"So, where the hell are the other bastards?"
"They're Legion Commanders. Show so respect," Maxim said, furrowing his brows in irritation.
"Did I already ntion how stuck up you are, four-eyes? Or do I need to repeat myself?" Artem smirked, taking another swig from his bottle.
"What did you just say?"
"The sa thing as before—four-eyes," Artem shot back.
Natalya shook her head, clearly exasperated by their childish banter.
"Can humans not shut up for a single minute?"
It wasn't Natalya who said that, though. The sharp remark ca from Drusilla with a cold side glance.
"Wow, things are getting spicy in here!"
The sound of new footsteps interrupted as a woman stepped into the room. She was human, but her beauty rivaled that of the elf and vampire won present. Her chestnut-brown hair was tied back, with a few loose strands elegantly framing her face, and her sleeveless black-and-white dress gave her a sophisticated air. Her sharp black eyes glimred as she entered, followed closely by another woman—a striking beauty with shoulder-length dark hair tied back neatly and the sa piercing black eyes.
"Larissa! Looking as hot as ever! Co sit on my lap!" Artem called out with a boisterous laugh, raising his bottle in her direction.
"I'll pass," Larissa, Commander of the Second Legion replied, her lips curving into a polite smile as she took a seat at the farthest seat. Her companion stood silently behind her, seemingly unbothered by the atmosphere.
"A sha!" Artem guffawed, taking another long gulp. But his gaze lingered on the dark-haired woman standing behind Larissa. She stared straight ahead, her expression calm and unreadable, yet sothing about her presence was captivating.
Finishing off his bottle, Artem set it down on the table with a clink and leaned forward, flashing a grin. "What about you, Anya? Care to warm my lap instead?"
This ti, the room fell silent. All eyes turned toward Artem, a collective 'are you trying to die?' written on their faces.
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"..."
Anya didn't reply, nor reacted. Her gaze remained fixed ahead as if Artem hadn't spoken at all.
The silence was broken by Maxim, who gave Artem a stern, pointed glare. "Talking to Lord Ivan's younger sister like that… are you actually trying to get yourself killed?"
Anya Zakharovna Kozlow wasn't just anyone. She was Ivan's little sister—a fact that Maxim made sure to emphasize. The subtle phrasing, referring to her as Ivan's sister rather than the Father's daughter, said everything about the most dangerous one between them.
At the re ntion of Ivan's na, the room fell into a near-unison hush. It wasn't fear exactly, but true respect, and perhaps a touch of unease.
Anya, at first glance, seed unaffected. But for those paying close attention, there was a fleeting flicker of emotion in her dark eyes.
Artem, however, broke the silence with an audible groan. "Ivan isn't even here," he muttered, rolling his eyes. "And he probably won't show up, as usual."
It was true. Ivan rarely attended council etings. Even during the critical war against Britannia, he had skipped the discussions entirely. When their father entrusted him with Calot's downfall, Ivan hadn't wasted a mont debating or strategizing in council chambers—he went straight to the battlefield.
"Thank God for you," Maxim scoffed.
Larissa, however, was far less amused. "Wait! What do you an Ivan's not coming?!" She shouted, visibly upset. "I traveled all this way to see my beloved Ivan!"
"And the war against Unadora?" Natalya cut in, narrowing her eyes at Larissa. "You don't even care about that?"
Larissa tilted her head, genuinely perplexed. "Why should I? It's already won, isn't it?"
Natalya grimaced, suppressing a groan of frustration.
Why were all her fellow Legion Commanders like this?
There were still two missing from the table, but she knew better than to hope for normalcy. The last mber was another eccentric.
Ivan, on the other hand, was an anomaly. He didn't waste ti with petty argunts or endless debates. He acted decisively, always focused on what needed to be done for their people. For that, Natalya respected him more than anyone else among the others.
Not that she really knew him. They had never spoken beyond a formal greeting—and even then, she had only received a glance in return. His abyssal black eyes, colder than the void, always seed to freeze her anyway.
"We should never underestimate our opponents."
A new voice broke her thoughts.
A man stepped into the room, his boots clacking against the stone floor. He was handso, with long black hair tied neatly behind him, and black eyes. He wore a tailored black formal robe.
As he entered, everyone but Artem—who was clearly too drunk to care—rose to their feet.
It was Alexei Zakharovich Kozlow, Ivan's and Anya's older brother, and a mber of the council. He was the one who had summoned them all here.
Alexei's gaze swept across the room, silencing any lingering murmurs. "Let's begin," he said curtly.
"Wait, milord," Maxim spoke up. "What about Lord Ivan and Miron? They're still missing."
"Miron is presud dead."
Surprise mingled with shock rippled around the table.
Miron, Commander of the 7th Legion, was a powerhouse of Gevurah—a fighter whose strength rivaled an S-Rank, bolstered by the rare blessing of a Stigma.
"How?" Maxim asked, voicing the question on everyone's mind.
"We don't know the exact details," Alexei replied. "He was sent to Fantasia on a mission to recover Seraphiel's Relic. We lost contact with him over a week ago. Given the circumstances, we have to assu he's been killed."
"Fantasia…" Artem muttered, glancing toward Natalya and Drusilla.
The ntion of the foreign continent made them all surprised. Fantasia was a world apart from Arcadia, populated by diverse and powerful races—elves, vampires, beastfolk, and others. It was a place of wonder, danger, and mystery, that humans rarely adventured in.
Artem smirked, his reaction entirely at odds with the somber atmosphere. "What a sha. He was pretty entertaining."
Natalya shot him a cold glance before turning her attention back to Alexei. "And Lord Ivan? I'm assuming he's not coming either?"
Alexei nodded once. "No—"
He froze mid-sentence, his head snapping toward the large windows behind them.
The ground began to tremble. It was faint at first, but quickly grew stronger, reverberating through the chamber. Everyone could feel it.
Alexei's eyes narrowed as he strode toward the windows.
The sight outside was as imposing as it was unexpected.
A massive black airship hovered above the city. None of the Commanders recognized it, though Alexei knew better.
"That's…" Alexei muttered narrowing his eyes.
That airship belonged to the Pendragon Royal family once. That was before Ivan claid it for himself after Mikhaim made so modifications to fit them.
The airship lood for only a mont longer before shifting course. To everyone's surprise, it wasn't heading toward the council building.
Instead, it glided toward a different destination: Seraphiel's Temple.
Alexei stayed silent for a mont.
He could feel it—his brother's Stigma.
"Ivan."
The others looked at him, startled.
***
The Temple of Seraphiel was the beating heart of Seraphia, the most visited sanctuary in the entire land. Day after day, worshippers poured in, seeking hope, and blessings for their families and futures.
Today was no different; the temple was bustling with activity.
Rows of wooden black benches lined the vast hall, their surfaces worn smooth by countless visitors. The dim glow of candles and flickering candlesticks provided the only light, casting soft shadows that flickered along the ancient stone walls. Despite the crowd, the temple was steeped in silence, broken only by hushed whispers and the occasional shuffle of feet.
At the far end of the hall stood the heart of the temple—a massive black cross overshadowed by a towering statue of the Goddess Seraphiel. The statue, carved from pristine white marble, radiated sothing unique. Draped in a flowing black robe, Seraphiel's hands rested on the hilt of a grand black sword, her gaze seeming to pierce straight into to what seed to be the horizon. Priests moved quietly near the altar, offering blessings to the endless stream of civilians seeking divine favor. But the peaceful atmosphere was soon disrupted.
A ripple of commotion stirred near the entrance, spreading like wildfire. People turned, their murmurs growing louder as they instinctively stepped aside, clearing a path.
From the parting crowd erged a man—Mikhail.
"Lord Mikhail," the temple's elderly head priest greeted him, bowing slightly.
Mikhail's gaze swept the hall before he spoke. "Clear the temple. Everyone out."
The priest hesitated, wringing his hands nervously. "I regret to say, my lord, but today is—"
"Ivan is here," Mikhail interrupted.
The priest's eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat. Around them, the civilians froze in shock too.
Mikhail's smile was cold as he turned his gaze to the gathered crowd. "Do I need to repeat myself?"
It took no further prompting. The congregation scrambled to leave, their hurried steps echoing in the vast chamber as they rushed to vacate the temple. Even the priests, despite their initial protests, bowed their heads and retreated under Mikhail's steely stare.
As they exited, many couldn't help but glance nervously at the sight outside—a colossal black airship, blatantly and almost disrespectfully parked directly in front of the sacred grounds.
Once the temple was empty, Mikhail glanced up at the ship.
Ivan descended gracefully from the deck of the airship. His black hair fluttered as he landed. Without hesitation, he stepped into the now-silent temple, Mikhail following close behind.
Ivan's boots clicked softly against the stone floor as he made his way toward the altar, his gaze fixed on the towering statue of Seraphiel.
Once in front of the Goddess's likeness, Ivan dropped to one knee.
From a black void, he drew a pitch-black sword sheathed in an beautiful carved scabbard. The weapon seed to absorb the light around it, radiating an aura of almost divinity. Ivan did not unsheathe it but held it in both hands. Bowing his head, he closed his eyes and began to pray in silence.
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