Daryon, Lord of the Myxrell, slouched on the obsidian throne with one leg draped over the armrest. He wore shorts, sandals, and a thin cotton shirt, as though he had rolled out of bed instead of into a chamber carved from fear. Comfort, yes—but a comfort that mocked the weight of the room.

In his hand, he toyed with a slim injector, rolling it lazily between his fingers. The last bead of serum clung to the needle’s edge, catching the chamber light, trembling as if it knew what was coming.

Around him, the nobles stood in silence.

Their robes shimmered with enchantment—sapphire threads pulsing like veins, gold woven in geometric lattices, emerald mesh that flickered with slow, predatory light. One woman had pearls stitched directly into her eyelids, each one blinking in ritual sequence like a private prayer. Another’s veil was not cloth at all, but firelight—projected, bending and dancing with every slight motion of her head.

Ceremony clung to them like perfume. Heavy. Rigid. Ritualistic.

Daryon had arrived dressed for heat, not power.

“Ẹ jọ, Ọba mi!” the man at his feet cried, voice cracking as blood dripped onto the polished floor. “Please, my king! I beg you, in the name of the sacred Tharozh!”

He sobbed, shivering, forehead pressed to stone.

Once, he had commanded the vaults of House Myxrell. Hand-selected by Daryon himself, trusted to keep the old war relics sealed. Back then, he’d shown spine. Loyalty. Belief that the House stood for something more than violence.

It hadn’t saved him.

Daryon pressed the plunger.

The injector hissed. Clicked empty.

The man spasmed.

“Ọba mi—please—my vaults will rot sealed if I die! My wife cannot open them. My son—he still bears the crest, he is innocent—please!”

His body bent wrong. Bone shifted beneath skin with sharp, ugly cracks. Arms snapped backward. Veins bulged, burst. Blood frothed from his mouth, the scream caught somewhere deep—emerging warped, half-shriek, half-animal gasp.

Lady Tenma, diplomat of the Dominion and keeper of the upper-lattice treaties, turned away, one trembling hand covering her mouth.

“Good Lord,” she whispered. Barely audible.

Daryon rose. He didn’t look back.

“Clean this up,” he said.

He walked forward at an unhurried pace, sandals whispering against polished stone. Behind him, the man’s scream guttered into wet silence. Blood pooled across carved sigils—the crest of House Myxrell, a sword dipped in ink, faintly reflected in the spreading stain.

The twin doors groaned as Daryon dragged them shut. Fifteen feet tall, blacksteel laced with spell-forged iron. Murals shimmered across their surfaces: eagles with burning wings clutching broken scales. Justice inverted.

The symbol flickered once, then stilled.

His guards, seven in number, stepped forward as one. Full kinetic armor. Shoulder glyphs flashing. Weapons locked to their backs.

Daryon lifted a hand.

“No.”

They froze.

He walked alone.

Behind him: blood, screams, cartilage turned to ash. Power reduced to mess.

A voice joined him, flat and uninterested.

“Your heart rate elevated.”

Paul.

Daryon didn’t turn. “So is the incompetence in my command.”

Paul stepped into stride beside him. No armor. No weapons. Just a cloak dragging like a shadow given form.

“I had to remind them who they serve,” Daryon said, voice low. “They’ve mistaken privilege for relevance.”

He pulled the obsidian crown from his head, holding it between two fingers like an insult. It pulsed faintly, bound to his bloodline, older than any noble in that chamber.

He tossed it behind him.

Paul caught it without looking. It shimmered violet, then sank into the folds of his cloak.

“They wear ceremony like armor,” Daryon muttered. “As if fabric and jewels will stop a needle.” His eyes narrowed. “When I killed Khan-Tao, what good did his armor do?”

Blood still clung to his fingers. He pulled a plain white handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned them with surgical care. No wasted motion. No disgust. Just method. Between each finger. Palm to wrist. Folded once. Tucked away.

Across his back, the sword shifted with his stride—black matte, straight-edged, brutally practical. No lacquer. No inscription. A blade not made to inspire, but to end.

House Myxrell had always preferred conclusions to arguments.

“Have you found Cerin’s wife and child?” Daryon asked.

“Not yet,” Paul replied. “But my Scope indicates movement. Likely within the Dominion's territory.”

“Scope should have caught them before they touched dirt.”

“They used hard-form displacement. No standard channels. His wife knows Form. Clean work. Almost perfect.”

“She went down?”

“Yes.”

“To the gutter,” Daryon murmured. “Interesting.”

“And the boy?”

“No facial matches. No known contacts. But if she’s with him, she’ll cover him. We’ll need bait.”

Daryon walked in silence for a long moment. Then, quietly:

“I want to know what Cerin was arrogant enough to die for. What he thought was the ‘strongest spelltech in Aurellia.’”

A faint laugh, sharp and humorless. “For a systems analyst, he had the spine of a dragon.”

Paul said nothing.

The corridor stretched before them, obsidian walls veined with violet. Old spells pulsed faintly—runes that tracked vital signs, name-binds, diplomatic clearances. The stone itself remembered.

They entered the lift chamber. A golden seal hovered in the air before them, twisted into a Möbius loop, tracking their proximity.

“We’re late for the council,” Paul said.

“Only part of the day worth enduring,” Daryon muttered. He cracked his knuckles.

“The Dominion been quiet since Cerin’s death. No moves. No retaliation.”

“They’re watching,” Paul said.

“They’re pretending to rule,” Daryon corrected. “Aurellia floats them, not the other way around.”

He paused. Eyes half-lidded. “Let them watch. Eventually someone—somewhere—will crack. And when they do…”

His words trailed off.

Paul lifted a hand. Four fingers. One motion.

A thin circle of something folding inward, eating themselves he was so good that his symbolism mana didn't need chants

“Coordinates locked,” Paul murmured. “Tier Four. Anchor point stabilized.”

The hallway collapsed inward, folding like a dying star.

And they were gone.

No ripple.

No flash.

No spectacle.

Only absence.