Fog. Blood. Fire
971 Words
Darien stood atop the high outer rampart of the District Base with his arms folded, the wind teasing the edge of his midnight-black coat. His sharp red eyes scanned the vast training grounds below and then turned toward the towering administrative wing of the compound. Lucien stood beside him, arms crossed in mock boredom, his usual smirk carved lazily across his lips.
"You know," Lucien said, voice dry, "I was halfway through a very important bottle of dark elven brandy when they called us in."
Darien didn’t even glance at him. "And yet, here you are."
"That’s because I care," Lucien quipped, nudging Darien with his elbow. "Also, the King ordered us, and I rather like my head on my shoulders."
"Focus, Lucien. We’re here to find out who tried to kill Kenneth."
Lucien’s smile thinned. "I am focused. No one stabs our little brother and walks away."
Below them, elite technologists and vampire knights moved with silent precision. Darien had deployed a full sweep operation over the district center. The investigation wasn’t just thorough—it was obsessive. Every knight and civilian within a thirty-meter radius of the attack was being interviewed and logged.
Darien and Lucien both personally returned to the now-sealed ritual chamber. They stood in its cold, eerie silence, tracing steps, inspecting blood traces, arcane residue, and magical distortions. Darien crouched beside one of the far walls where faint scorch marks lingered.
"There’s a magical footprint here. Not strong—but someone cloaked their presence," Darien murmured.
Lucien narrowed his eyes. "A noble with access to high-tier concealment magic? Or a military operator?"
"Either," Darien replied grimly. "But definitely someone powerful. Someone experienced."
Lucien exhaled sharply. "So we tighten the net. Watch the nobles, track every movement, tap every whisper."
"Already done," Darien said, rising to his feet. "I have Kael’s team tapping the security crystals across the district. We’ll find who slipped in."
Lucien gave a short nod, but his usual sarcasm had faded. His jaw was tight. "When we do… they won’t get a second chance."
---
Back in the infirmary wing, the steady drip of healing elixirs echoed faintly from the crystal tubes. Kenneth lay beneath a blanket of deep maroon, his body still pale but beginning to regain warmth and color. His chest rose and fell slowly, rhythmically. The enchanted wound over his heart had fully sealed, but he hadn’t yet woken.
The room was quiet—until soft footsteps entered.
Seraphine.
She wore her training tunic, still dusty from drills, but her eyes shimmered with worry and relief. She closed the door gently behind her and approached his bedside.
"Hey, sleepyhead," she said with a faint smile, sitting at the edge of the chair beside him. "You know, I thought I was supposed to be the one ending up in the ward for overtraining—not you."
She glanced at him. No response, just the soft rhythm of his breathing.
"You scared everyone, Kenneth. Even Lucien shut up for more than five minutes. That’s a miracle."
Her voice lowered. "When they brought you in, you looked… gods, you looked like you weren’t even there anymore."
She reached out slowly, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. "Do you remember when we were little? When we snuck into the eastern library and tried to fight those animated training suits? You broke your wrist, and I sprained my ankle. And you still made me laugh, even though you were crying."
Her smile trembled.
"You’ve always tried to be the strong one. Even when no one asked you to. Even when you didn’t have to."
She rested her palm over his hand.
"Please wake up soon. I miss arguing with you. I miss training with you. I… I just miss you."
Kenneth’s fingers twitched faintly.
Seraphine froze, staring.
But the motion passed, and stillness returned.
She let out a shaky breath, smiled sadly, and leaned down to press her forehead against the back of his hand.
She stayed there, silent, until a knock came on the door.
It opened slowly, and Commander Thorne stepped in, followed closely by two figures draped in layered cloaks of deep crimson and royal black.
The King.
And beside him, the blindfolded prophet.
Seraphine stood quickly and bowed. Thorne gave her a nod. "You may remain."
The King moved forward with a slow, measured pace. His gaze fell on Kenneth with a heavy silence. Behind him, the prophet paused at the edge of the bed and tilted his head.
The air changed.
"He still walks the line between sleep and shadow," the prophet murmured. "But he clings to the thread. Stronger than most. Stronger than he should be."
The King’s crimson eyes narrowed slightly. "Do you see anything more?"
The prophet's voice was soft. "I see fog. Blood. And fire. But his thread remains intact. That… is enough."
The King gave a single nod, then looked to Commander Thorne. "Continue the lockdown. I want the attacker found."
"Yes, Your Majesty. We’re sweeping the nobles next. Nothing is off-limits."
The King turned to Seraphine. "You were the last person to see him before the assignment. Did he say anything unusual?"
Seraphine shook her head. "He was… normal. Focused. Determined to protect."
The King studied her for a long moment before nodding once. "Good."
He turned back to Kenneth.
For a moment, the King said nothing. Then he placed a hand gently on Kenneth’s forehead.
"Rest well, boy. You’re not allowed to die yet."
The words were barely a whisper, but Seraphine heard them.
The King stepped back and exited without another word, the prophet following.
Thorne lingered. His eyes swept over the boy lying on the bed—pale, but alive.
"He’ll wake soon," he said.
Seraphine nodded.
And somewhere, deep within that slowly recovering body, Kenneth’s fingers twitched again.
- Writer
