Capital City Prison — Evening
The fortress was gone.
What had once been the most secure facility in all of Penraven—a monument to cold iron and absolute authority—was now nothing more than a graveyard of smoking debris.
The air hung heavy with the copper tang of blood and the suffocating stench of ash. Shattered bricks lay scattered across scorched earth like broken teeth. Flames still licked at the remains of those who hadn't been fast enough to escape.
Dead bodies were everywhere.
Amidst the carnage, a woman sat perched upon a jagged fragment of a collapsed wall. She was unnervingly still, her eyes devoid of pity as she surveyed the chaos she had unleashed.
Theo's mother—Matilda.
Before her, the air crackled with lethal intent.
Gareth—her eldest son—stood at the centre of the devastation. At twenty-eight, he was a towering figure draped in a midnight-black cloak that seemed to swallow the light around him. His hands moved with rhythmic, terrifying precision. He was the person who attacked the prison to free her mother.
With a surge of mana, he manifested a barrage of crystalline needles. They hung in the air for a fraction of a second, glinting in the firelight.
Then they flew.
WHOOSH.
The needles buried themselves deep into the flesh of a woman lying at his feet, the interrogator who had tortured Theo's mother.
A guttural scream tore from her throat. One of her eyes had already been destroyed, pierced by a jagged mana knife that hummed with cruel azure light.
"Why are you screaming?" Theo's mother asked, her voice calm and almost melodic. "I was under the impression that those who tortured others were immune to pain."
The woman's screams intensified.
High above on a distant ridge, a scout from the New World Order peered through his binoculars, his hands trembling.
"Sir, we have to help her!" His voice cracked with desperation. "We have to save her!"
A heavy hand dropped onto his shoulder. The scout's superior—a grizzled veteran with scars crossing his face—stared down at the burning prison with dead eyes.
"She's already dead."
"No! Look—she's still breathing, she's screaming!" the scout protested.
"You see a body moving," the superior said grimly. "I see a corpse that hasn't stopped twitching yet. Look at the scale of this destruction. To destroy this prison normally requires an entire battalion. But only four people did this. Just four."
He tightened his grip on the scout's shoulder.
"We wait for reinforcements, or we join the ash."
The scout turned back to his binoculars without another word, his face pale.
Suddenly, a ripple of blue light tore through the air as a portal flared to life nearby. A figure stepped out, his eyes widening as he took in the ruin of the capital's most secure facility.
Bryn Wilson—twenty-three years old, dark-haired, with the tired eyes of someone who'd seen too much death.
"Just three of us?" Bryn spat, looking at the meagre squad gathered on the ridge. "Are the officers kidding me? Do they want us to die?"
"That question is on all our minds," another member muttered bitterly. "The leadership in this country... they're nothing but useless fools. The Order is rotting from the top down."
He looked back at the burning prison, the flickering light reflecting in his fearful eyes.
"These attackers have been hitting Order branches all across the country. And our 'glorious' officers? They haven't been able to save a single one."
He kicked at a loose stone.
"The bastards know how to take credit in front of humans, though. They send stories to newspapers, play the hero in articles. But when it comes to actual fighting?" He gestured toward the inferno. "Nothing. We watch the world burn while they pose for photographs."
The scout looked back through his binoculars at the heart of the ruins.
A new presence flickered into existence. Shadows swirled behind Theo's mother as a slender figure emerged from the gloom.
Diana—a core member of the Diaftis Order.
"Mother," Diana said, her voice cutting through the sounds of torture and crackling flames. "Come with us. We can't stay here much longer."
Theo's mother didn't turn.
"The work is almost finished," Diana continued. "We are close. Soon, the entire Penraven nation will be ours to conquer."
Gareth finally lowered his hand. The interrogator beneath him was little more than a heap of shredded flesh and muffled groans.
"Mother," Gareth said, his voice low and steady. "We need you elsewhere. You're exhausted, and your presence is required. I will handle things here."
Theo's mother didn't move. Her gaze remained fixed on the horizon, her eyes burning with cold, ancient fire.
"I need revenge," she whispered. The words carry more weight than the collapsing walls around them. "I want to hear their screams. To see their fear. One by one. This is an act of war, and the war has begun"
She turned her head slightly.
"Find him. Find Theo."
Diana stepped forward, bowing her head with genuine concern. "Mother, Gareth is right. We need you."
Slowly, Theo's mother turned to face her fully.
The temperature in the immediate area seemed to drop ten degrees. Her gaze pierced through Diana, sharp and unforgiving.
"Are you commanding me?"
The colour drained from Diana's face instantly. She took a frantic step back, her hands trembling.
"N-no! No, Mother, I don't mean that! I... I only care about you. Please."
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the crackling of nearby flames and the dying gasps of the interrogator.
"I'll end it soon," Gareth said, cutting through the tension.
He snapped his fingers sharply.
"Bliksem!"
Lightning mana erupted from his fingertips. The sound was like a localised clap of thunder, shaking the very air. He compressed the volatile energy, moulding raw electricity until it formed a jagged, vibrating knife of pure white light.
The blade hummed with the fury of a storm trapped in glass.
He stepped over the broken woman and pointed the tip of the electrical blade at her remaining eye. Her vision swam as tears of blood streamed down her face. Fear—raw and absolute—radiated from her as she stared into the heart of the thunder.
On the ridge, the two subordinates couldn't maintain their resolve. Overcome by terror, they scrambled back and fled into the shadows.
But Bryn remained.
He stood alone on the precipice, his eyes fixed on the devastation.
I don't like them. I don't even know why I'm here. I hate them. I hate the Order.
But then a memory surfaced—Mother Lina's steady, a motivated line. 'You are strong because god gives you a responsibility to save the weak.'
He raised his binoculars one last time.
I can do whatever I want with my powers, but why be bad?
Gareth's hand was overflowing with mana, the air around him distorting from the heat of the energy.
Bryn made his decision.
He snapped his fingers. A pool of dark red mana swirled beneath his feet, opening into a jagged portal.
In a flash, he vanished, diving into the void.
Back in the ruins, Gareth prepared to deliver the final blow.
The lightning knife hummed inches from the woman's remaining eye. Tears of terror streamed down her face.
Suddenly, Gareth froze.
His predatory instincts flared as he sensed foreign mana surging toward his blind spot—dark red, tinged with desperation.
Without looking, he redirected the lightning knife and hurled it at the incoming threat.
BOOM.
The blade of thunder collided with a dark red mana sphere mid-air, resulting in a violent explosion of sparks.
Time seemed to slow as Bryn emerged from a rift directly behind Gareth. He lunged forward, thrusting a second mana sphere with everything he had.
Gareth spun around, his face a mask of calm fury.
He didn't use a spell. He simply channelled his massive aura into his fist and punched.
The collision created a physical shockwave.
CRASH.
Bryn's body flew backwards, crashing through three jagged chunks of broken wall, then four. The sound of shattering stone echoed through the ruins.
He finally came to a halt, sliding across the grit until he sat slumped against a crumbling pillar. His breath came in ragged gasps as he clutched his chest, blood dripping from his mouth.
Worth it, he thought dimly, seeing the interrogator still breathing. At least I tried.
Theo's mother stood abruptly, shocked by the sudden attack.
Diana immediately grabbed her hand and snapped her fingers. They both transformed into shadows and teleported away, vanishing like fog.
Gareth looked at the fleeing shadows, then back at Bryn's broken form.
His expression didn't change.
He raised his hand to finish what he'd started. He charred his mana once and formed it into his lightning sword.
The Josephine Mansion — Same Evening
The mansion was an architectural mirror to Jardin Paisible—a vast, breathtaking expanse of stone and ivy surrounded by lush vegetation and meticulously kept gardens.
To the humans living nearby, it was merely the home of an eccentric, wealthy family.
To the mages of Penraven, it was known as the Infamous Vampire House.
Hidden among the vibrant flowers and shifting leaves, guards stood watch—their eyes glowing with an inhuman hunger that no mortal meal could satisfy.
Eloise Josephine stepped through the grand entrance.
The interior was less like a home and more like a royal court. Shadow-drenched hallways stretched into the distance. At the end of the main hall, a single obsidian throne sat atop a wide flight of stairs.
A long carpet—woven with threads of gold and dried blood-red silk—led from the gate to the seat of power.
Eloise walked with measured steps, eventually coming to a halt at the base of the stairs. He dropped to one knee, lowering his head in absolute reverence.
"Father," he spoke, his voice echoing in the hollow hall. "Do you have any orders? I live only to fulfil your desires. You are the most honourable person in my life."
Silence met his declaration.
Then, a soft, rhythmic sound reached his ears.
Zzz... zzz...
Eloise's brow furrowed. He looked up, expecting to see the terrifying silhouette of his father.
Instead, he saw his elder sister.
Elara was sprawled across the throne, deep in slumber so heavy that a thin trail of saliva dripped from the corner of her mouth.
"What?!" Eloise hissed.
His reverence vanished instantly. He stormed up the stairs, his face flushing with anger. He grabbed Elara by the shoulders and shook her violently.
"How dare you! How dare you sit upon this throne while Father is away?!"
Elara was thirty-two years old, but her mind remained anchored in childhood—a consequence of how Vlad had raised his "little angel." She was a vision of pure white: snowy hair, a knee-length white dress, and bare feet that had never touched the dirt of the outside world.
She possessed no voice to speak with.
Elara's eyes fluttered open. She looked at Eloise with puffed-out cheeks, her expression one of pure frustration at being woken.
Without a word, she reached for a notebook beside the throne and scrawled a message with a silver pen.
She shoved it into Eloise's face:
"A little kitty sleeps in the bedroom. This is the only place where light barely comes in."
"So sleep outside!" Eloise roared. "Do you hear me? This is a place of respect, not your personal nap room!"
He was so absorbed in his anger that he didn't hear the heavy footsteps coming up the stairs behind him.
Elara, however, saw the figure.
Her frustrated expression melted away, replaced by a slow, wicked smile.
THUMP.
A fist like a sledgehammer connected with the back of Eloise's head, sending him sprawling face-first onto the golden carpet.
"How dare you shout at my daughter?"
The voice was like grinding stones.
Eloise looked up, dazed and trembling, as the massive figure of Vlad Josephine loomed over him.
The patriarch had returned.
He appeared to be in his early thirties, but he was one of the founding members of the New World Order. His presence filled the room like a physical weight.
"Father... she is sleeping on your throne," Eloise managed, gesturing weakly toward Elara.
Vlad didn't even glance at the seat of power. His eyes remained fixed on his son, cold and unyielding.
"I don't care, but I do care that you dared to disturb her," he stated flatly.
The weight of Vlad's aura made it difficult for Eloise to breathe.
The realisation hit him: Elara was untouchable, even if she defiled the most sacred seat in the mansion.
"As you wish, Father," Eloise whispered, bowing so low his forehead nearly touched the carpet.
"Look at Joseph and Johan Bennet," Vlad continued. "They show their sister the respect she deserves. They understand her value. And you—you call your elder sister by her name as if she were your equal."
"I... I am sorry, Father."
Vlad waved a hand dismissively. "Enough. Go to your room."
Eloise stood and turned away without argument. He didn't linger.
His respect for his father bordered on religious fanaticism. To Eloise, Vlad was not just a parent, but the most honourable and powerful being in existence.
Even a blow to the head was a gift if it came from the patriarch.
Eloise stomped down the corridor, his head still throbbing.
Standing directly outside his bedroom door was Ivy, a twenty-one-year-old maid. Though she was a mortal human, she had lived in the Josephine household long enough to know about mages and vampires.
And surprisingly, the family treated her kindly.
"Oh, Eloise, finally! Open the door," Ivy said, shifting cleaning supplies in her arms.
"Why, why, why, why, why?" Eloise snapped, the words tumbling out in rapid-fire.
"To clean your room, obviously."
"No! Never!"
Eloise fumbled with his keys, unlocked the door, and slipped inside, slamming it shut before Ivy could glimpse the interior.
The room was like an art museum.
Every inch of the walls was covered—not with royal portraits or historical tapestries—but with paintings and photo frames of two people: himself and Jennifer Bennet.
The images ranged from candid shots to elaborate oil paintings, capturing her every expression, every moment they'd spent together.
He sat on the edge of his bed, chest heaving.
Needing a distraction from his humiliation, he snapped his fingers. A soft yellow mana sphere materialised in the air, humming with gentle light.
"Any new messages?" he whispered to the orb.
Suddenly, the sphere's golden hue flickered and bled into deep, pulsing crimson.
An emergency.
Eloise's eyes widened.
A red signal meant the status quo had been shattered. Something catastrophic had happened.
"Make a portal to headquarters," Eloise commanded, his voice cold and focused.
The red mana began to swirl, tearing a hole in space between the portraits of Jennifer.
Without hesitation, the son of Vlad stepped into the rift, leaving the silent mansion behind.
War was coming.
And he would answer the call.