Beneath the Blood Keep, in the dim, forgotten depths of the grand hall, Tomas Dias ascended the cracked stone steps leading toward the throne chamber. The fog that had once thickened the air had mostly dissipated—drained away as the maid slipped out of her Variant State.
It was impressive, honestly. Most Binders spent years trying to reach that level—when they didn't just control their element but became part of it. And yet here she was, a girl not yet fully grown, already able to summon a Variant State at will.
A "Bride." Ironic. She hadn't chosen the title—no Variant did. It was simply what the world called them once they changed. Still, times were changing.
He'd agreed to help Michael, but that didn't mean he planned to babysit him. Thanks to his mind-walking link, he could feel the girl's thoughts, her emotions. There was no deceit. No threat. Just pain and silence—and that meant he was free to explore as he pleased.
The throne, carved of dark stone and stained with dried blood, intrigued him. So did the image above it—a carving of a goddess. A massive mural of chained limbs and twisting motion, as if the stone itself danced. It wasn't a figure he recognized.
"The Dancer in Chains," he murmured under his breath.
Suddenly, a spike of emotion stabbed into his thoughts.
Through the link, the maid's mind flared—panic, fury, despair all crashing together. She was about to do something irreversible. Either she would kill Michael… or herself.
What did he say to her? Tomas thought grimly, pushing aside his curiosity.
He turned sharply and moved toward the sacrificial altar.
Michael sat there like a prince of ruin, resting atop the wide stone slab framed by four pillars, the girl collapsed on her knees before him. She trembled violently, crying as though her soul were being torn apart. Her dusty maid's uniform hung loosely on her frame, her dagger clutched in trembling hands.
She raised it to her throat.
Without hesitation, Tomas spoke.
"Dormiré," he whispered in the old tongue.
The dagger slipped from her fingers as she collapsed, breathing but unconscious.
Michael, unbothered, rose from the altar with a casual stretch. A grin tugged at his lips as he turned to face Tomas.
"We were making progress," he said, voice light. "Why did you make her fall asleep?"
Tomas paused mid-step, eyes narrowing.
This boy—this smug, twisted boy—had once called him a mass murderer. Now here he was, interrogating a girl to the point of suicide and acting like he'd been interrupted during afternoon tea.
The hypocrisy was breathtaking.
…
She cried like someone who'd just watched her world end.
Michael stood atop the stone altar, arms loose at his sides, staring down at the unconscious girl crumpled on the floor. A second ago, she'd been ready to end her own life—shaking like a leaf in the wind. Now, thanks to Tom's intervention, she slept quietly. Knife fallen from her fingers like an afterthought.
He should've been furious at the interruption. But instead... he was oddly content.
Finally—finally—he got what he wanted.
All his ridiculous theatrics, the bait, the mockery, the passive-aggressive charm—it was never about revenge or answers or power. It was just to drag her out of the shadows. Force her to kidnap him. Force her to stall the war. And it worked.
But now?
Now he had a different problem.
She wasn't sent by the Duke of the North. That had been his assumption. His hope, even. A clear enemy was easier to handle. But no—this girl, and her brother, were tied to something older. Something deeper. An ancient organization hidden beneath layers of lies and false allegiances.
He'd asked her the name of it.
That's when she broke.
Tears, trembling hands, and then... the blade. Not out of shame or guilt—but something else. Michael had seen it in her eyes. The edge of something binding her—an oath, perhaps, sealed with Walker magic. A compulsion stronger than fear.
Well, that's a thread he could tug on later. When he got back to Theos, he'd find out more. She wasn't the only one with secrets.
Still—she'd managed to spit out one thing before she lost control.
A prophecy.
The reason she infiltrated the castle, the reason she was ordered to kill him, all traced back to a single verse—the so-called final prophecy of the First Emperor.
When the Last Dragon casts its shadow,
Fire shall fall upon the thrones of men.
A warrior shall rise—
Blade drawn, heart heavy with fate.
He shall slay the winged flame,
And in its death, awaken a beast—
Born not of sin, nor sanctity,
But sacrifice.
Every child in the Imperium knew it. It was etched in statues, whispered in lullabies, drilled into classrooms and battle speeches.
The First Emperor's final words.
But children weren't the only ones who believed it. Apparently, a handful of adults—idiots in robes—had decided to build an entire cult around it.
Michael rolled his eyes just thinking about it.
Sure, the Emperor had been a legend. Even Michael could admit that conquering the entire Asterion continent before turning thirty was impressive. But he was still just a man. Not a god. Not a prophet. Just a blood-soaked conqueror with charisma and good timing.
Still, that hadn't stopped these lunatics from forming some secret organization obsessed with the prophecy—believing that the Centarious family, his family, was at the centre of it all.
Apparently, they believed his uncle—or maybe even Michael himself—was the head of another hidden faction, something called The Eternal Order, which supposedly opposed the prophecy's fulfilment.
The reason?
His own noble title— "Lord of Lunacy."
Some idiot must've heard that name and connected imaginary dots, deciding he was some apocalyptic heretic or secret cult leader. The fact that the title was more of a mocking nickname from the noble circle—a jab at his rebellious nature and unpredictable behaviour—didn't matter. Fanatics didn't need facts. They just needed a name.
.
That's what led to the attempted assassination. They gave her the order to retreat after realizing he wasn't the one they were looking for... and then she tried to kill him anyway. To tie loose ends, maybe. Or because she broke protocol.
Either way, it nearly worked.
Michael's train of thought was broken by Tom's voice.
"Little Fang, really—stop smiling like that. You're creeping me out."
Michael looked over his shoulder, grin still wide. "Oh, come on, old man. You just ruined my fun. At least let me enjoy what's left."
Tom was walking toward him now, arms folded.
"Can you wipe her memory with your mind-magic-thing?" Michael asked, completely ignoring the complaint.
Tom frowned. "Why?"
Michael tilted his head toward the far-left wall of the ancient hall. There, set into the stone, was a door—massive, sealed, and unnervingly silent. A perfect circle of carved moons framed its surface, glowing faintly in the flickering torchlight.
"She told me she was planning to escape through that door tomorrow," he said calmly.
"And I plan to track her"