Vengeance Through Passion

Xylaris, Fire Clan.

Rising dramatically against the backdrop of smoking mountains, the Ember Citadel commands attention with its striking architecture made of dark volcanic stone. Intricate carvings of swirling flames adorn the exterior, lending a fierce beauty that resonates with the Fire Clan's identity. The palace glows with the warm light of braziers and enchanted torches, creating an illusion of a fortress ablaze, especially at twilight when the sun dips below the horizon.

At the entry way, the seven mages of Unagi stood, the Grand Entrance loomed large, framed by massive double doors of wrought iron inlaid with shimmering brass. The doors were adorned with intricate reliefs depicting legendary battles of the Fire Clan. Above the entrance, a colossal archway is crowned by a fierce dragon, its wings outstretched, symbolizing strength and protection.

A figure approached the hall with a confident stride, his presence commanding attention even before he spoke. Behind him, three men followed closely, their expressions stoic yet alert, marking them as his trusted guards. They moved with silent discipline, their boots barely making a sound on the stone floor. Upon reaching the center of the hall, the three men bowed their heads in courtesy, their hands resting on the hilts of their weapons as they greeted the assembled mages.

“Lord Blackwell,”

Lord Blackwell himself was an imposing figure. His dark cloak, edged with silver embroidery, flowed behind him as he walked, giving him the appearance of a shadow gliding across the hall. His black armor, polished to a gleaming finish, contrasted sharply with his pale skin, which bore the marks of countless battles. His eyes, cold and calculating, seemed to miss nothing, flicking briefly toward the mages before settling on the elder. His hair, streaked with gray at the temples, framed a face that was hardened by both time and experience, a face that had seen the rise and fall of empires.

From beneath his cloak, a faint glimmer could be seen—an intricate pendant in the shape of a crescent moon.

The elder mage, clad in deep blue robes that shimmered like the ocean at twilight, stepped forward to meet him. His long white beard, tied neatly at the end, swayed slightly as he moved, and his eyes, though aged, still held the sharpness of someone who wielded great power. Behind him, the other water mages remained silent.

“Greetings,” Lord Wainwright's voice was smooth, with a low rumble that carried authority. “I come with news.” He paused, gesturing toward one of the men behind him. The guard stepped forward, dragging a scrawny figure with him, whose wrists were bound by thick ropes. The prisoner’s face was dirty, his clothes torn and bloodied. “This rat was found lurking around the Yazaki's tombstone,” Wainwright continued, his lips curling into a sneer as he emphasized the word ‘rat.’

Lord Blackwell's expression didn’t change, but a ripple of unease seemed to pass through the room at the mention of the Queen’s tombstone.

Blackwell’s cold gaze flicked back to the elder. “I suppose none of this concerns the people of Xylaris,” he said, his tone sharp and probing. The name hung in the air like a blade, and for a moment, the room seemed to grow colder.

The elder mage's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, his hands clasping the ornate staff he carried, carved with the sigils of water and power. His voice was calm but edged with steel as he replied, “That, Lord Blackwell, remains to be seen.”

“You are not going to pretend,” he began, his tone measured, “that the more the appearance of that stupid star looms, the more threats like this will frequent.” His eyes shifted to the prisoner who had been dragged into the hall, his form crumpled and broken. “This one was an easy catch,” the elder continued, his gaze returning to Blackwell, “but it will only get worse from here.”

The torches seemed to flicker in response to his words, casting longer shadows that stretched across the floor like dark fingers reaching for the unspoken horrors that would soon follow. The three men behind Blackwell exchanged brief glances, but remained silent.

The elder mage shifted, taking a step closer. “Anyway,” he continued, “a problem found within the walls of the Fire Clan is not ours to address.” His voice now carried a sharper edge, resentment creeping into his tone. “You people only use us at will. To think you imagined that this was ours to deal with.” He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle between them like stones. “Further predicaments as such will be disregarded.”

The room seemed to hold its breath, waiting for Blackwell’s response.

A faint smile crept across Blackwell’s lips, barely noticeable but enough to chill the air between them. His gaze, sharp as the edge of a blade, locked onto the elder mage. “As if you are to talk,” he said softly, his voice carrying a dangerous undercurrent. He took a single step forward, his movements slow and deliberate, as though he enjoyed savoring the tension he was creating. “The word ‘use’ is quite insulting, isn’t it? But it should be deemed honorable when we are the victims?”

He let the question hang in the air for a moment, his smile widening ever so slightly as he saw the flicker of anger in the elder mage’s eyes. It was a subtle thing, that smile—more a show of control than of amusement.

“Nonetheless,” he continued, as though the insult had not been uttered, “we would take to proper consideration, your concerns towards the constant visage of pesky sorcerers.” His voice held a faint, mocking tone, as if the word “concerns” amused him. His eyes flicked briefly to the prisoner, “As you may,” Blackwell added with a dismissive wave of his hand, “do with this thing.”

The prisoner’s eyes darted between the elder mage and Blackwell, panic clear on his face. He tried to speak, his voice coming out in a pitiful croak:

"Rotten fools!"

Darius spat.

"I would gladly lay my life down for the Yazaki. This is not just some stupid act of bravado. Heed my warning, a day would come where your lives shall be slain and that too, with shame."

He continued to rattle on but no one gave any attention to him.

The elder mage’s eyes darkened, his grip tightening slightly on his staff. He turned his back on Blackwell, signaling the end of the conversation. “Our mages will not be drawn into your affairs once more,” he said firmly, his voice echoing through the chamber. “Let this be a final warning, Lord Blackwell. Do not mistake our patience for weakness.”

Blackwell’s smile faded, his face returning to its cold, expressionless mask. “We shall see,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. He turned on his heel, his cloak billowing out behind him as he strode toward the exit, the three men falling into step behind him without a word as Darius was sent away for immediate execution.

***

The afternoon sun hung lazily in the sky, casting a golden hue over the lush garden. The shadows of the trees stretched long across the ground, moving slowly as the sun began its descent. The soft rustling of leaves was carried by a gentle breeze, making the silver birch trees seem to whisper to one another. The garden was alive with the sounds of nature—birds chirped softly, and the occasional rustle of an animal in the underbrush could be heard, though it was faint, almost imperceptible.

In the center of this peaceful scene, a man sat lounging on a wrought iron chair. His posture was casual, though there was a sense of quiet alertness about him, a stillness that suggested he was always aware of his surroundings. His silver hair, catching the light of the sun, shimmered faintly, giving him an almost ethereal appearance against the backdrop of greenery. His gray eyes, however, were sharp, darting around the garden with calculated precision, as if assessing every movement, every detail. They did not rest long on any one spot, constantly shifting, searching for something he couldn't quite name.

He was dressed impeccably, as always, his deep maroon coat tailored perfectly to his form.

He broke the silence with a soft murmur, more to himself than to anyone around. "Another one?"

The phrase hung in the air, the meaning lingering in the quiet garden. His voice, low and thoughtful, carried a note of weariness, as though he had seen too many such occurrences in his lifetime.

Sorcerers, it seemed, were becoming far too bold these days. Too frequent. Too reckless.

“At this rate,” he continued, his tone growing a touch more frustrated, “sorcerers may even enter the Zephyriion itself, and no one is to suspect a thing.”

He let out a small sigh, his gaze drifting lazily over the garden.

Footsteps echoed softly along the cobblestone path that wound through the garden, the sound growing louder as another figure approached. The newcomer moved with a deliberate grace, each step measured and purposeful. He was a tall man, dressed in a sleek black coat that brushed against the tops of his polished boots. His black hair was neatly combed back, not a strand out of place, and his sharp blue eyes seemed to pierce through the fading light.

Without a word, the man pulled off his leather gloves, his movements slow and methodical. He tossed the gloves carelessly onto the grass beside him, as though they were an afterthought. His face remained calm, devoid of any emotion, his expression a mask of indifference. Yet, there was something in his posture, in the way he carried himself, that hinted at a darker undercurrent, something simmering just beneath the surface.

“It was quite bold of you to join us at Lirael,” the man said, his voice low and smooth, almost too calm. His words carried a weight to them, as though every sentence had been carefully considered before being spoken. “And to challenge Livia. You two are not even on good terms to begin with.”

The other man didn’t respond immediately, though his gray eyes flickered briefly in acknowledgment. Livia.

"Arthur, since when do you fear the words of little girls?" the man continued, a hint of mockery creeping into his tone.

Arthur moved to sit beside him, lowering himself into the chair with the same effortless grace he carried in everything he did.

“I do not fear anyone,” Arthur replied, his voice steady, though there was a hardness in it now. “But such rivalry would only broaden the distance between both families, Vincenzo.”

Vincent chuckled, a low, rich sound that echoed softly through the garden. It was not a sound of mirth, but one of amusement, as though he found the whole situation deeply ironic. “You calling me that would never get old.”

Arthur shot him a sidelong glance, his expression unreadable.

“Where did you spot the sorcerer?” Vincent asked, his tone casual, as though they were discussing the weather. He leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting up toward the sky.

“Around the outskirts of Cethrin,” Arthur replied after a pause, his voice thoughtful. “You were there a few days ago, weren’t you?”

“Why?”

“If I may ask.”

Arthur continued.

Vincent's eyes narrowed slightly, studying Arthur's face for a moment before answering. “You were never the type to pry.”

“And you aren’t the type to go into the outskirts,” Arthur shot back, his words laced with the barest hint of a challenge.

Vincent's lips curled into a faint smile, though his eyes remained cold, calculating. “People change.”

“Indeed,” Arthur replied, his voice quiet, contemplative.

The silence between them stretched out, filling the space with a heavy stillness. It was a silence neither man felt the need to break immediately, as both were deep in thought.

Finally, it was Vincent who spoke again, his voice soft, almost a murmur. “Don’t you think it’s quite risky for a sorcerer to go into the Water Clan? Only a madman would commit such foolishness.”

Arthur let out a short, humorless laugh. “That’s not incorrect. But sorcerers have been known to be fearless. They do not mind dying, most being immortals. I take that he might’ve been promised reincarnation, or he’s just. stupid.”

Vincent's smile widened slightly, though there was no warmth in it. “I think neither. If he were to throw himself into the lions, then there might have been a reason. Perhaps he was looking for something…or someone.”