Ancestral Lineage-Chapter 484: The Order of Voriel (3)

Capítulo 484: The Order of Voriel (3)

Far from Anbord.

Far from the celebration, laughter, and the fragile illusion of safety.

The stronghold of the Order of Voriel did not exist in any map, nor in any layer of the mortal world that obeyed direction or distance. It hung in a dead fold of reality, half-buried in an Underworld, half-anchored to something dangerous.

The air there did not move. It waited.

Black stone arches twisted upward like the ribs ofa colossal corpse, their surfaces etched with funerary scripture that rewrote itself every few seconds. Beneath them stretched a vast chamber lit by corpse-lanterns; skulls burning with pale green fire, suspended by chains that rattled without wind.

At the center stood a circular obsidian table. Around it knelt figures cloaked in ash-gray robes, their hoods low, their postures reverent. Blood pooled in shallow grooves carved into the floor, slowly flowing toward a sigil shaped like an open grave.

One of them spoke.

“The test is complete.”

The voice belonged to a tall figure with skeletal fingers exposed from his sleeves. His name, once, had been Arch-Deacon Morviel, though names meant little now.

“Our cell reached the inner layers of the Kael’Dri estate,” Morviel continued. “As expected, they were intercepted. No divine retaliation. No Primordial intervention.”

A low murmur rippled through the chamber.

Another robed figure raised her head slightly. Her eyes glowed a sickly violet from within the darkness of her hood. “And the targets?”

“The twins were never in danger,” Morviel replied. “The Emperor’s web reacted before intent could solidify. Fascinating. Even distracted, his dominion is… attentive.”

At that, a ripple of approval passed through the gathered cultists.

A third voice, deeper, distorted, as if spoken through layered graves, cut in.”And the Ancestor?”

Morviel paused.

“The one called Lamair sensed the disturbance. He did not intervene directly. Instead… he observed.”

That caused the murmuring to stop entirely.

Silence fell like a burial shroud.

“So,” the deep voice said slowly, “he is preparing.”

“Yes,” Morviel answered. “The signs are undeniable. He intends to descend.”

A chuckle echoed through the chamber, low and heavy, vibrating through bone and stone alike.

From the far end of the hall, shadows began to peel back.

A throne emerged, constructed from fused gravestones, broken halos, and the rusted remains of execution blades. Upon it sat a towering figure clad in layered funeral armor, blackened and cracked as if it had been reforged countless times. Chains wrapped around his limbs, not as restraints, but as symbols of ownership.

His helm was shaped like a crowned skull split down the middle, green fire burning within the eye sockets.

This was Voriel, the Gravebinder.

“So it worked,” Voriel said, his voice carrying the weight of mass graves and unanswered prayers. “They noticed us.”

Morviel bowed deeply. “As you foresaw, my lord. The Emperor did not respond personally. But the ripple was undeniable. Fear. Caution. Awareness.”

Voriel leaned forward slightly. The chains clinked.

“Good,” he said. “I did not wish to swat the hive. Only to tap the glass.”

Another cultist spoke, hesitant. “And if the Emperor intervenes directly?”

Voriel laughed.

It was not loud, but it was catastrophic. The corpse-lanterns flared wildly, several skulls cracking under the strain. Some of the kneeling cultists trembled as blood seeped from their eyes and ears.

“Intervene?” Voriel repeated. “He is busy playing father. Emperor. Symbol.”

Voriel’s burning gaze shifted, piercing through layers of existence.

“And Lamair…” he continued, almost fondly. “The self-proclaimed Ancestor of Death. The pretender who believes hierarchy still matters.”

He rose from his throne.

The entire stronghold creaked.

“Let him come,” Voriel said softly. “Let him walk into my dominion believing titles will protect him.”

His chains tightened, dragging furrows into the obsidian floor.

“The test proved what I needed,” Voriel finished. “They are powerful. They are united. And they are emotionally compromised.”

Morviel smiled beneath his hood.

“A perfect time to move,” he said.

Voriel’s flames flared brighter.

“No,” the god of Death corrected. “A perfect time to wait.”

The sigil on the floor pulsed like a beating heart.

“After all,” Voriel murmured, settling back onto his throne, “what is death without anticipation?”

And deep within the Kael’Dri estate, far above graves, gods, and schemes, the twins slept peacefully, unaware that the dead were learning their names.

…

Unbeknownst to Lamair, and just as unknowable to the Order of Voriel, Ethan had already seen everything.

Not through spies.

Not through informants.

Not even through prophecy.

He had seen it because the world itself had reported it to him.

Anbord Castle stood radiant beneath the sky, its vast spires catching the light like polished ivory spears. Inside, however, the atmosphere was far less serene. Papers floated in slow, orderly spirals through the Grand Administrative Hall. Holographic displays shimmered above long crystal tables. Sigils of governance pulsed faintly in the air, translating laws, trade routes, census reports, and ceremonial schedules into streams of light.

At the heart of it all sat Ethan Kael’Dri.

He appeared composed. Almost leisurely.

A black-and-white imperial coat draped perfectly over his shoulders, gold embroidery catching the glow of the floating sigils. His posture was relaxed, one elbow resting against the arm of his chair, fingers loosely tapping the surface of the table as he reviewed a projection detailing intercontinental logistics for the naming ceremony.

But beneath that calm…

The golden eye flickered.

Only once.

Only for a fraction of a second.

And in that instant, Ethan had seen a dead fold of reality, a throne of graves, chains clinking against obsidian, and a god of Death who thought patience was a shield.

He had seen the test.

Seen the assassins die.

Seen Voriel smile.

Now, he was doing his absolute best not to react.

“…The northern trade guilds are requesting permission to extend festival hours by three days,” Clara said calmly, adjusting the projection with a flick of her fingers. “They’re expecting record movement through the empire.”

“Approve it,” Ethan replied immediately, his voice smooth. “But cap alcohol distribution after midnight. I don’t want another incident like the Seventh Moon Parade.”

Harley, seated beside him with a tablet resting against her belly, smiled faintly. “You’re still traumatized by that man who tried to wrestle a streetlamp.”

“He won,” Ethan muttered. “That’s the problem.”

A few of the wives chuckled softly.

Lisa leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowed slightly, not at the projections, but at him. “You’re awfully efficient today.”

Ethan didn’t look at her. “Am I?”

“Yes,” Pisces added, her tone gentle but sharp-edged. “You get like this when you’re angry but pretending you’re not.”

The tapping of Ethan’s fingers stopped.

For half a breath, the hall felt heavier.

Then Ethan exhaled slowly and lifted his gaze to another projection, this one showing security formations around the castle and estate. Guards. Wards. Invisible barriers layered so densely they resembled overlapping constellations.

“Nothing to worry about,” he said, evenly. “Just… thinking ahead.”

Barki, standing near one of the windows with her arms crossed, snorted. “That’s a lie.”

Ethan finally looked at her.

Not sharply.

Not threateningly.

Just… deeply.

Barki stiffened.

“…But it’s your lie,” she amended quickly, clearing her throat. “So I’ll pretend I didn’t notice.”

Vaeloria stepped closer, placing a hand on Ethan’s shoulder. Her touch was warm, grounding. “You’re holding back,” she said softly. “Whatever it is… you’re holding it back for us.”

Ethan covered her hand with his own.

“Yes,” he admitted quietly.

Another projection flickered to life on its own, unprompted. For just a moment, the image distorted, showing a smear of green flame and chained darkness before stabilizing again into harmless administrative data.

None of the attendants noticed.

None of the scribes reacted.

But all of his wives did.

The room went very still.

Ethan straightened, his expression returning fully to that of the composed Emperor. “Let’s finish today’s agenda,” he said. “The empire comes first. The twins’ ceremony comes second.”

“And whatever’s bothering you?” Harley asked gently.

Ethan smiled at her, a real smile this time, soft and affectionate.

“That,” he said, eyes briefly glowing gold and silver beneath his lashes, “comes last.”

Far away, in a place where graves whispered and gods plotted…

Voriel believed himself unseen.

And Ethan Kael’Dri continued filing reports, approving budgets, and signing ceremonial decrees…

While quietly deciding how much mercy Death was about to lose.

…

A colossal beast tore through the heavens, its trajectory unwavering, Anbord.

It was no mere creature of flesh and bone. This was a being spoken of only in half-remembered legends and forbidden scriptures, a silhouette that made the sky itself feel too small. Its wingspan alone swallowed the stars, blotting out constellations as though they were insignificant sparks unworthy of its notice.

Dark crimson flames streamed from its feathers, not burning the air so much as rewriting it, leaving glowing scars across the night sky. The world beneath became a smear of shadows and wind, cities and mountains reduced to fleeting impressions as it passed overhead.

The moon hung low and sharp, a pale crescent clinging stubbornly to the sky, like a lone night guard refusing to abandon its post even in the face of overwhelming power.

The beast was a phoenix.

Not the delicate, reborn kind sung about in fairy tales, but an ancient sovereign of flame and annihilation. Its body was a cathedral of living fire, feathers layered like molten plates, eyes burning with an intelligence older than most worlds. Every beat of its wings sent shockwaves rippling through the clouds, thunder following in its wake seconds too late.

Upon its back stood two figures.

They were small against its immensity, silhouettes framed by infernal light, clothes snapping violently in the wind. Neither clung for balance. Neither showed fear. They stood as though the phoenix itself existed to carry them, and not the other way around.

Behind the great phoenix flew other beasts.

Gryphons. Leviathans of air. Winged monstrosities that would have been apocalyptic threats on their own. Yet beside the phoenix, they looked diminished, followers at best, shadows at worst. Their flames were dull. Their presence restrained.

The phoenix led.

The rest followed.

One of the figures leaned forward slightly, gaze fixed on the distant glow of Anbord on the horizon.

“Finally,” a voice said, tinged with excitement barely restrained, almost trembling.

“Finally, we get to see him… my soulmate.”

The second figure turned their head just enough for the firelight to catch the curve of a calm, unreadable profile.

“Yes,” they replied evenly. “Behave when you reach there, will you?”

A laugh followed, light, reckless, utterly unrepentant.

“I won’t promise anything!”

There was a pause.

Then the second voice returned, colder now, edged with something lethal beneath the composure.

“You will,” they said softly,

“Or you will die without knowing.”

The phoenix screamed.

Not in rage.

Not in warning.

But in proclamation.

And across the night sky, as the flames painted a path toward Anbord, the world itself seemed to brace, because something ancient had set its sights on the empire.

Creation is hard, cheer me up!

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