“Let those who have the courage to face their fears begin.” Issack’s voice vibrated along the parapet, full of amusement, as if he were savoring every syllable.
I looked around. The faces of those nearby were a mosaic of tension: wide eyes, clenched jaws, mouths half-open, wanting to protest… but not daring to.
The dry clicks echoing from the holes in the walls cut every word off before it could be spoken.
And then, the first shot.
Something whizzed through the air, slicing violently through the narrow space. Without hesitating, with my sword at the back, I pulled Axel into my arms and moved forward.
The rules had been given. I didn’t need any more explanations. Just reach him. I wasn’t foolish enough to test whatever came out of those holes.
My movements did not go unnoticed.
The reddish-skinned boy, muscles taut like ropes about to snap, launched himself forward almost at the same time.
The lilac-eyed girl followed him in silence, steps firm, gaze stubborn. They had understood too.
But with every step, the game showed its cruelty. The air grew heavier, as if invisible hands clung to our backs, pushing us toward the ground. It was a pressure that didn’t completely crush us, but it stole our breath and demanded effort just to breathe.
“Khrr—!” I gritted my teeth as the first wave hit me, my knees trembling. Axel clung to my neck, frightened, but didn’t make a sound.
The chaos truly began. Some ran in desperation, stumbling and throwing themselves forward without even thinking. Others froze, unable to move a muscle, looking around like cornered prey. Some even tried to shelter behind the faster ones, using them as makeshift shields.
Sound filled the room: sharp whirring, metallic clacks, dull thuds of wood and rubber against bodies. I saw a boy take a projectile to the chest. It was only a rubber ball, but the force threw him against the wall, the air escaping his lungs in a groan.
“Ahhh!” another cried out, when a smaller stone ricocheted off his forehead, opening a thin cut that bled quickly.
For a moment, I thought Issack had limited the danger to mere minor injuries. It was cruel, yes, but bearable.
‘He wouldn’t risk our lives… the retaliation would be too strong.’
But the illusion shattered quickly.
“ARGHH!” The scream echoed louder, scraping at everyone’s ears.
A boy, right beside me, arched backward with bulging eyes. An arrow with a metal tip had pierced his forehead, going through bone, flesh, and tissue. Blood gushed in dark drops that splattered on the ground, marking the cold floor a bright red.
“Shit!” I blurted, stepping harder. The chaos got worse.
The smell of iron in the air intensified. Some stumbled backward, bumping into one another, forming a barrier of confused bodies. Others screamed aimlessly, moving in desperation just so they wouldn’t stand still.
The lilac-eyed girl was nearly hit by a dart, but she twisted her body at the last moment, dropping to her knees and rising again without losing focus.
The reddish-skinned boy snarled, blocking a projectile with his arm and pushing forward despite the pain, teeth bared in fury.
And above it all hovered the presence of Issack. He watched with his glittering golden eyes, wings spread, a satisfied smile on his lips. But I noticed something more in his expression, something he was trying to hide.
Up there, he didn’t move. He didn’t say anything. He only watched. The game had begun. And, with the blood on the floor and the screams echoing, it became clear: this was no prank. It was a selection. Above all, a deadly selection.
✦ ✦ ✦
Still in Dracknum.
A few kilometers beyond the family’s main mansion, past the reinforced gates and the black stone walls that gleamed under the sun, a vast expanse stretched out, dedicated to training the warriors of the bloodline.
Amid shouted commands, the clinking of swords, and the dry echo of spears against targets, the place breathed discipline.
But within this domain of strength, there was a building that inspired more fear than any training field: the War Room.
There, no muscles or reflexes were forged. There, the fate of Dracknum was decided. Hidden passages between stone corridors led to the family’s most secluded underground chamber, the true heart of power.
This morning, however, it was not the secret chamber that was occupied, but the hall open to the public.
The hall was spacious, lit by magic crystals and torches fixed to massive columns, whose shadows swayed as if watching in silence. Circular seats rose in tiers, filling the room in layers of authority. Most of them were occupied.
In the places of honor sat the leaders or representatives of the two Marquisates, the ten Counties, the forty Viscountcies, and the one hundred and sixty Baronies that made up the archduchy. Closer to the center, in positions of prominence, were the commanders, or their envoys, of the eight squadrons of Dracknum.
And among them, scattered like silent shadows, were some of the family’s most respected elders, men and women whose mere presence weighed more than a hundred soldiers.
Except for the Patriarch and the Vice-Patriarch, along with a few others who could not attend, it could be said that this was, without a doubt, the greatest concentration of power in the archduchy. And this gathering took place every year, renewing a tradition as old as the very blood that sustained the house of Dracknum.
Every glance, every held breath, carried the weight of history.
At the center, raised on a small pulpit of dark stone, stood the spokesman. His attire was sober, marked only by the family crest embroidered on his chest. In his hands rested a thick, hardcover book of ancient appearance.
He did not speak. The silence grew, thick as the wall that surrounded Dracknum. Until the sound of the book being set down echoed through the hall like muffled thunder.
The spokesman raised his head. His eyes swept over the crowd, lingering on each row of solemn faces. He drew a deep breath, and from inside his robes he took out a short dagger. The metal reflected the torchlight with a cold gleam.
He breathed again, even deeper, before opening his mouth to speak the words that would shape the clan’s destiny:
— “Sanguis Solvendus Est.”
Immediately, the dry sound of dozens of blades being drawn echoed through the hall.
Each representative took out his dagger, some forged in silver and gold, others in bronze or black steel, and still others made of rare and mystical minerals: shimmering amethyst that burned under the light, obsidian that seemed to absorb the surrounding glow, blood jade that pulsed like living flesh, ethereal quartz that gave off a bluish mist, runed hematite that vibrated in dark resonance.
It was tradition, and above all, obligation: no one could enter the hall without carrying their blade, the symbol of the union of blood.
The spokesman turned the blade against his own hand, piercing the palm with a firm motion. Blood ran and dripped onto the table before him, and then he raised the wounded hand to his chest.
— “Sanguis Sanguinem Vocat.”
The echo of his voice was followed by a collective crash: everyone present slammed their bloodied palms against the tables in front of them.
Immediately, red lines began to light up on the stone surfaces, like veins of liquid blood. They intertwined into arcane patterns, running across the circular tables toward the center of the hall, converging like rivers of light toward the spokesman.
When all the lines had joined, the man took his bloodied hand from his chest and pressed it against the cover of the book.
The tome reacted at once: it glowed intensely, a deep red light escaping from the cracks in the leather, the stitching, and even the raised letters on the cover. The light vibrated, wavered, and then suddenly went out, like a bonfire put out by the wind.
The silence that followed was almost reverent. The ritual was complete.
The spokesman raised his eyes again and, this time, his voice rang firmly through the hall: “Once again, greetings, honorable ones of Dracknum.”
After his words, everyone bowed their heads in reverence and took their seats. “As you well know, the Patriarch and the Vice-Patriarch are absent. Therefore, their presence will be represented through communication crystals.”
To his right and left stood two mages, each holding a polygonal crystal that shimmered as it was fed with mana. Slowly, the figures of Thomas and Baldwin took ethereal form before those present.
Despite the restrictions imposed by the family’s traditions, which prevented them from speaking, unless they were present, they were still allowed to nod and listen attentively to everything that was said.
Although several other members were also absent, this exception was granted only to the Patriarch and the Vice-Patriarch, due to the importance of their positions and the weight of this annual meeting. In return, the elders were authorized to represent them whenever necessary.
“That being so, on this thirteenth day of the first month, of the one thousandth, six hundred and fifty-eighth year (1,658th) of the Lunarian calendar, I declare open the fifty-eighth annual meeting of Dracknum of this century.”