...Oliver's breath came in short, controlled bursts as he crouched within the vents, his heart hammering against his ribcage.
The demon's hulking gasly form loomed outside, shifting as it sniffed the air. Oliver remained perfectly still, his muscles tense, willing himself to be part of the shadows. Even his heart beat seem to seize in his chest.
Fortunately, the Aether from the alchemist's seal filled the chamber, masking his presence, but he knew it wouldn't last forever.
The demon's elongated fingers scraped against the stone walls as it turned its head sharply. It had been given orders not to spread its aether too far, but there was an unmistakable unease in its posture. Just as it took a step closer to the vents, Richie Von Rich's voice cut through the silence.
"Is there a problem?" His tone was casual, but there was a sharpness beneath it.
The demon hesitated before responding. "Merely ensuring there are no disturbances."
Richie chuckled, a slow, measured sound. "You doubt the power of 'MY' seal?" He stepped forward, his hands clasped behind his back as he examined the glowing runes on the floor. "This seal is the key to everything. I need its power to secure my passage into the Abyss."
The demon's eyes narrowed. "With the thinning aether in the atmosphere, this seal does not look like it possess the power to function properly. It cannot gather enough Aether on its own."
"Precisely," Richie said, his voice rich with satisfaction. "But tonight, during the Empire's attack, noble and royal blood—all awaken will stain the ground. And when that happens, the seal will feast upon the spilled bloodlines," he pointed to the spreading runes on the ground that Oliver only just noticed was all over the room.
"...gathering the power it requires."
The demon shifted. "Are you certain the seal can withstand such an offering? Even the alchemist who created it ensured that sacrifices were measured."
Richie scoffed. "I am well aware of its limitations. But there is no time for caution. I will follow through with my plan. By the time the massacre is over, the seal will have drunk its fill."
The demon was silent for a moment before speaking. "And what is it you require of me?"
"Simply fulfill our Bloodline contract and WATCH the seal," Richie replied smoothly.
Just then, a faint noise came from the vents. The demon's head snapped toward the sound. In a flash, it lunged, its clawed fingers reaching for the opening. But there was nothing—just a smear of blood on the metal grates. It touched the stain, its shadowy brow furrowing slightly.
Meanwhile, Oliver was already moving. He had slipped through the vent's opposite side and sprinted into the corridors, his mind reeling. He had hoped—desperately—that his father was merely a pawn in the events that led to the massacre all those years ago. But no, Richie Von Rich had planned it from the start.
A wave of nausea hit him. His family, his home, his entire world—destroyed because of his father's ambitions.
He turned a corner sharply, his breath ragged. Then—
A hand caught his collar, yanking him back.
"I've had enough of you," Leston snarled, his face twisted with fury. His fingers dug into Oliver's shirt, his knuckles white. "You think you can just run around like a rat?" His lips curled in contempt.
Oliver barely registered the words, his mind still spiraling. Leston pulled back his fist, his expression was that of burning rage.
Oliver had embarrassed him and even dared to kick him in the royal jewels. Such a crime could not be let go.
But before the punch could land—
"Touch him, and I'll make sure you're picking your teeth out of the servants' latrine."
The voice rang through the corridor, sharp as a blade. Leston stiffened, his eyes widening before he turned to face the speaker.
Velma.
Her arms were crossed, and her stance unwavering. Even in the dim corridor, her presence was commanding. Leston hesitated, his jaw clenching, but he knew better than to cross her.
Even amongst the children of Richie, respect for bloodline was high.
Unlike Oliver, Velma had woken a portion of her royal bloodline, and had messed up a few of her other step siblings before.
Even Leston had once felt her wrath.
Bullying Oliver behind her back could be somewhat tolerated, or disguised as sibling play. But Before her was a death sentence.
Was she tough? Definitely.
With a growl, Leston released Oliver and turned on his heel, stomping away as fast as he could, though the fury in his eyes remained.
Oliver collapsed onto his knees, his breath still unsteady. Velma was beside him in an instant, concern etching her features.
"You're a mess," she murmured, placing a hand over his chest. A soft glow emanated from her palm, golden dust-like aether flowing from her fingertips and into his body.
To be able to project one's aether out the body was no easy feat. But Velma trained hard, and her royal blood encouraged her rapid growth.
As she did this, she muttered her regret under her breath for letting Leston go. To think he even had the guts to touch her brother. He must think that his mother could protect him from her anger.
She already gave that mix expression of a smile and anger on her face which told Oliver that she was definitely planning something of dread for Leston.
Who knows? If the night was not going to end the way Oliver knew it would, then just maybe Leston might have truly had the opportunity to pick his teeth from the latrine.
Oliver winced as the aether seeped into him. The sensation was strange—an itch beneath his skin, coupled with a deep, aching relief. He could feel the fractured rib beneath his chest beginning to mend, but the pain still lingered.
Such was the power of Aether. But Velma's in Oliver's opinion had always been special. Also, no other person aside him knew that her aether could mend the wounds of another person.
"You're reckless," Velma scolded, though her tone was gentle. "You manage to always get into some trouble, even though your bloodline is yet to awaken!"
Oliver said nothing. There were whispers that he would remain common blooded for the rest of his life. That he had long missed the window to awaken anything of reason, and that his mother's common blood was the reason for this. But Velma still held hope for him.
This undying faith in her brother was one of the reasons, her life had ended early in his previous life.
However, right now, he should not think about trivial things, expecially not in the face of everything he had just learned.
Velma sighed. "Come on. You need to rest."
She helped him to his feet, and against his constant opposition to the matter, she led him toward the infirmary.
The royal medical quarters were grand, with marble floors and delicate drapes hanging from the walls. Nurses moved about, tending to other patients. Velma barked an order at one of them, instructing them to take care of Oliver.
As he lay on the cot, Velma sat beside him. She reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. "You'll be fine," she murmured. "Just rest."
But Oliver, seeing that tender look on her face suddenly had an intense expression. "Why are we still here?" he whispered. "Why do we stay in a place that doesn't love us? Let's... Let's leave.... Tonight." He forced himself to spit out a part of the true fear he was hiding.
Velma's gaze softened. She brushed his white hair back, examining his face. "Leston must've hit your head too hard," she muttered with a smile. "Don't worry, I'll make him pay for that."
But then she saw it—the desperation in Oliver's eyes. Her heart clenched. She pulled him into a hug, cradling his head against her chest.
"You wouldn't understand, even if I explained," she whispered.
Oliver clenched his fists. "They hate us, Velma. We have to leave. Besides, its not safe here... Tonight, they will be a..."
A trumpet suddenly sounded in the distance, interrupting any thing oliver had wanted to say.
Velma immediately stood, her face hardening.
"The bride has arrived," she said. "We'll talk later."
As she turned to leave, Oliver grabbed her wrist. He wanted to tell her. About the future. About what was coming. But would she even believe him? Would anyone?
Slowly, he released her—giving up on the thought of it.
Velma smiled. "Rest."
Just as she reached the door, Oliver's voice stopped her.
"No matter what happens...I mean after tonight—choose the dungeons."
She frowned, turning slightly. "What?"
"Just promise me," Oliver said, his voice urgent.
Velma hesitated but eventually nodded. "Fine, fine. I promise."
With that, she stepped out, still thinking that her brother was hit too hard in the head to think straight.
Oliver exhaled and pulled himself to the window. Below, the grand chariots of the Somaran Empire rolled into the courtyard. Soldiers on beast mounts followed behind in perfect formation. At the front, a chariot, taller and more opulent than the rest, came to a halt.
The door opened, and a soldier helped a woman step out.
Oliver's blood ran cold. His breath hitched.
She was stunning, her gown woven with delicate embroidery reminiscent of Eastern patterns, layered like silken waves. Her hair was adorned with intricate golden pins, her eyes sharp yet veiled in grace.
His father's twentieth wife.
And the herald of tonight's Ruin.
But the truth was that...