The floating manor of House Voss hung like a jewel in the bruised evening sky, its spires piercing clouds that bled gold and crimson in the dying light. Below it, tethered by massive mana chains, the lower city clung to the rock like moss dirty, forgotten, alive with the clamor of those who served the ones above.Elias Voss moved through the grand banquet hall with the silence of a shadow, balancing a silver tray heavy with crystal goblets of spirit wine. Seventeen years old, tall but lean from too many skipped meals, he kept his storm-gray eyes lowered. His black hair, overdue for a cut, fell across a face marked by faint scars one along the jaw from a guard’s ring, another across the brow from a “lesson” years ago. He wore the plain gray servant’s tunic that marked him as property more than person.Around him, the nobles of House Voss and their guests laughed too loudly, their bloodlines flaring in casual displays of power. Flames danced harmlessly above Harlan Voss’s palm as he rec

The steps spiraled down into the earth, each one carved from stone that drank the faint crimson light bleeding from Elias’s veins. The air grew thick and warm, heavy with the scent of old iron and something deeper spilled blood long dried, battles long ended. Elias’s boots scraped against grit as he descended, Thorne’s translucent form gliding silently beside him.“Smell that?” Thorne said, voice low. “That’s history. Thousands of years of it. Your ancestors didn’t build pretty temples, boy. They built slaughterhouses disguised as sanctuaries.”Elias didn’t answer. His pulse thrummed in his ears, matching the low heartbeat rising from below. Every step fed the heat in his blood, stirring memories that weren’t his: the clash of armies, the wet crunch of bone under boot, the roar of a war god laughing in the face of divine thunder.They reached the bottom.The chamber was vast, circular, walls rising into shadow. In the center stood a raised dais of black stone veined with crimson, and

The Ashen Wastes didn’t end cleanly. One mile the ground was cracked ash and bone; the next, stubborn grass pushed through, then scattered trees, until the barren scar gave way to ragged hills and the faint green of true wilderness. Elias walked for three days, sleeping little, eating what he could hunt with bare hands or Reaper’s edge. The bloodline kept him going wounds closed fast, hunger dulled to a manageable ache.Thorne kept up a steady stream of commentary: battle critiques, ancient war stories, and the occasional barb about Elias’s “soft modern upbringing.” It was irritating. It was also the only company he had.On the fourth dawn, smoke rose on the horizon thin, black, deliberate. Not a wildfire.Elias crested a ridge and stopped.Below, in a shallow valley, a small caravan had been ambushed. Six wagons circled defensively, canvas torn and burning. Bodies lay scattered merchants, guards, a few in uniform. Ash wolves prowled the edges, but they weren’t the main threat.A doze

The outer-ring dormitory was exactly what Liora had warned: a long stone hall packed with narrow bunks, the air thick with sweat, cheap ale, and the metallic tang of old blood. New cadets those who’d passed the trials were thrown in with the established outer-ringers: failed second-years, disciplinary cases, and kids from nowhere with nowhere else to go. Fights broke out nightly. Knives came out weekly. Instructors didn’t interfere unless someone died.Elias claimed a bottom bunk near the door, dropped his wrapped bundle, and sat. No one approached him yet. They were sizing him up the quiet one who’d walked through the trials like they were practice.Thorne materialized in the corner, invisible to everyone else, arms folded.“Smells like a barracks before a losing battle,” he said. “You’ll either make friends here or a lot of enemies. Probably both.”Elias grunted. He was unwrapping Crimson Reaper, checking the edge, when the door slammed open.A mountain walked in.The cadet was huge

Night in Greyhaven never truly darkened. Mana lamps floated along the streets, casting cold blue light over the training yards, and the forges glowed orange far into the hours. Most cadets slept or drank; a few trained in secret, chasing the edge that might keep them alive one more day. Elias trained. The outer yard was empty save for him Reaper flashing in controlled arcs, aura a faint crimson veil that sharpened every strike. Sweat traced the scars on his arms. Mira slept safely in the women’s auxiliary dorms (Liora had pulled strings), and Rag snored in the barracks. Thorne watched, critiquing form with the patience of a man who’d seen ten thousand years of war. “Left shoulder drops too early on the overhead,” Thorne said. “Enemy with a shield will counter every time.” Elias adjusted, repeated the swing. Better. He was mid-form when instinct flared War God’s gift screaming danger. He spun, Reaper rising. A shadow detached from the wall black cloth, no insignia, twin dagger