The war hall of Fortress Bragan?a was filled with the smell of burnt oil and the sound of pages being turned. In the center, on the stone table, lay the scroll with the figure no one wanted to stare at for too long: the Tower of the Unfortunate, surrounded by eleven incomplete circles.

  Lukas pressed both hands against the cold surface, breathing slowly. He had learned that, to keep his rage under control, all he needed to do was stare at the symbol until the world around him grew silent. And in that silence, the same promise always returned: *I will finish what my father started.*

  Behind him, three familiar presences stood watch. Valquíria, arms crossed, her gaze as cold as on the battlefield. Luiz, leaning against a pillar, flexing the arm where a scar still burned. Adriele, motionless, like a statue of ice.

  The cardinal cleared his throat, his voice trembling: — We’ve received more reports... — he traced his finger over the scroll — A figure covered by a black cloak, wounded, but smiling. Always leaving behind this same symbol.

  No one had to ask the name. Anatoly. The Eleventh Calamity. The murderer of Kyros.

  — Then he’s still alive... — Adriele whispered, her eyes hollow.

  Valquíria drew in a deep breath. — Not just him. — She pointed to the circles. — There are still ten. And no one can say what waits on the upper floor.

  Luiz uncrossed his arms and stepped closer to the table. When he spoke, his voice carried its usual cruel calm: — Most of our brothers are scattered. — He shot Lukas a sideways look. — Alex commands the Northern Frontier Legions. — He sighed. — Marcos... only God knows where Marcos is.

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  His tone shifted, laced with contempt: — As for Darian... — he spat the name — he calls himself the “Crooked Sword” now. The traitor who abandoned everything our father believed in.

  Valquíria lifted her chin: — Helena remains in the West, styling herself as the “Lady of Gold.” Surrounded by flatterers and fools, convinced her beauty alone is power enough.

  — Selene hides among the fanatics of the Dark Eye — Luiz added. — She stays locked in her tower, convinced she controls secrets no one else understands.

  Valquíria’s gaze fell, her voice faltering for the first time: — And... Maycon and Lyncon... — a pause — died defending Sorriso.

  Silence.

  Luiz clenched his fists, no longer hiding the weight in his chest: — Two idiots. But they were ours.

  The Pope rubbed his face as if he wanted to erase it all from memory. — And Darian? — he asked hoarsely.

  Luiz let out a cold laugh. — Darian formed his own squad. — His eyes gleamed with disdain. — The Swords.

  — As if that name could wash away what he did — Valquíria muttered.

  — And you know what? — Luiz crossed his arms again. — The Swords will never be as strong as us, the Copas. Or the Trevos, Valquíria’s warriors.

  — True. — Valquíria’s reply was sharp. — That cursed traitor was always arrogant.

  ## The Promise

  Lukas said nothing. His eyes stayed locked on the Tower’s black mark. When he finally spoke, his voice was so low it seemed to come from another place: — Want to know how I got strong? It was simple. I trained until my bones cracked. Until my body begged for rest. And I kept going. When I bled so much I couldn’t see, I stood up again. Crawled. Fought through everything.

  He raised his head. — Three years. Without losing a single fight.

  No one dared to answer.

  Valquíria placed a hand on his shoulder. Her tone softened for just a moment: — I know — she said. — But you need to remember something.

  Lukas looked up, exhausted. — What?

  She sighed, arched a brow, and her tone turned mocking again: — That life isn’t just about vengeance. — She smirked. — You’re only eighteen. Go get a girlfriend.

  Lukas felt his face flush. — Shut up, Valquíria.

  Luiz burst out laughing: — She’s right, you know. In the end, it’ll be hilarious watching the great Blood Demon running away from a handful of love-struck girls.

  — I’m going to ignore you both. — Lukas clenched his fists, his face burning.

  — Ignore us all you want — Valquíria teased — but it won’t change the truth. One day, you’ll have to live for something beyond vengeance.

  Luiz shook his head, smiling with that trademark arrogance: — Until then, you’ll keep using that “trash style” you insist on calling a technique.

  — My style isn’t trash — Lukas growled. — And I’m not joining the Copas, you idiot.

  — Then good luck — Luiz shrugged. — But don’t come crying when you realize training alone has its limits.

  For an instant, despite his anger, Lukas almost laughed. Almost.

  End of Chapter 8