Chapter 25
Viona's POV
My stamina was so weak, I couldn't even last an hour. I would have been dead if this was a real mission. The candle wasn't even up to half when I awoke. The time I needed this spell the most, it failed me; maybe the distance was too much for my thirteen-year-old stamina.
I opened my windows and let the breeze in. It was late evening; I knew the Hills pack was not close like the rest of the packs within the Levites territory.
I was in no mood to sleep, at least not anymore. I played with my siblings and continued my studies as I awaited my dad's return.
Two Days Later
I woke up to the smell of blood and my father's scent. I jolted upright from my bed, only after I had confirmed the blood wasn't his by the sound of his heartbeat before I relaxed.
"Dad...?"
I slid out of bed, my feet hitting the cold stone floor with a muted thud. The manor was too quiet. No birdsong. No servants murmuring in the hall. Even the hearth downstairs had gone silent.
I found him in his office.
My dad stood with his back to me. His silver hair was unkempt, curling with sweat, and his sword—his family blade—was still strapped to his hip. That alone told me everything I needed.
He hadn't stopped to rest. He hadn't even removed his weapon. "Father," I called out again, softer this time.
He turned.
There were shadows beneath his eyes, hollows that hadn't been there three days ago. His jaw was tight, lips pressed in a line so thin it looked like a scar.
"Viona," he said, his voice roughened by sleep or sorrow—I couldn't tell, and it made my heart ache. "You're up early."
"I felt something," I admitted.
"How are your siblings?" he inquired, though his eyes were somehow distracted. 'What exactly happened there?'
"They're fine," I replied.
"And your mother?"
"She's doing well too."
"That's good to know."
I stepped forward. "And the Hills pack?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he crossed the room and poured himself a glass of something dark. Not wine—brandy. His hand shook as he brought it to his lips. I felt scared because of his answer.
"Gone," he said finally. "Every last one."
I felt the floor fall out beneath me.
"Gone?" I whispered.
He nodded. "Burned. Not just slaughtered—obliterated. There were bones, child-sized, scattered in ash like dust. Whatever did this... it didn't just kill. It feasted."
One thing I always admired in my dad was his honesty, but now I just couldn't handle it.
I swayed. I had known the Hills pack in my previous life; I had trained with their young, learned tracking with their elders. Their matriarch, Lira, used to braid my hair in the old warrior style whenever I visited.
They were the only pack that wasn't deceived by my uncle after she took over after my father's death.
And now they were dust?
This didn't happen in my previous life, so now a lot of things have changed for the better, but I'm also losing trusted allies before even meeting them in this life.
"Who?" I asked, voice thick.
"That's the worst part," my father murmured. "There were no tracks. No scent trail. Not even residual magic. It's as if the whole massacre was scrubbed clean."
He downed the rest of the brandy and flung the glass into the fireplace. It shattered with a violent crack. I flinched but didn't speak. I swear I have never seen him this angry and frustrated.
Then—three knocks echoed at the door.
Sharp. Methodical. Too precise to be a maid. Too calm to be a guard.
My father was already moving, sword half-drawn. I trailed behind him as he flung open the heavy oak door.
No one.
Only the gray mist of early morning and the quiet crunch of leaves in the wind. No footsteps. No messenger. No rider in sight.
But something lay at the door.
A letter. Sealed with wax as black as coal, pressed with a sigil I didn't recognize—a waterfall under the full moon.
"The Death Clan," my dad mumbled as he bent to pick it up, his gloved fingers trembling slightly as he peeled away the seal. I stepped closer as he unfolded it.
There was no signature. No name. Just words written in a looping, too-neat script.
---
To the House of Levites
You send your hounds to dig through ashes. But it is not the dead you should fear.
We have risen. We remember.
And soon, so will the world.
Let the Hills be your warning.
The next will burn brighter.
Sleep well, Jason. You won't sleep long.
---
The silence that followed was more suffocating than any scream.
My dad handed the letter to me without a word, and for the first time in my life, I saw something in his eyes that terrified me more than any monster or blood-soaked story from the old wars.
Fear.
Not the sharp, battle-hardened kind that sharpened reflexes—but the kind that hollowed men out from within.
"This wasn't random," he muttered. "They knew I'd go there. They waited until I did."
I reread the letter. The words danced in my mind, not just threatening, but personal. It wasn't merely about the Hills. This was the beginning of something long calculated.
Not a message.
My gaze drifted back to the broken glass in the hearth. The fire was lower now, embers dulling to grey.
"Dad, I think we need to alert the Main Council," I said, fingers tightening on the parchment.
I wanted to give my dad a moment alone, but unanswered questions kept resurfacing in my mind.
"Dad...?"
"Hmm..." he said, absent-mindedly searching through some old papers.
"What is the blood sect?"
"Aren't there a myth or... like extinct...?"
He sighed. "Viona...?"
"Yes, Dad."
"Please, no questions for now... okay?"
"Of course... you should take a rest."
"Thank you." He gave me a pained smile, probably feeling guilty, but I assured him I was fine. "I’ll just go ask my mom."
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