Anthesis of Sadness
Chapter 71: The Blood Domain

Chapter 71: The Blood Domain

We exited through an imposing archway, engraved with ascension glyphs that seemed to vibrate with ancient energy, as if each symbol carried within it a forgotten truth.

On either side, two colossal figures in abyssal armor stood motionless, their presence imposing and silent, like guardians of a sacred threshold.

A convoy awaited us, drawn by armored creatures, their red eyes glowing with a sinister gleam, their blackened iron horns turned toward the horizon, ready to break any resistance.

Their massive bodies moved with a contained, almost supernatural power.

We boarded, the weight of the moment heavy on our shoulders, ready to embark on the road toward what awaited us.

The journey was not long, but it was enough to plunge into the heavy and vibrant atmosphere of Zagnaroth, the demonic capital.

We traversed the main arteries of the city, where the buildings were sculpted from black volcanic rock, massive and imposing structures, carved like living relics.

Around us, the city was in a frenzy, a hive of nobles cloistered in their intrigues, sacred blacksmiths forging ancient weapons under the watchful eye of infernal flames, and forbidden priests whispering incantations in the shadows.

The alleys, both labyrinthine and imbued with mysticism, teemed with life and secrets.

Soon, however, the streets became wider, calmer, an artificial tranquility set in place by the omnipresent gaze of the guards.

The atmosphere thickened with palpable tension, the walls seemed to close in around us, and every corner seemed watched by invisible eyes, as if the city itself was observing our every move.

We entered the Dukes’ Quarter, an elevated ring that surrounded the Main Palace, slightly below, dominating the horizon like a circle of unshakable power.

This quarter, both majestic and relentless, was home to the oldest and most powerful bloodlines, those whose names echoed through the corridors of time.

The noble houses resided there in cold opulence, building their domains like fortresses of prestige and secrets.

And now, in the shadow of these giants, ours was added to the list.

A house still young, but no less ambitious, ready to challenge the greatest.

The ground beneath our feet seemed to vibrate with the weight of centuries, each stone, each monument containing the echo of a history forged in blood and intrigue.

All around us, colossal buildings rose, sculpted from black obsidian like living creatures, adorned with filigree of Brascroc and spikes of Sanguine, materials as magnificent as they were menacing.

These structures seemed to be monuments of both intimidation and wealth, a dazzling demonstration of the power and heritage of the bloodlines that occupied them.

Covered galleries, tangled in a maze of marble and metal, connected the mansions to the imperial reception halls, dark but impeccably maintained passageways where only the highest dignitaries dared to venture.

The enchanted glass roofs, like giant eyes staring at the horizon, revealed glimpses of rare artifacts and artworks displayed in the honor-forging galleries, their lights shimmering with ancient and powerful magic.

Each residence was protected by its own guard unit, but here, in this quarter, surveillance reached almost paranoid levels.

The air was thick with this omnipresent vigilance, every movement, every breath observed, as if the walls themselves were spying on us, waiting for the slightest misstep.

Our convoy slowly climbed an imposing ramp, flanked by colossal statues, animated by ancient and menacing magic.

Their eyes, made of shiny black stone, followed every movement, ready to react at the slightest sign of intrusion.

With each step, the tension seemed to rise, as if these stone guardians were waiting for the moment to awaken.

Then, behind an imposing arch, set into a wall of frozen lava, a wall of burnt and solidified rock, my manor finally appeared.

It stood there, majestic and almost unreal, surrounded by an aura of power frozen in time.

The shadows danced on its walls, shaped from dark and shimmering stones, which seemed to breathe, as if the manor itself were alive.

It was more than just a domain; it was a sanctuary, an impregnable fortress, marked by the ancient power and history of our house.

It stood, solitary, on an artificial rocky spur, like an imposing throne carved from the mountain itself.

The mansion, majestic and imposing, had three main levels, each vaster and more grandiose than the last, like a progression toward the inaccessible.

At the top, a central tower rose in a spire, dominant, its silhouette standing out against the sky, a beacon of power and history.

From this tower, a slight red glow escaped at night, an almost living light, fed by a heart of eternal embers, a sacred fire, burning endlessly in the building’s bowels.

The façade, black as night itself, seemed to be a work sculpted from a mix of volcanic stone and Shadowiron, two materials as ruthless as they were elegant, their marbled surface shining with a supernatural brilliance.

Powerful massive arches supported the structure, and pillars engraved with ancient runes, almost alive, seemed to watch over the mansion.

Some of these runes glowed faintly, like sleeping eyes, breathing silently in the shadows, as if the building itself had a soul watching over us.

Tall stained glass windows, meticulously sculpted, tinted the interior with deep shades of red, amber, and violet, casting shifting reflections that danced through the dimness like capricious specters.

The light, filtered through these beautifully warped works of art, moved in waves, weaving an ambiance both sacred and strange.

The main entrance, preceded by wide solemn steps, stood imposing with a majestic gravity, like a threshold to another world.

It was flanked on either side by two terrifying gargoyles, sculpted in the image of winged chimeras, whose imposing forms seemed alive under the dark sky.

Their eyes, in black stone, seemed to follow us, watching every movement.

Sometimes, their open jaws exhaled a breath of warm steam, a heavy and humid wind carrying with it a scent of ancient stone and rusted metal, as if these silent guardians were ready to come to life at any moment.

But it was the garden that caught my attention first, a place both fascinating and unsettling.

It surrounded the mansion in a half-circle, stretching over 150 meters long on the east side.

Entirely suspended on a natural terrace, like a living extension of the mountain itself, the Ember Garden—as it was already called—was a space both controlled and wild, a fusion of order and untamed nature.

The flora that inhabited it seemed in constant interaction with its environment.

Ash ferns, with black and pearly fronds, mingled with trees with dark leaves, veined with gold, their menacing silhouettes standing out against the twilight sky.

Reactive vines, brushed by the slightest breath of wind, seemed to awaken to fire, undulating and twisting endlessly like flame serpents waiting for a spark.

Abyssal roses, deep and velvety black, adorned the paved paths of vitrified ashes, their petals sparkling with a sinister but magnificent gleam.

Enchanted braziers, carefully placed along the winding paths, illuminated the space with a warm and steady glow, projecting a pleasant heat but imbued with a strange density, as if the heat itself contained an ancient and insidious power.

A pool of black water, smooth as a mirror, majestically sat at the center of the garden, its surface perfectly still, reflecting the sky and shadows with icy clarity.

Its edges were adorned with imposing statues, representing the seven great legendary blacksmiths, their figures frozen in postures of power and mastery.

Each statue seemed to be a living tribute to the ancestral traditions of Zagnaroth, mythical figures forged from dark and shiny stone, marked by complex engravings and details that seemed almost animated by an inner energy.

Their eyes, sculpted with striking precision, seemed to scrutinize anyone approaching, as if their gazes could judge, evaluate, or perhaps bless.

The pool, with its deep black surface, seemed to be a silent portal to another reality, a representation of the soul of the city itself, a fusion of art, power, and the eternal mysteries of Zagnaroth.

The murmur of the water, soft and soothing, contrasted with the distant bustle of the city, creating an almost unreal sense of calm at the heart of this garden.

It seemed that, in this suspended moment, everything was in harmony, distant from the frenzy that beat far away.

Yet, this apparent silence was deceptive.

Here, vigilance was omnipresent, invisible but omniscient.

The shadows of the statues and braziers seemed to watch every movement, every breath, as if the garden itself were an extension of Zagnaroth’s ruthless surveillance.

Guards, hidden under the shadow of the imposing architecture, watched every gesture, and every corner of the garden seemed to be under the watchful eye of an invisible power, ready to react at the slightest anomaly.

Elite soldiers patrolled relentlessly, blending into every nook, every shadow.

Posted on rooftops, at the intersections of alleys, or hidden in the deep shadows of columns and gates, their silhouettes merged with the architecture, as immovable and silent as the stones themselves.

Their gazes, piercing and calculated, followed every movement, every breath, with the precision of war machines.

Draped in ash capes, armed with runic halberds engraved with ancient symbols, their faces were masked by dark plates, revealing neither emotion nor humanity.

Their presence did not inspire fear, but imposed silent rigor, relentless vigilance, like an invisible, eternal law.

The slightest suspicious breath, the smallest careless gesture, would have been enough to trigger a perfectly coordinated reaction, as swift and fatal as lightning.

Such was the price of privilege: to live at the top, in the shadow of eternal flames, under the constant gaze of those who watch.

And now, that summit belonged to me, this fragile balance was mine to defend, under the relentless eye of the guardians of Zagnaroth.

I turned to her, my gaze settling on her silhouette.

The warm wind of the Dukes’ Quarter blew, making the black cape she wore ripple, which now seemed almost ceremonial, imbued with new dignity.

The dark fabric moved like a living shadow, marked with the seal of the Thalaris Von Estarion.

The emblem, engraved with ruthless precision, represented red vampire fangs, bloody and menacing, on a black ink background, like a silent promise of power and danger.

This symbol, now worn proudly on her shoulders, bound her to a lineage that no one could ignore.

By my side, she was no longer just a warrior, but the living embodiment of our heritage.

— You see... I whispered. All of this belongs to us now. This is our home.

She slowly raised her eyes to the manor, her irises capturing every detail with silent precision, then turned her gaze to the blazing garden, the imposing statues that seemed to observe her, the guards posted in the shadows, their silhouettes frozen like specters.

Nothing in her expression betrayed surprise or astonishment.

She seemed to see beyond the grandeur and symbols of power, as if these places were already familiar to her, like a truth she had long integrated.

There was no fascination, only quiet acceptance, as if the weight of this world, though imposing, did not disturb her.

She had adapted to this life, to this new reality, with a serenity that defied the magnitude of the change.

— You are my family, Lysara. I stepped closer to her, my voice growing deeper. You are my daughter now. And look at us... We are above. We have become powerful.

She listened to me in silence, each word I spoke seeming to settle gently in the air between us.

Her gaze, intense but calm, did not leave my face, but there was no impatience, no judgment, only absolute attention.

This silence, heavy and serene, carried a particular weight, as if she were listening not only to my words but also to the unspoken, the invisible hesitations in my voice.

In that moment, she was not simply a presence by my side, but an active, attentive listener, weighing each word like a fragile balance to maintain.

— But never forget the kind of path we must walk. This is only the beginning.

And yet... She smiled.

A subtle smile, almost imperceptible, but which gripped my heart with unexpected force.

This smile carried a serenity I had not seen coming, a silent acceptance of all that this city, its shadows, its codes, and its heavy silences had to offer.

She thrived in this dense atmosphere, as if these darknesses offered her a space where she could finally exist fully, without constraint.

She had found her place here, at the very heart of this ruthless world.

And I... I was going to have to tear her away from it.

It was not an easy decision, nor an action without consequences.

By bringing her elsewhere, I risked destroying what nourished her, what had shaped her.

But it was part of the path I had to follow.

Her gaze settled on me, calm, almost too peaceful.

There was neither agitation nor fear, only an almost strange serenity, as if she already knew everything that was going to happen.

Her eyes, with their implacable calm, seemed to read beyond words, piercing the soul, and in this apparent tranquility, there was something deeply unsettling.

It was as if she had accepted what was going to happen, perhaps had even anticipated it, and that nothing, not even the storm that was brewing, could shake her.

— I was starting to get bored here anyway, she said simply. When do we resume our training, Master?

I knew, deep down, that she was lying.

Her words, soft and reassuring, were there only to soothe me, to make me believe that this decision was not as heavy, as cruel as it really was.

She said them to follow me, to spare me from feeling the weight of what she knew to be a silent, invisible, but relentless violence.

She knew what I was about to do: uproot someone from a place where, for the first time, she seemed to have found fragile peace, a corner of existence in this world of shadows.

And yet, she did not hold it against me.

Her eyes betrayed no rebellion, only a resigned calm, as if she accepted the inevitable.

In an instinctive gesture, I took her in my arms, holding her close as if that could cancel the weight of my choices, as if this simple act of tenderness could erase the violence of my decision.

— You are so grown up, Lysara... I murmured, unable to hide my emotion. You are so strong. Thank you.

She did not respond.

Not a word crossed her lips, but her arms slowly wrapped around me, as if each movement were a silent affirmation of her presence, of her acceptance.

There was no resistance in this movement, only infinite gentleness, a tacit understanding of what we were living.

And for a moment, in this heavy and dense silence, the echo of our hearts beat in unison, synchronized, in a fragile but perfect harmony.

That moment, however brief, seemed suspended in time, a fragment of eternity shared in the silence of freshly conquered power.

Our souls brushed against each other, united in the beauty of a silent complicity, but also in the heavy realization that what we had just created was as uncertain as the path we were about to take.

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