Volume I The Crimson Covenant: The Moonlit Blood
ACT I THE BLOOD COFFIN GUILD
Chapter 1 The Silver Tempest
The village of Kisfenyő was dying. Flames crawled across timber roofs like hungry beasts, turning homes into pillars of orange fire. Thick black smoke rolled through the narrow streets, carrying the smell of burning wood, spilled grain, and blood. Chickens ran wildly through the square. Horses screamed in panic. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell rang once before collapsing into silence. The surviving villagers huddled behind overturned carts and broken fences, too terrified to flee and too hopeless to fight. the Baalanian captain stood In the center of the burning square . He was a large man, taller than most Elyrian soldiers, with broad shoulders and skin bronzed by decades beneath the desert sun. His black hair was braided behind his head, and a white veil hung loosely around his neck, stained with soot and blood. Layers of dark leather and blackened steel protected his chest, while curved silver-inlaid armor guarded his forearms. At his hip rested a long, slightly curved desert sword whose edge shimmered in the firelight. Around him, his warriors searched homes and dragged villagers into the open.
“Find the relic,” he ordered coldly. “Search every cellar. Every crypt. Every stone.”
Then the strange seemingly unmanned carriage arrived. It rolled slowly through the smoke, its wheels making almost no sound. Its body was carved from polished black wood darker than midnight, etched with silver runes that glimmered faintly beneath the flames. Blue lanterns hung from iron brackets, their cold light untouched by the smoke. And pulling it were not horses. They were shadow horses tall, skeletal creatures formed from living darkness, their manes drifting like black mist and their eyes glowing pale silver. The villagers shrank back in fear. The carriage door opened. A blond youth stepped down. Bálint Várhegyi looked no older than eighteen. He was tall and lean, built more like a fencer than a knight, with pale skin and sharp aristocratic features. His hair was a striking silver-blond, long enough to brush his collar, and his gray eyes were unnervingly calm. He wore a fitted black coat trimmed with silver embroidery, dark riding trousers, and polished boots dusted by the road. Across his back hung two coiled silver whips attached to ornate hilts of black steel. Everything about him seemed composed. Too composed for a burning village. Too composed for a battlefield. Beside him stood his younger brother, Zoltán, carrying an enormous axe across one shoulder, the younger blond boy carrying an enormous battle axe far too large for someone his age. who Unlike his brother, he looked around with genuine sadness at the burning homes. but Bálint took a single step forward first.
He looked at the flames.
Then at the villagers.
Then at the Baalanian captain.
“Leave,” he said quietly.
The captain laughed.
“One boy threatens an entire warband?”
His soldiers joined in.
“You’re far from your castle, noble.”
“Run while you still can.”
Bálint sighed almost imperceptibly.
“I wasn’t threatening you.”
His right hand moved.
The silver whip uncoiled with a sound like a thunderclap.
CRACK.
A Baalanian swordsman cried out as his weapon split cleanly in half. Before anyone reacted, Bálint was already moving. He became a blur of black and silver. One whip snapped around a spear shaft and tore it from a soldier’s hands. The second lashed through the air, slicing a torch in half and plunging part of the street into darkness. Three men attacked together. They hit nothing. Bálint slipped between them with impossible speed, coat fluttering like smoke. His whips flashed once. Armor straps snapped. Weapons fell. The soldiers collapsed in confusion, realizing only afterward that they had been disarmed without receiving a single fatal wound. The villagers stared. Some looked just as frightened of the blond noble as they had been of the raiders.
“Monster…” someone whispered.
The Baalanian captain’s smile vanished.
He drew his curved sword.
“Enough games.”
He charged.
Unlike his men, he was fast.
Very fast.
His blade cut through the smoke in a deadly arc aimed at Bálint’s throat. Bálint bent backward just enough for the edge to miss him by a finger’s width. The captain followed immediately with a second strike. Then a third. Sparks exploded as silver whip met steel. The duel swept across the burning square. The captain fought like a veteran of a hundred campaigns, using powerful, efficient strikes meant to break an opponent’s guard through sheer force. Bálint fought like a storm. He was incredibly fast. He never stayed still. His whips changed length constantly shortening into blade-like weapons, then extending outward to strike from impossible angles. Firelight reflected from the razor-edged silver as he moved through the smoke with almost supernatural grace.
The captain’s eyes widened.
“What are you?”
“A noble of House Várhegyi,” Bálint replied.
“And you’re hurting my people.”
The captain roared and unleashed a flurry of attacks.
For the first time, Bálint’s expression hardened. The air cracked. Both silver whips erupted outward. To the villagers, it looked as though a web of silver lightning suddenly filled the square. The captain blocked once. Twice. Then Bálint vanished from his sight. A cold voice spoke behind him.
“Too slow.”
The captain turned.
Too late.
Bálint’s twin whips crossed.
SHRAK.
The curved sword shattered into glittering fragments.
The captain froze. A thin line appeared across his armor where the silver edges had stopped a breath away from cutting through him completely. Bálint lowered his weapons.
“Take your surviving men,” he said calmly, “and leave.”
For a long moment, the Baalanian captain simply stared.
Then he stepped back. Fear had finally replaced arrogance. He signaled the retreat. The surviving raiders in all black began fleeing into the forest. Silence slowly returned to the village. The flames still burned, but the killing had stopped. Bálint stood alone in the smoke, silver whips recoiling neatly back into their hilts. The villagers looked at him uncertainly. He was too fast. Too calm. Too dangerous. Then an elderly woman stumbled and nearly fell. Bálint reached her first. He caught her gently before she hit the ground.
“Careful,” he said.
His voice was unexpectedly soft. One by one, the villagers realized something. The terrifying young noble had never struck a single innocent person. Every movement had protected them. Every attack had been aimed away from the fleeing crowd.
The old woman looked up at him with trembling eyes.
“You… you came to help us?”
Bálint glanced at the burning homes.
For a brief moment, pain flickered behind his calm expression.
“Yes,” he answered quietly.
“We did.”
Behind him, heavy metallic footsteps approached through the smoke. The villagers turned. The giant automaton carrying the black coffin had finally reached the square. And the iron clasps on the coffin were beginning to unlock.
No comments:
Post a Comment