Two years had passed since the Massacre of Harlequir. Sálvia, now nine years old, had become a specter haunting the northern canyons. She was no longer Kael's "little seed"; she was a creature of pure instinct, clad in wolf skins and tatters, armed only with her father's broken blades. She survived by hunting and, occasionally, by the summary execution of those who dared to profane her territory with dark intentions.
The carriage of the Valerius family should never have treaded that path. An unforeseen blizzard, combined with a landslide, had diverted them from the royal route, pushing them into the "Claws of the North"
— lands where, once, the Harlequir clan had flourished in secret.
Count Axel Valerius, his wife, Countess Elara, and little Julian, only eight years old, found themselves cornered. A pack of snow-wolves, famished beasts imbued with the residual magic of the mountains, surrounded the damaged carriage. The escort guards, seized by panic, had already succumbed or deserted into the white immensity.
Axel, a man of diplomacy and honor but devoid of martial skills, wielded a ceremonial sword with frozen hands. He stood before the carriage door, where Elara stifled her sobs and Julian watched the exterior with wide eyes, paralyzed by an ancestral terror.
It was then that the snow itself seemed to come to life.
Sálvia did not emerge as a benevolent savior, but as a force of nature. She plummeted from the top of an ice-whipped pine like a black lightning bolt. There was no war cry or warning; only the rhythmic, dry sound of metal lacerating tendons and throats.
Count Axel watched, stupefied, as a slender and agile silhouette danced among the beasts. Sálvia moved through the Flow Vision, anticipating every strike with haunting precision. In less than a minute, the remaining wolves retreated, howling in agony before something their savage nature could not process.
Sálvia halted before the Count. She was bathed in the blood of the beasts, and her brown eyes
— once vivid, now opaque and devoid of humanity
— fixed on the man's jugular. To her, in that instant, he was just another threat to be neutralized.
The carriage door opened abruptly. Julian, ignoring Elara's desperate pleas, jumped into the soft snow. He did not see a demon or an assassin; he saw only a girl his own age trembling violently under the still-warm blood.
The boy approached and, in a reverent silence, shed his own ermine fur cloak, placing it over Sálvia's shoulders.
— Are you cold?
— he inquired, with an innocence Sálvia had not heard since the tragic Night of the Equinox.
That gesture of selfless kindness collided against Sálvia's frozen core. For the first time in years, her perception of danger failed. She did not glimpse an attack, but an offer of peace. Looking at the cloak and then at Julian's radiant face, something shattered within her soul attempted, painfully, to rebuild itself.
Axel, realizing that this child was the only reason his lineage still existed, approached with extreme caution. He noted the scars on the girl's hands and the impeccable extermination technique she had demonstrated. Elara, in turn, felt a deep compassion seeing the girl's empty gaze, recognizing there a tragedy no adult should ever carry.
— You have nowhere to go, do you?
— the Count questioned in a gentle voice.
Sálvia did not resort to words; she only squeezed her mother's wooden rosary inside her pocket.
— If you come with us
— Axel continued
— you will have sustenance, a roof, and a new identity. In exchange, I ask that you protect my son. Protect him from the world you already know so well.
Sálvia watched Julian, who offered her a sincere smile, and remembered Elena's last lesson: "A Harlequir's strength does not reside in the steel, but in what it protects."
On that day, Sálvia abandoned the mountains. Sometime later, already established in the Valerius mansion, she rejected all the silk dresses Elara tried to offer her, opting for masculine garments and vests that allowed her to hide her daggers. She adopted the austere posture and silence of an impeccable servant, transmuting her ferocity into etiquette and her bloodlust into absolute vigilance.
Sálvia did not become a mere maid. She became the Blood Shield of the Valerius.
...
Seven years had passed, but the polished marble and candlelight were not enough to erase the scent of smoke from Sálvia's memory. At sixteen, she had become the invisible gear that kept the Valerius Mansion in perfect operation. To the world, she was a prodigy of etiquette; to herself, she was a weapon at rest, kept in a sheath of silk and duty.
The morning at the mansion rarely began in silence, and the reason went by the names of Lilian and Ana. The two maids were the vibrant, noisy heart of the service wing.
Sálvia was already on her feet, impeccable in her gray vest, when the sound of clattering porcelain and shrill voices echoed down the hall.
— I already told you, Ana! The lilies go on the right in the crystal vase! You have the aesthetic taste of a mountain ogre!
— Lilian shouted, adjusting her apron with dramatic and extravagant gestures.
— And you have the delicacy of a catapult, Lilian! — Ana retorted, hitting the duster with unnecessary force against a marble bust.
— If I follow your advice, the mansion will look like a fifth-rate party hall!
Sálvia appeared between the two like a shadow. Her presence was so sudden that the air seemed to chill.
— Lilian. Ana.
— Sálvia's voice was low, but carried a weight that halted the fight instantly.
— Count Axel detests disharmony before breakfast. Lilian, the flowers are acceptable. Ana, dust does not vanish with violence, but with method. Get back to work.
The two swallowed hard. Lilian attempted one last extravagant flourish on her hair bow, while Ana huffed, but both bowed and hurried away. Sálvia watched them for a second. The futility of those fights was, in a way, a luxury she protected. They could afford to be extravagant; Sálvia needed to be essential.
While Count Axel reviewed taxes and Countess Elara tended to the winter garden, Sálvia focused on her main objective: Julian.
At fifteen, the young master trained in fencing under the pale sun. Sálvia watched from the balcony, her white-gloved hands crossed behind her back. Her Flow Vision deconstructed every one of the boy's movements. Julian was talented, but his kindness made him hesitant in the final blow.
— You are leaving your left flank exposed when retreating, Young Master
— she commented, loud enough only for him to hear.
Julian stopped, breathless, and smiled at the balcony.
— Sometimes I feel like you understand the fight better just watching from afar than my instructor trying to teach me up close, Sálvia!
Later, Sálvia was summoned to the office. The room smelled of pipe smoke and old paper. Count Axel stared at her over his reading glasses.
— Sálvia. Reports indicate that the security of the west wing has been reinforced by you... again.
— Axel let out a short sigh.
— You are the most efficient steward this kingdom has ever seen, but sometimes you forget that we are a family, not a military fortress.
— A well-managed house is a safe house, Count Axel
— she replied with a perfect bow.
Axel smiled, but there was worry in his eyes. He knew there was something deeper in that young woman, something that even time in the mansion had failed to completely domesticate.
At nightfall, after ensuring Lilian and Ana had finally stopped arguing in the kitchen and that Julian was retired, Sálvia withdrew to her room. She knelt and held the wooden rosary.
In her mind, the list of names remained vivid. The Order of Purification had not yet shown its claws, but Sálvia knew that peace was merely the interval between two strikes. She would continue to serve tea with perfection, enduring the eccentricities of the maids and protecting Julian's smile. But deep in her chest, the "Genius of Harlequir" remained hungry, waiting for the moment to trade white gloves for the steel of her clan.
The carriage that crossed the gates of the Valerius Mansion bore the crest of a dagger piercing a sun — the symbol of the Crimson Nation's commercial authority. Count Axel received the visitor in the atrium, his face rigid under the torchlight.
Upstairs, silence was a privilege the maids rarely respected.
— Did you see his boots?
— Lilian whispered, adjusting her apron's extravagant bow.
— They are covered in red mud from the Northern roads. What a lack of manners to enter Count Axel's house like that.
— Forget the boots, you frivolous girl
— Ana retorted, hitting the duster with unnecessary force against a marble bust.
— Did you see the scar on his face? That man smells of iron and horses. Something is wrong.
Sálvia appeared between them without making a sound. Her sudden presence made the air feel heavier.
— Lilian. Ana.
— Sálvia's voice was low, a command devoid of emotion.
— The Count requires the silver tea in the office. Lilian, stop messing with that bow. Ana, dust does not vanish with violence. Move.
The two swallowed hard and dispersed. Sálvia headed to the kitchen, but felt a gaze on her back. Leaning against a pillar was Vargas, the head of security. The old mercenary, hailing from the brutal lands of the Jasper Nation, kept his hand on the hilt of his sword, his eyes fixed on the way Sálvia distributed her weight as she walked. He did not trust her. No one who moved with such economy of motion was merely a steward.
— You move very well for a servant, Sálvia
— growled Vargas, crossing his muscular arms.
— I've seen many soldiers, but none who walk without disturbing a single grain of dust. What are you really hearing behind those doors?
— I am hearing duty, Mr. Vargas
— she replied, without changing her expression.
— Something that seems to be occupying much of your patrol time.
Sálvia did not wait for an answer and proceeded to the office, leaving the old mercenary intrigued and on alert.
Sálvia closed the office door with the precision of someone handling a clockwork mechanism. The click of the lock was inaudible, but for her, it marked the beginning of a vigil. She did not move away; she remained motionless in the shadowy corridor, her back straight, the silver tray pressed against her chest.
Her hearing, trained to catch the crawl of a viper in the sand, pierced through the heavy oak wood.
— ...the villages in the North are falling silent, Axel
— Baron Von Steer's voice was a dry lament.
— The Order of Purification has resurfaced under the pretext of the "Great Harvest." Ignis Velaris is arming his men. They believe a Harlequir lineage survived and they won't stop until the South is scoured.
Sálvia remained motionless, but inside, the world seemed to stop. Upon hearing the name of the Order of Purification, a surge of adrenaline shot through her spine, so violent that for a millisecond her Flow Vision activated involuntarily. The colors of the corridor lost their luster and time seemed to slow down; she could see the dust particles suspended in the air and hear the erratic beating of her own heart.
Her fingers, hidden beneath the silver tray, clenched so tightly that her knuckles cracked almost imperceptibly. The porcelain of the teapot trembled slightly, a miniscule metallic sound that, to her trained ears, sounded like a war cry.
They are coming.
The smell of smoke and the sound of her mother's screams echoed in her mind, clouding her vision with a shade of red. The assassin's instinct, the "Genius" she had tried to domesticate for years, roared to be unleashed. Her right hand moved millimeters toward the hidden dagger in her vest
— a reflex movement to hunt, to kill, to destroy every man who wore the cloak of that Order.
Sálvia had to bite the inside of her cheek until she felt the metallic taste of blood to regain control. She took a deep breath, forcing her muscles to relax one by one, transforming the volcanic hatred into an impenetrable layer of ice.
Not yet, she ordered herself. A Harlequir does not attack out of fury; a Harlequir attacks out of necessity.
She adjusted the tray with superhuman calm, swallowed the lump in her throat, and waited for the tremor in her hands to vanish completely. Her porcelain face returned to a mask of indifference, though behind her eyes, the promise of a massacre was being carefully forged.
Count Axel sighed, a sound heavy with exhaustion.
— If the Crimson Nation marches, the others won't stand still. The balance will crumble.
Sálvia closed her eyes. In her mind, the map of the world unfolded like a war board she knew intimately.
Balance is a lie that nobles tell to sleep at night, she thought.
Her thoughts traveled North, to the Crimson Nation. She could still feel the stifling heat of those volcanic lands, where the sky was an open orange wound. It was an empire of metallurgy and brutality, where weapons were forged in lava and men were as hard as the steel they exported. Ignis Velaris was not just an emperor; he was the lord of a forge that now demanded blood to temper its new swords.
To the South, the map glowed with the deep blue of the Lazuli Nation. The empire of the seas, where Count Axel sought to maintain his trade routes. There, Sovereign Lumina Abyssal ruled over archipelagos and innumerable fleets. It was a nation that controlled the economy through the waters, but whose floating cities were vulnerable to the fire coming from the North.
To the West, Sálvia imagined the blinding glare of the Jasper Nation. The domain of golden sands, where gold bought everything and the Geodrakon Imperium accumulated riches upon the suffering of the slave market. It was a land of obscene luxury and pitiless deserts, from where Vargas, the head of security, had come with his calloused soul.
And to the East, the Topaz Nation. The sanctuary of the winds. Where cities floated on mountain peaks and monks sought an enlightenment that, to Sálvia, was useless against a dagger to the throat.
Four nations bound by necessity, but separated by hate, Sálvia concluded. The North provides the metal, the South the transport, the West the gold, and the East the knowledge. But the Order of Purification wants to break that chain. They want the purge.
— They say the survivor is a "Genius"
— Steer's voice dropped lower, almost a whisper of fear.
— A child who killed thirty soldiers before disappearing into the snow.
Sálvia squeezed the wooden rosary hidden on her wrist. The scent of jasmine tea coming from the tray now seemed bitter.
She stepped away from the door before the footsteps of Vargas, who was patrolling the lower floor, could approach. In the hallway, she crossed paths with Lilian and Ana, who were back to arguing about the silverware.
— Sálvia! Ana polished the forks with castor oil, that idiot!
— Lilian exclaimed, gesturing with her usual extravagance.
Sálvia did not respond immediately. She looked at the two maids and, for a brief second, saw only targets. Exposed vital points. Then, the steward's mask returned to its place.
— Redo the work
— Sálvia said, her voice cold.
— The world outside is on fire, and you worry about oil and silver. See that you finish before night falls.
She passed by the two like a cold wind. Revenge was no longer an abstract plan; it was a physical presence in her master's office. The "seed" the Order sought was not in the mountains. She was right there, serving tea and counting the seconds for the harvest to begin, but this time, she would be the reaper.
...
Sálvia's room was the only place in the mansion that did not follow the Valerius luxury standards. There were no silk curtains or soft rugs; only a narrow bed, a stand for her daggers, and the cold wooden floor.
Sálvia was in the middle of her thousandth repetition of sit-ups. Her body, at sixteen, was a masterpiece of military engineering. Under her light linen shirt, every abdominal muscle was defined like plates of organic armor. Her arms, though thin, possessed dense and explosive muscle fibers, the result of years climbing the mansion's towers and training with hidden weights. There was no superfluous fat; only the brutal efficiency of a predator. She felt the sweat run down the almost invisible scars on her back, a map of pain that reminded her where she came from.
She stopped abruptly when a rhythmic knocking on the door broke the silence. Even before the first word was spoken, she had already donned her vest and adjusted her posture.
— Enter, Young Master
— she said, her voice perfectly controlled.
Julian entered, looking more restless than usual. He held a wooden practice sword, but his eyes shone with a new determination.
— Sálvia... I saw you earlier today in the garden. How you moved behind that hedge before the scout even appeared.
— He took a step forward, serious.
— I know you are not just a steward. My father says you are our protection, but I want more than that. I want you to train me. For real.
Sálvia maintained her porcelain expression.
— You have the Master of Arms and Mr. Vargas, Young Master.
— They teach me to fight like a noble. I want to fight to win
— Julian exclaimed, tightening his grip on the wooden sword.
— I need to be strong. The world is changing, Sálvia. My goal isn't just to protect these lands... I wish to become the knight who will defeat the Demon King.
Sálvia felt a slight spasm of incredulity, but did not show it. Julian began reciting the legends he had learned from the books in the royal library about the Eclipse Nation.
— The flying citadel, Aethelgard, is up there, hidden in those artificial black clouds
— Julian said, looking at the ceiling as if he could see through it.
— Astaroth, the Architect of the Void, watches the four nations from his Wandering Throne. He studies us like pieces on a board. One day, he will descend, and I want to be ready.
Sálvia looked at the young master. She knew the legend of Astaroth. The dark intellectual who ruled a fortress of black iron, moving silently through the skies, casting sinister shadows over the world. But, unlike Julian's enthusiasm, Sálvia's realism was cynical.
Why mess with someone who is staying quiet? she thought, while observing Julian's flawed posture. The Demon King has been in his fortress for a hundred years without firing a single arrow or marching a single soldier. He lives in isolation, watching the nations destroy themselves for gold and pride. Why does the Young Master want to poke a monster that seems to prefer reading to war?
However, she saw the purity in Julian's eyes. It was the same spark that had made her spare him years ago.
— Knights die for ideals, Julian
— Sálvia said, finally picking up a throwing knife that was on the table, spinning it between her fingers with a speed that made the boy blink.
— Assassins live to ensure those ideals are not extinguished. If you really want to face the Architect of the Void, the first step is learning that honor does not stop a poisoned blade.
At that moment, a grave voice from the hallway interrupted the conversation.
— The boy is right about one thing, Sálvia. The sky is getting darker lately.
It was Vargas, accompanied by a new recruit he had just brought from the Jasper Nation: Kaelen, a youth with a cynical gaze and hands full of brass rings, a specialist in traps.
— The Demon King may be quiet
— Vargas continued, the reflection of the fireplace dancing lifelessly in his glass eye
— but those who serve him down here, like the Order of Purification, are starting to stir. Train the boy, Sálvia. Or I will do it my blunt way.
The blood seemed to drain from Sálvia's face, leaving her with a deathly pallor. She took a step forward, forgetting for a moment Vargas's intimidating authority.
— What did you say?
— Sálvia's voice came out as a broken whisper.
— The Order... are you asserting that they serve the Abyss directly?
Vargas held her gaze, pitiless. Sálvia felt a tightening in her chest, her hands trembling slightly under her clothes.
Sálvia swallowed hard, processing the terrible confirmation. For years, she had tried to maintain peace, believing that restraint was the path. But hearing the name of the Order linked directly to the Demon King, something inside her broke
— or perhaps, finally clicked into place.
She closed her eyes for a brief second. When she opened them, the hesitation had vanished, replaced by a cold glint that even Vargas would respect.
— So it is true
— she said, her voice now firm, devoid of tremor.
— Interesting.
Sálvia looked at Julian, then at Vargas and the new recruit. Astaroth's board was moving, and the Valerius Mansion was now the centerpiece.
— Tomorrow, at four in the morning, Young Master
— Sálvia conceded.
— And do not bring your wooden sword. Bring one of steel.