Rebirth System: Blood and Ash

By dawn, the Imperial City had awoken to whispered horrors.

The news crackled through the city like dry leaves on fire, setting both noble courts and the narrow, winding streets ablaze with rumors. House Breinne, a name spoken with reverence and power, had been nearly eradicated overnight.

More than half its bloodline lay dead, scattered like leaves after heavy rain. And the Lady Liselle, once poised to wed the empire's second prince, had barely clung to life through the assault.

Her wounds were severe, and the hushed questions surrounding her health only fueled the fire. Uncertainty hung over her fate, leaving the imperial city restless, teeming with speculation.

The courts were quick to birth rumors, feeding upon each one like starving wolves.

Who could have committed such a brutal act? House Breinne had no known enemies—or so they thought. Some whispered about rivals in business, others speculated foreign spies, but the idea that crept through nearly every mind, yet dared not speak itself aloud, was the possibility of the imperial family's own hand in the massacre.

Could this be a signal of the impending war for the throne?

People murmured in awe and fear. None of the princes were accounted for at the time of the slaughter. Of them all, Sylas, second prince and would-be groom, would have been the likeliest candidate to sow such destruction.

His brutality was no secret; he had carved it into his legend, a legacy of bloodied steel and unflinching wrath. But with him being the victim, suspicion drifted next to Valen and Aric. Valen, the eldest, bore the harsh reputation of a prince who left no task unfinished.

He was pragmatic, ruthless—a man willing to destroy what he could not control.

Yet there were whispers of the fourth prince, too, though many found it difficult to picture Aric, the forgotten prince, as capable of such a feat. He had subdued the kingdom of Byzeth, yes, but even then it felt inadequate to paint him capable of such brtality.

Few could reconcile that image of him with one who might unleash chaos upon the heart of a noble house. And so, minds twisted themselves in circles, reasoning and wondering, with a chilling realization that perhaps none of the princes were beyond such deeds.

By the time these rumors had settled like dust across the city, Aric stood in his courtyard, sparring under the cold morning light.

The clash of steel rang out sharp and fierce, filling the courtyard with the sound of practiced violence.

Mandel stood opposite him, his stance grounded and powerful. The sun caught his dark skin, casting a faint gleam off the sweat tracing his brow. His curls, short and brown, clung to his head, and his light blue eyes were clear, precise, trained on Aric's every movement.

Mandel's hand was strong on the hilt of his blade, yet Aric noticed a restraint in each strike. Mandel held back, as if his full strength remained coiled within, waiting. He swung with precision, yes, but every blow stopped just short of true power.

His light blue eyes met Aric's, steady and calculating, as if weighing him with every pass of their swords.

Aric shifted his stance, planting his feet firmly into the ground, his grip tightening around the hilt. His sword arm moved like a viper—sharp, unpredictable, yet calculated. With each strike, he bore the mark of a man who had seen battle, who had worn blood on his skin and carried death in his hands.

He parried Mandel's attacks with an almost graceful ease, his movements fluid but with a darkness lurking in their precision.

The duel stretched on, each taking the other's measure. Mandel's blade flashed, meeting Aric's with a resounding clang, but the restraint in his strikes grew more evident with each pass.

Aric's gaze narrowed, his annoyance flaring as he registered how much more Mandel held back. That hesitation, that careful distance, grated against him, the restraint although neccesary felt a taunt in itself.

Without warning, Aric launched forward, his sword cutting through the air with deadly intent. Mandel dodged, stepping back, his face unreadable. But Aric didn't relent. He pressed forward, forcing Mandel to retreat with every strike, every calculated thrust.

Then, in one swift movement, Aric lunged. His sword pierced through Mandel's guard, driving straight into his torso. Mandel staggered, the blade buried in his flesh, his hand clutching the hilt.

A faint wince crossed his face, but he made no sound. Blood began to seep from the wound, staining his tunic, but he remained upright, his gaze steady on Aric even as he fell to his knees.

The courtyard fell silent.

Aric let go of the blade, watching as Mandel dropped, the weight of the sword still in his body pulling him to the ground. Blood spread beneath him, dark and vivid against the pale stones, the life force spilling from his wound like a silent accusation. But Mandel's eyes didn't waver. There was a fire there, even in pain.

Before Aric could move, shouts echoed from beyond the courtyard walls.

"Aric! Aric, get out here now!"

The voice, sharp and furious, cut through the stillness, bearing unmistakable authority. It was Sylas.

Aric raised an eyebrow, an amused glint flashing in his eyes. Sylas was here already. Earlier than he had anticipated, but not unwelcome.

With a smirk, he glanced down at Mandel's fallen form and gave him a rough nudge with his boot.

"Get up, Mandel. You're not done yet."

Mandel's hand reached up, wrapping around the hilt of the blade embedded in his chest. He grimaced, but without a word, he pulled the sword free, his face hardening against the pain. The blade slipped from his flesh with a sickening sound as he smiled, he rose to his feet, steady despite the blood trickling down his torso.

Aric's lips curved into a menacing grin, his voice a low murmur.

"My brother is here to greet us."

The words held a thrill of dark anticipation, the promise of yet another game, another mask, to wear in the face of his rival.