Valen was surprised when his siblings called him to the garden — or perhaps, more truthfully, to the grave where their mother lay.
The sun that had once shone warmly over the estate now felt dim, its light softened by a slow, cold breeze.
They stood together before the gravestone.
The silence between them was heavier than words.
Each of them carried the same wound, hidden deep behind their composure — a pain they had never truly spoken aloud.
After a long moment, Darian broke the silence.
"You know," he said quietly, "I feel like I've done you both an injustice."
Isolde and Valen turned to him, confused.
"What do you mean, Darian?" Isolde asked.
Darian took a slow breath, as if forcing the words through a locked chest.
"I always acted thick-skinned in front of you," he said. "But I cried — like a child — every night when Mother was ill.
One day, I couldn't bear it anymore. I couldn't live with not seeing her one last time… so I went to her."
His siblings froze in disbelief.
They had always thought the only one allowed to see their mother in her final days was their father.
Valen's voice trembled, but there was no anger in it.
"I envy you, brother… but I don't resent you.
You saw her one last time. I'm happy for you."
Isolde said nothing. She only stared at their mother's gravestone — unmoving, unreadable.
Darian continued, his voice cracking.
"She told me I was the eldest son, the strongest… that it was my duty to protect you both.
But I'm afraid, Isolde. Afraid I can't breathe sometimes.
Afraid of losing you, of losing our home, of losing everything."
Tears slipped down his face as he clenched his teeth, his shoulders shaking.
Isolde stepped forward and wrapped both her brothers in her arms.
Her voice was soft, but there was steel beneath it.
"Don't be afraid, my little brothers. Everything will be fine.
The gods will smile on our family again.
We will find the strength within ourselves and light that flame once more."
For Valen, that embrace felt like a memory —
the warmth, the scent, even the tone of her voice reminded him of their mother.
For the first time since her death, he felt peace.
He closed his eyes.
"I always told Mother," he whispered, "that when I grew up, I'd become the knight who protected her.
I couldn't keep that promise… but I will protect you both. No matter what."
His words carried the quiet certainty of someone who had already made peace with suffering.
Darian gave a small, weary smirk.
"That's the job of the oldest brother, you dumbass."
Valen chuckled. "Then you better be strong enough to stop me."
The two brothers started bickering like children again, shoving and laughing.
Isolde giggled softly — it had been so long since she'd seen them like this, their old selves flickering through for a moment.
She closed her eyes and offered a silent prayer to the gods.
"Please," she whispered, "let this warmth stay with them a little longer."
🌒 Chapter X — The King's Summons
Two weeks had passed since their first Blood Blade lesson.
Training had become routine — mornings at the yard, afternoons of meditation, evenings in silence.
The siblings had learned the core: how to channel life into steel, how to feel the blade's hunger without letting it bite too deep.
Their bodies ached, their hands trembled — but they were learning.
Then, one night, Auren gathered them in his study.
A letter sealed in gold rested on his desk.
"The King has summoned me to the capital," he said flatly. "Two months' journey each way. He calls it a ball, but we already know such invitations mean little good."
He rose, pacing slowly as he continued.
"Before I go, you must remember the three pillars of the Blood Blade — the only lessons that truly matter."
He turned toward the window. Moonlight traced the scar across his cheek.
"First: The Blood Cycle.
Each strike takes your vitality. Kill, and your blood replenishes — but never beyond your body's limit.
Cross that threshold, and madness will greet you before death does."
He lifted his sword — black as night, veins of red shimmering faintly under the light.
"Second: The Enchantment.
The Blood Sword is not a spell, but a resonance. Your soul determines its color.
Calm gives you silver — precision.
Rage gives you crimson — power.
Sorrow gives you black — endurance.
Your blade will mirror who you are."
He placed the sword back on the table, the steel still humming.
"And lastly — creativity.
Technique without imagination is just obedience.
What you do with this art, how you wield it — that will define your worth as heirs of Noir."
He turned to them — the father now more teacher than man.
"Try to understand these principles while I'm away.
The rest… you will discover through blood, sweat, and will."
Isolde nodded solemnly. Darian saluted.
Valen stood still, unsure if this felt like a lesson — or a farewell.
Auren placed a hand on his youngest son's shoulder.
"When I return, I expect you to have found your blade, Valen."
''I will try my best father ''
After that, no one said anything. Their father simply gestured that they could leave. They all nodded and stepped out of the room, a quiet tension following them.
Something big was coming — they could all feel it.