A few kilometers beyond the Dracknum family's main mansion, past the fortified gates and towering black stone walls, lay a vast expanse dedicated to the training of their warriors. The clash of blades, the dull thud of boots striking hardened ground, and the relentless shouts of command echoed ceaselessly, like an unending war chant. Yet, within this domain of strength and discipline, there was one place more feared than even the harshest training grounds.
Amidst the stone and iron structures, guarded by sentinels who knew no hesitation, one building stood apart—the War Chamber, one of the most heavily protected locations in all Dracknum territory. Hidden beneath well-planned corridors, a network of secret passageways led to the true center of the family's power—the underground chamber where fates were decided, where the course of their legacy was shaped.
The hall was vast and spherical, its domed ceiling upheld by onyx columns adorned with gold and ruby inlays. Flickering enchanted torches cast restless shadows across the walls, where embroidered tapestries wove the bloody history of the Dracknum lineage.
The seats encircled a colossal, polished darkwood table, its surface streaked with crimson veins that pulsed like living arteries. At its center, carved with impeccable precision, lay the sigil of the Dracknum family.
The crest was imposing, its gothic contours crafted in black metal, edged with gold, and accented with streaks of fresh-blood red. A massive sword stood vertically at its core, slicing through the emblem from top to bottom, impaling a grotesque demon writhing around the blade. Its gnarled claws desperately clutched at the steel, its empty eyes and gaping mouth frozen in a silent scream—a chilling testament to the only truth known to the enemies of Dracknum: there is no escape from the edge of their blade.
At the crest's upper corners, two dragons loomed in a menacing stance—one on the left, black as the void with piercing golden eyes, and the other on the right, lean and cruel, its scales the color of storm-forged steel, its gaze burning with a crimson fire.
Beneath the sigil, an aged leather banner bore an inscription, its letters weathered by time:
"Sanguis Solvendus Est. Sanguis Sanguinem Vocat."
(Blood must be paid. Blood calls to blood.)
The chamber held over forty seats, though at this moment, only twenty were occupied—by the most influential figures of House Dracknum. Seven chairs belonged to the elite squadron leaders, though four of them sat empty, their occupants each commanding a crucial aspect of the family's power. Another seven were held by the most revered elders, whose decades of experience and closely guarded secrets carried as much weight as any blade.
And finally, the seats reserved for the worthy heirs—bearing Dracknum blood was not enough to earn a place at that table. One had to prove it through steel, fire, and sacrifice.
At the far end of the table, where the pommel of the sword within the family crest pointed, sat the seat of the Patriarch. And it was empty.
But not for long.
The silence was shattered by a distinct sound—the grinding of stone against stone. The wall behind the Patriarch's chair shifted, sliding open like a concealed doorway. From the shadows, five figures emerged.
The first was unmistakable—the Patriarch of House Dracknum. To his left walked César. To his right, Luminus. His eldest sons, both rigid in posture, their gazes sharp as blades.
Behind them followed two more figures. Israel Dracknum, whose presence, though subdued, carried the aura of a predator patiently watching its prey. And beside him, walking slightly ahead, was the only man in that hall whose authority could rival the Patriarch's—Baldwin Dracknum, Vice-Patriarch of the family and his elder brother.
Baldwin was a wall of flesh and bone, standing at an imposing two meters. His presence was one of sheer dominance, his physique refined yet powerful—not quite a mountain, but formidable enough that respect came naturally in his presence. His golden eyes gleamed under the torchlight, and his short dark hair only intensified the severity of his expression.
As the five crossed the threshold into the chamber, everyone present rose in acknowledgment.
"Welcome, Patriarch. Welcome, Lord Baldwin."
The unified voices reverberated through the subterranean hall.
The Patriarch and Baldwin responded with a single nod.
For most, that acknowledgment would have been enough. But three figures did not conceal their dissatisfaction at being overlooked. Luminus, César, and Israel remained still, their expressions composed, yet the tension in their eyes was unmistakable. However, none dared to break the silence.
Baldwin was the first to move, striding toward his chair, positioned beside the Patriarch's seat. He sat down with a measured motion, exhaling almost imperceptibly before letting his gaze sweep across the table.
"I see not all were able to answer the call." His remark carrying the weight of an unspoken accusation.
Luminus took a seat one chair away from the Patriarch. It remained empty—no one daring to claim it. César sat beside his brother, while Luminus settled in next to their father.
One of the elders—a man with a white beard and keen eyes—spoke up. "The others are too far away to return in time, Lord Baldwin."
At last, the Patriarch took his seat. He did not seem hurried, nor troubled. His expression was solemn, unreadable.
"It does not matter." His words were sharp, cold as tempered steel. "Those present are the only ones who matter at this moment. Let us not waste time dwelling on those who are absent."
Baldwin leaned forward slightly, fingers interlaced atop the table, his expression unwavering. "Then let's get straight to the point. As you all know, we recently had individuals bold enough to trespass into Dracknum."
He paused, giving space for someone to speak. But silence was the only answer he received.
His golden eyes swept across the faces around the table, each one carrying its own weight—unspoken concerns, suppressed fears. Yet no one dared to break the quiet.
"Not only did they dare to set foot on our land," Baldwin continued, "but they also interfered in the sacred rite of passage of our heirs."
The tension in the room became suffocating. This was not just an insult—it was an outrage.
"And more than that," Baldwin went on, "all of this chaos was caused by just two individuals."
He let the words linger, striking the room like a hammer against heated steel. "Tell me, how was such an affront allowed to take place within Dracknum?"
The silence that followed was heavier than before.
Erika, captain of the forest guard, pressed her lips together, feeling the weight of unseen gazes upon her. No one was looking directly at her, yet she knew—all of them expected her to answer. This had been her responsibility. It was her duty to ensure the security of the Black Forest. And yet, those intruders had slipped past her watch.
She kept her gaze lowered, unable to meet the eyes of those around her.
"How could I have known? Nothing like this has happened in centuries... Why now? Why right after I took command?"
Her heart pounded against her ribs.
The response came swift and merciless.
"This is why positions of importance should not be entrusted to inexperienced youth."
The voice, laced with disdain, belonged to one of the elders—a man with graying hair and deep receding temples, his age etched into his very posture. The contempt he held for Erika was evident in every syllable.
"I agree," another elder chimed in. "We should reconsider who holds the title of Captain of the Forest Guard."
Erika clenched her fists beneath the table but held her tongue.
Then, a sharp boom resounded through the hall.
Baldwin's fist had struck the stone table, the tension in his muscles betraying his contained irritation. His golden eyes, usually cold, now burned with silent fury.
"I did not ask for these petty squabbles." His voice was a low thunder, rolling through the chamber. "I asked how in the hell this was allowed to happen inside Dracknum."
This time, it was Luminus who responded, his posture rigid as forged steel. "Vice-Lord, the intruders did not enter through conventional means."
César nodded and added, "No one in the territory saw them pass. If this had happened in the larger cities, it might have been understandable—but even the villages and hamlets reported no suspicious movement. They came and went without leaving a trace."
Baldwin showed no visible reaction, but his dwindling patience was palpable.
Then, a new voice cut through the chamber—serene, yet carrying a deadly sophistication.
"When I confronted them, they proved incapable of resisting me or the authority of my blade."
All eyes turned toward Israel Dracknum. He stood tall, his expression unshaken, as if merely recounting a trivial event.
"And, as expected, they chose to flee. Not with honor, nor with the slightest trace of dignity, but in the only way cowards know—hiding in the shadows of the unknown."
Israel interlaced his fingers, his words deliberate, each syllable meticulously pronounced.
"Faced with the abyss of defeat, they resorted to a disgraceful tactic. They tore through the veil of reality and escaped through a portal—a method as crude as it is contemptible."
His voice was a blade, dripping with irony and disdain. "So brave, so daring… until they felt the cold of steel and the weight of their own choices."
A brief pause, then the final stroke.
Israel remained unshaken, his voice flowing like a river—calm, yet impossibly deep. "And in the end, like cornered rats, they scurried back to whatever holes they came from."
The silence that followed did not last long.
A voice, sharp as a dagger, cut through it.
"Then you failed." Thomas's words carried the weight of a blade sinking into flesh. "Not only did you fail to capture them, but you also failed to uncover their true intentions?"
Under the flickering torchlight, Israel's golden eyes gleamed. He did not hesitate. Straightening his posture, he inclined his head slightly toward the Patriarch.
"I offer my apologies for this shortcoming, my lord. However, not all is lost."
He let the tension hang for a moment before continuing. "For them to teleport directly into the heart of our territory, they would have required… inside help."
The captain of the Red Squadron—a man of commanding presence, bald, his gaze sharp and unrelenting—spoke next. One of his eyes burned red like embers, the other gleamed gold like molten metal.
"Are you suggesting there is a traitor among us?" His tone was controlled, but the weight of his words was undeniable.
Israel did not falter. "I am not suggesting, Captain Charles. I am stating it as fact."
A brief silence, heavy as a sword raised before the final blow. "And I have already captured them."
Eyes widened in restrained shock, but no one dared to interrupt.
"However, upon realizing their plans had failed, the invaders triggered an anomaly within one of the breaches."
Israel's tone remained steady, unwavering. "And as a result… Alexander fell into the Demon Forest."
The explosion was immediate.
Unlike the others, César did not mask his reaction. His shock was raw, unrestrained. He shot to his feet, his hands slamming against the table with a resounding boom.
"That wasn't in the report!"
His eyes locked onto Israel, demanding answers—but it was Luminus who responded.
"Because it is a delicate matter."
"So you knew, Luminus?" The fury in César's voice was palpable.
In a swift motion, he closed the distance, seizing Luminus by the collar and yanking him forward.
"And yet you didn't tell me?!"
Luminus did not react immediately. His gaze met César's, calm—infuriatingly so.
"Let go of me, César. He is my brother too." His voice was measured, controlled, but his eyes told a different story. Beneath the surface, a fire burned—a silent fury, restrained yet undeniable. César could feel it. And yet, he did not loosen his grip.
Until a voice, cold and absolute, cut through the air like a blade.
"Enough."
The Patriarch did not need to raise his tone. His authority was unquestionable.
César hesitated, his fingers twitching—but after a brief pause, he released Luminus with a sharp, frustrated motion, turning his gaze away to suppress his anger.
"Israel, continue."
Thomas's patience had run thin. He would tolerate no more distractions.
Adjusting his cloak, Israel resumed his explanation.
"As I was saying, aside from Alexander, there were no casualties. However, we have been unable to reopen the portal or locate him. That said, we are certain he is alive—the restriction remains intact."
The weight of those words settled over the chamber like a thick fog. Silence threatened to suffocate the room—until Erika, who had remained quiet for far too long, finally spoke.
"Patriarch, we cannot leave the seal damaged any longer. We must restore it immediately, or else…"
She stopped. She couldn't finish. Whatever came next was a fear no one wished to name.
But César would not stand for it.
"How dare you?!" His voice exploded through the hall. "Even knowing that Ale—"
"Silence."
The Patriarch's intervention was unhurried, but his authority was absolute. César froze in place.
"But, Fa—"
"César, do not make me repeat myself."
Thomas turned to his son, his gaze as sharp as a drawn blade. The weight of it sent a chill down César's spine. Yet he stood firm, defiant—until at last, he relented, dropping back into his seat, his jaw clenched in frustration.
The Patriarch swept his gaze across the chamber.
"For years, we have grown complacent. This invasion is proof of that."
Then, his decree fell, heavy and unwavering.
"Reinforce the seals in the Black Forest. Double security across the territory."
César clenched his fists at those words but held his tongue.
"Make it known to the world—no one is to lay a hand on those two individuals. Dracknum's blades are drawn against them."
The threat was unmistakable.
And so, the hours stretched on. The council deliberated over matters of grave importance—defensive strategies, military maneuvers, and silent agreements made in the shadows.
The elders pressed for the preservation of tradition, while the squadron captains demanded more aggressive measures against potential threats beyond their borders.
Luminus urged for increased surveillance over allies and subordinates, fearing that the infiltration ran deeper than they had anticipated. César, unwavering, insisted that Alexander had to be rescued before it was too late, but his demands fell on deaf ears.
Israel, ever calculated, proposed a complete lockdown of the underground routes, while the elders fiercely debated the risks such a measure would pose.
"The world must understand—Dracknum does not tolerate defiance."
Baldwin's deep voice echoed through the chamber, his words carrying the weight of inevitability.
Tension thickened, each faction defending its stance with fervor—until Thomas raised a hand. The room fell silent instantly.
"You all know what must be done."
Without another word, he stood, the sheer weight of his presence suffocating. His gaze, sharp as a blade, swept over the council before he turned to leave.
"Yes, Patriarch!" The resounding response rang with loyalty and unshaken resolve.
The meeting had ended, but the war… had only just begun.
As Thomas walked away, a knowing smirk ghosted across his lips, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous mix of curiosity and amusement.
"So, the Threshold truly exists, huh?"
And with those words, he vanished into the shadows of the corridor.