didn't blink. His voice, deadpan.
"No. I came to end it."
And the flames flared to life once more.