Darvok's crimson eyes, brimming with malevolent glee, gleamed beneath a cascade of dark blue hair that nearly veiled his face. High cheekbones and a strong, angular jaw lent him an otherworldly allure, his devilish charm heightened by the cold wind whispering through the clearing, tugging at his cloak with an eerie grace.

"Well, look at you," Darvok sneered, his lips curling into a crooked grin. "You've grown." He raised a hand lazily, a gesture dripping with mockery. "Twelve years, is it? My, how time flies."

His smile widened, cutting like a blade. "My deepest condolences for your family back then," he drawled, his tone as venomous as it was insincere. "Such a tragedy to lose everyone you cared for. And to think, I had the honor of being there to witness it." He chuckled softly, a sound more taunt than amusement.

Lucien remained silent, showing no anger, but his eyes reflected his unwavering determination to slay the man before him. His grip on his sword tightened.

"Those monsters... is it your doing?" he asked, his voice steady.

Darvok shook his head, his grin twisting further. "The abyss has its own way, Lucien. It always has. A sign of where it would come sooner. You should be aware of its faint presence by now."

Lucien's gaze remained locked on him. "Barely, from what you were capable of twelve years ago. I have no doubt it was you again."

"Ah, yes," Darvok mused, tapping his chin mockingly. "The massacre. A masterpiece of chaos, wouldn't you agree? But as much as I'd love to take credit for every piece of this grand puzzle..." His gaze sharpened, his voice dropping to a sinister whisper. "I am merely the messenger, not the controller."

Lucien's eyes narrowed, his cold gaze piercing. "Then what is your purpose here exactly?"

Darvok chuckled darkly. "Quite simple, really," he said, the sigil beneath him pulsing with faint, dark energy. "The Blade of Ashen Frost, a sword sealed by your ancestor. To find it, I must eliminate and extract those individuals with rare ancient blood. The final piece of the puzzle is nearly in place. You've done well protecting your people, to the point that my acolytes never even had the chance to lay their hands on them when you took action. But I've come for this—the last of our targets... will be your sweet, innocent niece."

Lucien's chest tightened, but his expression betrayed no shock—only a deeper resolve. "Clara," he said, his voice cold and sharp like a winter wind.

"You don't seem surprised at all. I take it you somehow anticipated this. As expected of someone so smart," Darvok said, his grin widening, his eyes glinting with malice. "Oh, and by the way, my acolytes may already be in motion as we speak. Your estate—so tranquil, so secure, isn't it? But let's not pretend your guards are a match for what I know. I assure you, Lucien, we've planned for every measure you've taken."

Lucien's breath hitched for just a moment, but he quickly steeled himself. He shifted his weight, his sword raised and angled diagonally across his chest, gleaming in the dim light.

Before Darvok could say another word, Lucien lunged quickly, his blade swinging in a precise arc toward his neck. Darvok didn't move—his grin remained fixed. 

The blade met its mark effortlessly. Darvok's head was severed cleanly, blood splattering in a vivid arc and staining the snowy ground in crimson. The headless body collapsed with a loud thud, yet the moment was far from over.

A sinister laugh echoed through the clearing, chilling Lucien to his core. It came from Darvok's head, the twisted grin still etched on his lifeless face.

Darvok's severed head slowly dissolved into shadow, fading into the darkness, as did his headless body. Lucien glanced down at the crimson-stained snow, his senses sharp despite the sinister laugh echoing around him.

"You're fast," Darvok's voice taunted, disembodied yet chilling. "What an admirable skill. And that gaze—so intimidating."

Before Lucien could respond, Darvok materialized behind him in a blur of darkness. Lucien reacted instantly, twisting out of the way, but the blade in Darvok's hand surged toward his throat, cutting through the air with deadly precision.

But just as Darvok's blade came within inches of his neck, a sudden flash of light erupted around Lucien, forming a barrier of sphere, halting the deadly blow in its tracks. The dark figure recoiled slightly, his crimson eyes narrowing as he took in the shimmering shield.

"My, what a caring wife you have," Darvok mused with a dark chuckle, his tone dripping with mockery.

Lucien's jaw tightened, his grip unwavering on his sword. Without hesitation, their blades clashed again. "Do you really believe a mere daughter of House Wycliffe can protect your niece from them?" Darvok sneered, his voice dripping with malice.

Steel met steel in a flurry of strikes, the clearing becoming a battlefield of ice and shadow. Each swing of Lucien's blade was met with Darvok's sinister precision, their battle was a deadly dance beneath the pale light.

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Quentin strode through the grand hallway of the duke's estate, his boots clicking sharply against the marble floor. Outside, the last vestiges of sunlight poured through the arched windows, casting long, jagged shadows across the blue carpet. The air was heavy—stifling, even—despite the absence of fires in the hearths. A faint, metallic tang hung in the air, the unmistakable scent of iron.

He paused mid-stride, frowning. Something was off. The estate had been bustling with servants when he arrived, yet now it was silent. A living, breathing silence, as though the very walls held their breath, waiting for his next step.

The guards, once stationed at regular intervals, were gone. A chill slithered up his spine. Quentin pressed on, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his rapier.

As he neared the grand staircase, the strange atmosphere thickened. A single candle flickered on the wall, its flame trembling in the still air. His eyes darted toward the bannister. At the base of the stairs, something dark glistened faintly in the dim light. Blood.

Quentin knelt, inspecting the trail. The faint copper scent confirmed his fears. The streaks were disturbingly precise, almost surgical, as though the act had been carried out with cold, calculated efficiency. His gaze followed the trail upward. Halfway up the staircase, a guard's corpse slumped lifelessly against the bannister, his throat slit in a razor thin line.

No sign of a struggle. No cry for help. Whoever had done this had been swift—methodical.

"An assassin," he muttered under his breath.

His pulse quickened, each breath shallow as he scanned the room. The grand chandeliers above barely swayed, yet something about the stillness felt wrong. From the far end of the hall came a faint creak, like a predator testing its surroundings. Quentin's grip on his rapier tightened as he rose, the echo of his boots now deafening in the silence.

"I must inform the duchess," he murmured. But the study was far away.

He pressed forward, the air growing colder as the shadows thickened around him. The paintings on the walls bore specks of blood, grotesque reminders of what had transpired.

In the dining room, he found another body—a maid sprawled across the polished floor. Her wide, lifeless eyes stared into nothingness, a silent scream frozen on her pale face. A shattered wine goblet lay beside her, its crimson contents pooling beneath her like blood.

"Celia..." His voice faltered, the name of the once-kind woman who had greeted him hours earlier catching in his throat.

Quentin forced himself onward, though his instincts screamed at him to turn back. At the far end of the hallway, a door stood ajar, faint traces of dark magic seeping from within. He hesitated briefly before stepping toward it, his rapier unsheathed.

The room beyond was steeped in an unnatural stillness, the air humming with the faintest whisper—a breathless murmur of something ancient and unspeakable. Quentin froze, his heart pounding like a war drum.

Then, behind him, there is a sound—a deliberate scrape, faint but unmistakable. He spun, blade raised, his eyes searching the impenetrable darkness.

Whoever had infiltrated the estate was terrifyingly efficient. Guards and servants had been slain swiftly and with precision, leaving no room for error. These were no common intruders. They were seasoned killers.

Quentin's jaw tightened, his stance firm as he braced himself. Whatever lurked in the shadows was faster, smarter, and waiting. The walls seemed to close in, the air around him heavy with inevitability.

And then, the silence shattered. The metallic ring of the blade echoed in the oppressive stillness.

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On the other side of the estate, the light from the oil lamp cast a golden glow across the modest study. Adeline leaned against the desk, dressed in a fitted blouse with lace-up detailing at the neckline, tucked neatly into high-waisted trousers. The fabric hugged her frame snugly, and the practical boots on her feet were scuffed from frequent wear. A black ribbon tied her icy-blue hair into a loose, cascading ponytail that swayed slightly as she moved.

Her fingers drummed impatiently against the desk. Quentin had been gone too long. He was never one to linger unnecessarily, especially not with the estate matters.

She exhaled sharply, pushing herself off the desk. Something was off—she could feel it. Trusting her instincts, she stepped out of the study and into the dark hallway.

The estate's halls stretched endlessly in the dim light of the moon filtering through the windows. Adeline moved swiftly, her boots making faint sounds against the wooden floors. The air seemed to thicken as she descended the central staircase.

Her sharp eyes caught the first sign of trouble: a thin trail of blood smeared across the smooth surface of the floor. She knelt, her fingers brushing the edge of the crimson streak. It was fresh.

Straightening, Adeline followed the trail. The deeper she ventured, the colder the air became.

The blood trail ended suddenly in the center of the hall, as though it had been swallowed by the shadows. Her senses heightened. Then she saw it—a flicker of movement in the darkness, barely perceptible. Her eyes narrowed.

She didn't flinch. Instead, a dagger of light forming silently in her hand, the faint glow illuminating her sharp features.

A shadow erupted from the hall, silent and swift. The assassin's blade glinted faintly, aimed straight for her heart.

But Adeline was faster. She twisted to the side, and with a sharp kick, sent the attacker stumbling back.

Before she could react further, two more figures emerged, their robes blending seamlessly with the dark. One leaped forward, dagger raised. Adeline countered the attack, evading with ease before swinging her glowing dagger with precision. It struck the attacker's wrist, and his weapon clattered to the floor.

But the second assassin lunged at her before she could recover, his hand wrapping tightly around her throat.

She gasped as his grip tightened, lifting her off the ground. With a snarl, the assassin flung her like a ragdoll. The last thing she saw was the glass of the window shattering as she flew through it.

The night air cut through her like a blade as she tumbled to the ground below. Her body hit the earth with a sickening thud, shards of glass scattering around her. Pain shot through her arms and ribs.

For a brief moment, she lay there, her breath ragged, the cold wind seeping into her skin. Beneath her, the ground shimmered, and a sigil flared to life, etched in intricate patterns of light. Its glow was warm and soothing, chasing away the cold and spreading through her body like a liquid fire.

The sigil pulsed once, and her wounds began to knit themselves together. Torn flesh reconnected, bruises faded, and fractured bones mended with unnatural speed. She gritted her teeth as the warmth surged through her ribs, the sharp ache giving way to strength. Within moments, the pain was gone, leaving behind only a faint tingling sensation.

Adeline pushed herself upright, her breath steadying. Her blouse was streaked with her own blood, and the black ribbon tying her hair had come loose in the fall, leaving icy-blue strands cascading wildly around her face.

As the light faded, the sigil vanished, leaving no trace but the restored strength in her limbs. She adjusted her stance, brushing shards of glass from her trousers and boots, and looked up at the shattered window above. The assassins leapt gracefully through the opening, landing in the garden without a sound.

Five of them now stood before her, meters away, their robes unnervingly fluid, almost alive. Adeline straightened her posture, her expression calm despite the storm raging inside her. Her hand sparkled, light swirling around her palm as she readied her ability once more. Her sharp eyes darted between the figures, already calculating her next move.

One of the assassins began to speak; his voice was a low, rasping growl that sent chills down her spine.

"Where is the duke's niece?"

Adeline's lips twitched into a smirk, though her heart thundered in her chest. They wouldn't find Clara—not unless they got through her first.

"You'll have to get through me to find out," she said, her voice steady, her confidence unwavering.

The assassins tensed, their weapons gleaming as they prepared to strike. Her fight was just the beginning.