Chapter 14: House Veraxes

On the surface, fifteen agonizing minutes had ticked by, and Ser Hughway’s patience was fraying to a dangerous edge.

The Lord Commander paced back and forth across the gravel like a caged beast, his hand glued to the pommel of his longsword.

Irritated by the oppressive silence bleeding up from the pit, he radiated a thick, suffocating aura of anxiety.

Around him, the six elite soldiers and the two Sword Runner knights stood rigid, their hearts pounding against their ribs as they stared intently at the open iron hatch, waiting for their Lord Baron.

The two Sword Runners never took their eyes off Ser Hughway.

The chain of command was absolute: if the Lord Commander moved, they moved.

Hughway’s stomach twisted into knots.

The horrific fear that his young master had fallen prey to the Abomination grew stronger with every passing second.

Yet, what truly racked his nerves was the total absence of sound—no roars, no clashing steel, no desperate screams for help.

Only an eerie, lifeless silence.

Finally, Hughway snapped.

He took a heavy step forward, determined to disobey his liege’s explicit orders and charge into the subterranean vault.

Before his boot could touch the top step, a tall, crimson-haired figure emerged from the darkness.

Craig stepped into the bright morning sunlight, a relaxed, unbothered smile gracing his young face.

His polished crimson armor, however, was a horrific sight—drenched in thick, black, foul-smelling blood that sprayed from his chest plate down to his greaves.

Ser Hughway practically vaulted forward, closing the distance in a heartbeat, his voice laced with uncharacteristic panic.

"My Lord! Are you injured? Where are you struck? Speak to me!"

Craig held up a single gloved hand, chuckling softly. "Calm down, Hughway. Breathe. I don’t have a single scratch on me."

Hughway halted, his eyes wide as he scanned Craig from head to toe. "If you are unhurt, My Lord... then whose blood is this? Where did it come from?"

"The Abomination," Craig replied smoothly, adjusting his gauntlet.

"It is dead. I have slain it."

Hughway froze.

He stared at the fifteen-year-old youth with a look of utter disbelief.

A 1st-Tier Abomination—a beast that required a full squad of elite knights to subdue—slain alone by an unawakened noble in fifteen minutes without taking a scratch?

It defied all martial logic.

Still harboring intense doubt, Hughway snapped his fingers, signaling one of the Sword Runners.

"Go down there. Confirm the state of the cell."

The Sword Runner knight gave a crisp nod, unsheathed his shortsword, and vanished down the stone stairwell.

Several long minutes passed before the knight returned.

He stepped into the light with a visibly shaken expression, his eyes wide with bewilderment as he bowed deeply before Ser Hughway and Craig.

"Report!" Hughway demanded.

"The... the 1st-Tier Abomination is gone, Lord Commander," the Sword Runner reported, his voice trembling slightly.

"There is no corpse. The beast is nowhere to be found. However... the cell is completely torn apart.

The iron chains were severed clean, and the entire floor is soaked in a massive quantity of black abyssal blood. A ferocious battle definitely took place down there."

Ser Hughway turned his gaze back to Craig, his mind reeling.

He inhaled a long, shaky breath, trying to process the absolute impossibility of the situation.

"My Lord... what in the heavens happened down there?"

Craig stepped forward and gently patted the veteran commander on his armored shoulder, his golden eyes glowing with a calm, absolute authority.

"That is a question I cannot answer," Craig said quietly, his voice carrying a tone that allowed no further probing.

"Just know that the Abomination is dead, and the threat to Lucerion is gone. Keep this an absolute secret. Make sure not a single word of what transpired here today leaks beyond this canyon."

Without waiting for a response, Craig turned and walked toward his white warhorse.

"Understood, My Lord," Hughway exhaled, bowing his head.

Craig mounted his steed with effortless grace.

Hughway hurriedly mounted his black stallion, signaling the remaining knights and soldiers to form a defensive perimeter.

They whipped their reins and thundered away from the rocky foothills, leaving behind the mundane foot guards to clean up the blood-soaked dungeon.

As they rode away, Ser Hughway surreptitiously ordered one of the seven Sword Apprentice knights to remain behind at the prison camp.

The knight’s task was simple yet grim: monitor the mundane soldiers closely.

If the secret of the young master’s battle could be contained through standard oaths of loyalty, so be it.

If any soldier showed the slightest hint of loose lips, they were to be executed immediately.

Fortunately, such extreme measures were unlikely.

The guards genuinely loved their Lord Baron.

Like every direct successor candidate born into the Darkstar family, Craig von Darkstar had been granted a piece of territory to govern by birthright.

Because he was the Seventh Young Master—a youth who had yet to prove his worth in the official Dragon’s Calling—he had been assigned the minor, frontier Lucerion Barony.

Craig had arrived in Lucerion at the tender age of ten.

For five years, a mere child had ruled the rough frontier land with remarkable diplomacy, wisdom, and leniency.

He avoided unnecessary wars, lowered harsh peasant taxes, and refrained from executions unless absolutely vital.

To the common folk and soldiers of Lucerion, Craig was not a tyrannical dragon lord, but a benevolent liege worth dying for.

Within twenty minutes, the party returned to the grand iron gates of the White Rose Palace.

The moment Craig dismounted, he walked straight past the bowing servants, ascending the marble stairs to his private bedchamber without uttering a single word to Ser Hughway.

He needed time to let his newly doubled mana settle within his core.

He needed rest.

Ser Hughway, meanwhile, immediately took command of the estate, barking out a flurry of rapid orders to the household staff.

"Prepare the royal dark-steel carriage!" Hughway bellowed across the central courtyard. "Assemble thirty of our finest mounted guards! Have the kitchens pack three weeks’ worth of high-grade rations and imperial preserves for the Lord Baron!"

The White Rose Palace erupted into a hive of activity.

Maids bustled back and forth, packing luxury silks, fine wines, and travel gear into heavy iron-bound chests.

In a few short hours, the Seventh Young Master would officially set out on the long road to the capital.

The destination was set: the City of Dragons.

...

Far to the central heartlands of the Rynchester Duchy lay the magnificent City of Dragons.

It was not merely a capital city; it was a sprawling, ancient megacity so incomprehensibly massive that its territory rivaled that of an entire sovereign kingdom.

Home to over thirty million inhabitants, it was a breathtaking monument of staggering wealth, towering medieval architecture, soaring white-granite spires, and reinforced obsidian fortresses that pierced the clouds.

Looming watchtowers lined the massive, hundred-foot-tall outer walls where heavily armored sentries kept endless watch.

Below, elite enforcers clad in crimson plate roamed the paved avenues, ensuring law and absolute order thrived among the bustling merchant quarters, noble estates, and vast Grand Bazaars.

The megacity was geographically locked by two legendary natural barriers: the churning, dark expanse of the Sea of Ashes to the south, and the lush, sprawling networks of the Riverlands to the north.

The Ryx Ocean connecting to all other Duchies and countless islands across the Western Continent.

High above the bustling streets, the sky belonged to the true rulers of the realm.

Majestic, scaled dragons—ranging from deep emeralds to obsidian blacks and shimmering crimsons—soared through the clouds, their deafening roars echoing across the valley.

Perched upon their massive leather saddles were dragon riders possessing the unmistakable traits of the supreme bloodline: long, luxurious crimson hair and cold, predatory golden eyes.

They were the Trueborn Darkstarians.

In the eastern noble district of the city, perched atop one of the most magnanimous obsidian castles overlooking the central plaza, a young girl stood quietly on a high marble balcony.

Her delicate, ring-laden hands rested lightly against the cold stone balustrade.

She was a vision of breathtaking beauty, draped in a luxurious black silk gown adorned with intricate golden dragon stripes that hugged her slender frame.

Her sleek, brilliant golden hair cascaded down past her waist like liquid sunshine, shimmering under the afternoon light.

This was Lady Alyse of House Veraxes—a high noblewoman of immense status.

The soft sound of footfalls echoed behind her as a tall, bald-headed figure in deep purple robes stepped onto the balcony.

The man bowed his head in deep reverence, keeping his eyes glued to the polished marble floor.

"My Lady Alyse," the bald man addressed her smoothly.

Alyse didn’t turn around.

She simply breathed in the crisp, high-altitude air and lightly flexed her delicate fingers.

A faint, glowing thread of pure, refined mana seeped from her fingertips into the sky.

Within seconds, a flock of vibrant, golden-feathered sun birds swooped down from the clouds, chirping softly as they landed gently on her outstretched hand.

"How much longer am I forced to remain in this noisy City of Dragons, Vorian?" Alyse asked softly, her voice cool, sweet, and devoid of emotion as she stroked a bird’s feathers.

"The sacred Dragon’s Calling will take place within the Temple of Dragons exactly two days from now, My Lady," Vorian explained respectfully.

"The Seventh Young Master, Baron Craig von Darkstar, will be arriving shortly to participate in the ritual. He is set to awaken his core publicly and attempt to claim a dragon."

Vorian paused, leaning in slightly. "His Grace, your father—the Golden Duke—has specifically requested that you witness the ceremony in person."

Alyse let out a soft, mocking scoff, flicking her wrist to let the sun birds flutter back into the sky.

Her rosy lips curled into a faint, irritated pout.

"My father’s intentions are all too transparent," Alyse grumbled softly, crossing her arms over her chest.

"If this Seventh Young Master performs exceptionally well during the Dragon’s Calling, Father fully intends to use me as a political bargaining chip and marry me off to him."

Alyse slowly turned her head, her sharp, sapphire-blue eyes locking onto the bald advisor with a cool, calculating glint.

"Tell me, Vorian," she demanded smoothly.

"What do we actually know about this Seventh Young Master?"