While all the chaos was happening in the city.....words were sent out for reinforcement....to the nearest clan.
Families ruled over Cities..yet among all cities, Dravenloch had always drawn the wrong kind of attention.
Not because it was weak. Not because it lacked defenders or wealth. Dravenloch was targeted because it belonged to the Maverick Family—and the Maverick name, even in its slow decline, still carried a weight that made rivals uneasy. If the Maverick power could be broken, the balance of the realm would tilt. Old grudges would finally be paid and also new territories would be taken.
And the clans that had waited in patience would step forward to claim what they believed destiny had promised them.
The city closer to Dravenloch was....the Vain City.
Vain City was a jewel of stone and firelight, a metropolis built on ambition and carefully maintained fear. It was the shared stronghold of two powerful clans: the Skull Family and the Vermin Family. Their reputations were infamous across the realm—names spoken carefully in taverns, whispered in marketplaces, and spat out by those who had lost loved ones to their politics.
Yet the streets of Vain were alive.
Markets overflowed with spices and sharpened metals. Lanterns hung from high arches, throwing warm gold across cobbled roads. Street performers drew crowds. Merchants argued loudly over prices. Children ran naked with sugared fruit in their hands. If an outsider did not know better, they might have mistaken Vain for a city of peace.
But that was the trick of Vain.
It was a place where people learned to smile while danger watched from every corner.
In Vain City, Transmuters held a special kind of power.
Their workshops smelled of smoke, sweet resin, and chemicals sharp enough to sting the eyes. Their fingers were often stained with strange pigments. Their minds were sharper than blades.
And they were deeply funded by the Skull Family.
To the public, the Transmuters claimed they were working on a potion that would help warriors of the Dreadmark Realm advance further—safer forced breakthroughs, stronger cores, faster ascension. It sounded noble. It sounded necessary. After all, the realm was brutal. Power decided everything. A potion that strengthened warriors would be celebrated by any city with sense.
But beneath the polished speeches and carefully staged demonstrations, another project simmered in secret.
The Transmuters were attempting to break through the ceiling of cultivation itself.
They sought the path beyond Godrend Realm—and even beyond what was believed possible.
Their obsession was not purely scientific. It was almost religious. They insisted that humanity's cultivation could not end at Godrend. It was unacceptable. A flaw in the universe. A locked door that demanded to be forced open. Many believed that reaching beyond Godrend would require something unnatural, something dangerous—perhaps even something that would tear the world the way wormholes tore the sky.
Worse still, whispers suggested the conspiracy reached higher than anyone dared admit.
Even members of the High Council—the very body meant to guard balance and law—were rumored to have their hands in the operation. Not openly, of course. No signatures. No public meetings. Only hidden funding, coded messages, sealed crates that moved through the city at night.
Vain City was large, and in its size it hid secrets well. The Skull Family and Vermin Family, though distinct in style and tradition, had grown into something like partners. Not friends. Never friends. But allies in a shared ambition: more power, more influence, more control over the realm's future.
At the heart of Vain stood the Skull Household, and calling it a "household" was almost insulting.
It was a fortress-palace carved from dark stone, its walls was decorated with silver inlays that resembled bone. Tall spires rose like spears into the sky, each crowned with lanterns that burned with pale flame. The gates were massive, engraved with ancient runes and the stylized skull insignia that had made the family feared for centuries. Guards stood in formation with helmets shaped like grinning masks, their armor polished so cleanly it reflected the torches like staring eyes.
Inside, the halls were wide enough to swallow an army. Rugs from distant regions softened the heavy silence. Statues of past clan heads lined the corridors, each face frozen in stern, unyielding expressions. The air carried a faint scent of incense—sweet, smoky, and expensive.
Deep within the household, a council chamber waited like a throat waiting to speak.
A long table stretched beneath a ceiling painted with old battle scene. And at the far end, raised above the rest, sat the command seat—a throne-like chair made of blackwood and reinforced steel.
Seated there was the clan head of the Skull Family:
Lord Farrow.
Lord Farrow was not large in body, but he was heavy with presence. His hair was dark, shot through with silver at the temples. His eyes were calm in a way that made people uneasy, as though nothing surprised him anymore—not betrayal, not death, not the collapse of a city. He wore robes trimmed with bone-white embroidery, and a ring of authority rested on one hand like a final warning.
Around him sat members of his council—men and women chosen for loyalty, cunning, and capability. And across from them sat the leader of the Vermin Clan, Lord Deager, with his wife, Lady Ken.
Lord Deager's beauty was sharp, almost predatory, like a blade you admired only because it had not yet cut you. His posture was relaxed, but not careless. He had the look of someone who counted everything: breaths, debts, weaknesses.....you name it. Lady Ken, on the other hand, held herself with quiet elegance. She spoke less than the men, but when she did, even the air seemed to listen.
They were discussing the Transmuters.
"How close are they?" Lord Farrow asked, voice smooth, as if the question carried no danger.
One of the council members answered carefully. "They have refined the catalyst again. Their latest trials suggest a stable reaction—though the subject did not survive."
Lord Deager's lips curved faintly. "Survival is not always necessary for progress."
Lady Ken's gaze shifted toward the candlelight. "Progress bought with corpses has a habit of demanding more."
Lord Farrow leaned back slightly, fingers resting on the arm of his seat. "The potion they promise is only the surface. Their true work will change everything. If they succeed, those who funded them will hold a power the High Council cannot ignore."
As the conversation thickened with ambition and calculation, the chamber doors opened abruptly.
A guard rushed in—breathing hard, armor clinking, urgency written plainly across their face. The guard knelt and bowed low.
"My lord," the guard said, voice tight. "News from Dravenloch City. It is under attack. A wormhole has opened—inside the inner ring."
For a brief moment, even the candles seemed to still.
The inner ring of any city was sacred ground: the protected core where the most important structures and families lived. It was fortified by ancient wards and guarded by powerful wardens trained to respond to threats before they could spread. Wormholes appearing in outer districts was one thing. That was tragic, but not unheard of.
A wormhole opening inside the inner ring was shocking.
Lord Farrow's expression did not change, but something behind his eyes sharpened.
The guard, having delivered the message, was dismissed with a flick of Farrow's hand. The doors closed again, sealing the council chamber in private silence.
Lord Deager frowned. "If the inner ring has been breached, the Maverick wardens are either failing… or something else is at play."
Lady Ken's fingers tapped once against the table. "No city's inner ring should be that vulnerable."
Lord Farrow looked at them both, and then slowly smiled—barely, but enough.
"Dravenloch has always been a stubborn thorn," he said. "Even weakened, the Maverick name inspires loyalty. If the city collapses under wormhole pressure, it will not just damage their walls. It will damage their legitimacy."
Lord Deager narrowed his eyes. "And what do you intend?"
"Reinforcements," Lord Farrow replied, voice mild. "We will send aid."
Lady Ken studied him. "You sound generous."
Lord Farrow's smile did not reach his eyes. "I am practical."
He paused, letting the weight of his next words settle.
"We will send aid," he repeated, "but not immediately. We will arrive… late."
The implication was clear. Late enough for damage to spread. Late enough for the Maverick Family to bleed. Late enough that the city would remember who failed to protect it.
Lord Deager exhaled through his nose, considering. He was not a fool. He understood the game, and he understood the cost. "If you are wrong, and the wormhole consumes more than expected, your delay could create chaos the realm cannot contain."
Lord Farrow's gaze was steady. "Chaos can be directed. A wounded Maverick Family benefits us all."
Lady Ken's eyes hardened. "Benefits you."
Lord Farrow did not deny it. Instead, he turned to Lord Deager. "Support this decision, and the Skull Family will ensure the Vermin Clan is rewarded."
Lord Deager's expression remained guarded. "Rewarded how?"
"By wealth," Lord Farrow said. "And by access. A large portion of our reserves."
He gestured to a council member, who brought forward a small tray with coin-like pieces and stamped bars—currency samples used for official trade across the realm.
"As you can see," Lord Farrow explained, "we deal in Crowns, Marks, Shards, and Dust. Crown is the highest. Dust is the lowest. If you stand with me, Lord Deager, you will receive Crowns enough to fund your clan for years....and also a portion of the Maverick Clan Land"
Lord Deager's gaze flicked over the currency, then returned to Farrow's face. Greed and caution wrestled behind his eyes.
At last, he nodded once. "Very well. We will stand with you. But if this turns against us, Skull blood will pay for it."
Lord Farrow's smile returned, calm as a knife sliding back into its sheath. "Understood."
He rose from the command seat, and the council members straightened, sensing the shift from discussion to action.
"Summon my son," he ordered.
Not long after, Ban Skull entered the chamber.
"You called for me, Lord Farrow."
Lord Farrow's voice was firm. "Prepare yourself. You will lead warriors to Dravenloch City. We will aid them against the wormhole threat."
Ban's eyes flickered. "At once?"
Lord Farrow's gaze held his son's. "Not at once. But soon enough to be seen."
Ban bowed again. "As you command."
Yet as he turned to leave, something moved behind his expression—something unreadable, something that suggested obedience was only one layer of the truth.
Because Young Master Ban had other plans.
Plans that did not begin and end with Dravenloch's safety.
Plans that reached into the dark spaces between loyalty and ambition.
And somewhere far away, in the aching streets of Dravenloch City, the sky was already splitting open again.
The wormhole's light would not care about politics.
It would only consume.