A bit far from the orc settlement stood a group of figures.
Figures shrouded in darkness stood atop a distant ridge, eyes fixed on the orc settlement below. High Orcs burst into view, their screams piercing the night air as they charged down the slope. One figure spoke, voice low and even,
"Our work here is over."
"Send a message to the Lord - Aden Vasco is Dead."
The words were barely out before the group began to disperse, their movements silent and practiced.
Boots made barely a sound on the rocky terrain as they drifted away, swallowed by the darkness. The settlement behind them erupted into chaos, the High Orcs tearing through it with ruthless efficiency.
This wasn't a spontaneous assault. Every detail - the timing, the deployment of forces - had been meticulously planned. The group's handiwork, orchestrated to ensure a single outcome:
Aden Vasco should not escape Dahaka alive.
The night closed in behind them, a vast and silent shroud. The settlement's chaos grew fainter, a distant hum of violence. The Lord would soon receive the message, and the consequences would unfold with deadly precision. Aden Vasco's fate was all but sealed.
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The hounds were still on the run, running far away with a single goal in mind - Delivering the message to the Imperial Castle and the Vasco Family.
Relaying the message by foot would take week, the only way such an emergency could be delivered was through a single option. on the outer portion of Dahaka lies a Magic gateway although transportation through the gateway would be impossible, it could still delivery messages to the Imperial Castle in mere seconds.
The gateway stood half-collapsed in the ruins outside Dahaka, its obsidian arches choked with thorned ivy.
Two hounds, men clad in bloodied scout leathers—lunged for it. The shorter one stumbled, his left leg mangled from whatever had pursued them through the marsh. His teeth gritted as he scrabbled over rubble.
His partner reached the arch first. A gauntleted hand slammed against the central rune. The stone ignited, crimson light searing their eyes. No time for prayers. No time to mourn the three others they'd left behind in the forest.
"Message priority: Emperor and Vasco bloodline," the wounded hound rasped. The words cost him—he coughed wetly, flecking the rune with black blood.
The gateway hummed, a sound like bones vibrating in a skull. Then silence.
For three breaths, nothing.
Then the air pressure dropped, sudden as a guillotine. The light died. The hounds sagged against the stone, sweat and rain mingling on their faces.
It worked.
The message had gotten through.
The Emperor's face was grim, although the outcome was expected he still had hope for Aden, that did not come from the bravery that he had shown in the court, it was because of the sole reason that Aden was Ed Vasco's son.
He urged the advisor to get the message over to the Vasco Family, a second's delay could mean a civil war.
Rainwater dripped from the messenger's cloak, pooling black on the Vasco estate's marble floor. Ed Vasco did not rise from his desk. The hearth's embers hissed as the man approached, gauntleted fist pressed to his chest in salute. No preamble. Just a sealed scroll, its wax stamped with the imperial crow—jagged, urgent.
Ed broke the seal.
The air thickened. Frost slithered across the parchment's edges. Attendants near the door stiffened; one clutched her throat, breath catching like a hooked fish.
ADEN VASCO IS DEAD.
The words glared back, ink still wet, acidic. Ed's knuckles whitened. So. His jaw worked silently, teeth grinding. The fire spat, shadows writhing up the study's oak-paneled walls.
The messenger shifted. "The Emperor's summons—"
Ed raised a hand. Silence fell, brittle.
He stood. Boot heels cracked against stone as he crossed to the hearth. Flames recoiled. For a heartbeat, the room held its breath—then he fed the scroll to the fire. Parchment curled, blackening to ash.
"Summon the Six," he said.
The attendant by the door hesitated. "My lord, protocol requires—"
Ed turned. The man froze mid-sentence, skin paling as if blood had fled his veins. No shout. No theatrics. Just a stare that carved through flesh.
The attendant fled.
Moments later, six bells tolled in the estate's eastern spire—a low, marrow-deep resonance. Ed did not flinch. He watched the fire consume the last of the scroll, cobalt embers reflected in his eyes.
Dead. The word hung, leaden. Not grief. Calculation.
Beyond the study's stained-glass windows, thunder rumbled.
The Six Pillars arrived without fanfare. No footsteps. No doors. One moment the study stood empty; the next, six figures occupied its shadows, their faces obscured by hoods of shifting smoke. The youngest among them—a woman with a scarred lip—leaned against the mantel.
"Well?" she said.
Ed didn't look at her. "Aden's dead."
A beat. The scarred woman's smirk died. The hearth's flame guttered out.
Darkness swallowed the room.