The Brotherhood Of The Damned.

The outskirts of Sharman were unnervingly quiet, the dense woods swallowing all sound save for the rustling of wind through the skeletal branches. Perched atop a hill overlooking the city stood the estate of Elijah Gerard. Its Gothic towers and spires reached skyward like jagged claws, their dark silhouettes cutting sharply against the faint silver of the moonlight.

Inside, within the grand study of the mansion, Elijah Gerard sat with a stillness that only centuries of existence could bestow. The room was vast, its high ceilings and towering bookshelves emphasizing the weight of history that clung to every surface. A fire crackled in the ornate hearth, its flames casting fleeting shadows that danced like restless spirits across the polished marble floor.

Elijah's pale fingers turned the fragile pages of a leather-bound tome resting on his lap. The words, faded by time, spoke of old secrets—experiments long abandoned and bloodlines long extinguished. His gaze, sharp as a blade, skimmed the text with an ease born of familiarity.

The soft creak of the study door drew his attention. Without looking up, he closed the book gently, as though laying an old friend to rest.

"You're late, Varvara," Elijah said, his voice as smooth as velvet yet laced with the faintest trace of admonition.

Varvara stepped inside, her movements precise and soundless. She was striking, with crimson hair that spilled over her shoulders like a cascade of fire. Her sharp features bore the slightest hint of tension, an unspoken apology for her tardiness.

"The Argent Sword intervened," she said, her tone controlled but carrying an edge of frustration. "The boy was within reach, but they protected him. Lawrence himself was there."

Elijah rose slowly, setting the book on a side table as he turned to face her. His tall frame was draped in a long coat that seemed to absorb the firelight, rendering him almost spectral. His pale blue eyes, ancient and unyielding, locked onto Varvara with an intensity that made her pause.

"Lawrence," he murmured, the name a mixture of disdain and something darker. "A persistent thorn, as always."

Varvara folded her arms, her composure faltering slightly under his gaze. "The boy is no ordinary half-blood. His presence... it's unlike anything I've encountered. He radiates Flux—constant, uncontrolled. It's unnatural."

Elijah tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Unnatural? Or exceptional?"

Varvara bristled. "Half-vampires don't survive long, let alone manifest Flux. You know this as well as I do. The boy shouldn't exist."

"Yet he does," Elijah replied, his voice carrying a calm certainty that unsettled her. He moved to the window, his silhouette framed against the sprawling city below. "And what else did you observe, Varvara? Don't spare the details."

She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "He's untrained, barely aware of what he's capable of. If not for the Argent Sword, he would have been mine. But they fought fiercely. They've taken him under their protection."

"And you allowed them to," Elijah said, his tone still mild, though it carried an undertone of reproach.

Varvara's expression darkened. "The Argent Sword has resources—fighters, Flux wielders. They've decided he's worth the risk. They mean to shape him into a weapon."

At this, Elijah chuckled softly, the sound low and rich, like the hum of a distant storm. "How predictable. They never miss an opportunity to play saviors."

He turned from the window, his gaze distant as though peering through the fabric of time itself. "Do you know why they're so eager, Varvara?"

She frowned. "They see his potential. His power."

"No," Elijah said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "It's fear. They know what he represents, even if they won't admit it. A creature like him... he is a reminder of what was, and of what might be again."

Varvara stepped closer, her curiosity overcoming her unease. "You speak as if you've seen this before."

Elijah's smile returned, but it was colder now, devoid of humor. "There have been whispers in every age, tales of those who straddled the line between predator and prey. Some called them abominations, others miracles. I've lived long enough to see both sides of the coin."

Varvara's eyes narrowed. "And this boy? Is he an abomination or a miracle?"

"That remains to be seen," Elijah said, his voice cryptic. "But one thing is certain—he is dangerous. And that makes him valuable."

Varvara straightened. "If he's so dangerous, shouldn't we act now? Before they finish shaping him?"

"Patience, Varvara," Elijah said, his tone shifting to one of quiet authority. "Let the Argent Sword play their hand. Let the boy grow confident. The more he learns, the more leverage we'll have when the time comes."

"And if he resists?" she pressed.

Elijah's pale eyes glinted with a cold fire. "Then we will remind him of his place in the grand design. Tools, no matter how sharp, can always be broken—or reforged."

The fire crackled softly, the only sound in the heavy silence that followed. Varvara lowered her gaze, recognizing the finality in his words. "As you wish."

She turned to leave but paused at the door. "One more thing, Elijah. The boy's aura... it was unlike any half-blood I've encountered. If he truly is what you believe, then..."

"Then we will have much to discuss," Elijah finished for her, his expression unreadable. "Now go. Watch and wait. And do not fail me again."

With a slight nod, Varvara vanished into the shadows, leaving Elijah alone in the flickering light of the fire. He remained still for a long moment, his gaze once again drawn to the city below.

"A miracle," he murmured to himself, the faintest trace of something—longing, perhaps—coloring his voice. "Or an abomination. Either way, the world will tremble before the answer."

Back at the University of Sharman, the night stretched endlessly for Kyon. The walk from the library had been uneventful, yet every step had been shadowed by an unease he couldn't shake.

His dorm room was as he'd left it—untouched, unremarkable—but it no longer felt like a refuge. Every sound from the hallway, every creak of the building settling, made his heart race.

He sat by the window, staring out at the campus shrouded in darkness. The moon hung low, casting long shadows that seemed to shift and writhe at the edges of his vision.

Was he being watched? The thought nagged at him, growing louder with every passing hour. Perhaps the Argent Sword was keeping an eye on him, as Lawrence had implied. Or perhaps it was something else, something older and far less forgiving.

The night passed slowly, the tension never fully leaving me. Even in the safety of my locked room, every sound made me jump, every shadow felt like a threat. But something tells me I'm being watched. Perhaps by the Argent Sword or the vampires. Who knows?

By the time dawn broke, exhaustion weighed heavily on me, but I didn't care. Lawrence's words echoed in my mind.

Don't be late.