Lucius stood in silence.

  The mist before him shifted, breathing without lungs, existing without shape. The Curse of Hatred waited—patient, eternal.

  Lucius’ thoughts raced.

  Should I accept it?

  What happens if I do?

  Will I still be myself?

  He imagined losing control and becoming a puppet and becoming something else.

  Then another image surfaced.

  Reid’s back.

  Reid choosing Arttu.

  Reid walking away without looking back.

  Frigg’s death.

  Lucius clenched his fists.

  Slowly, deliberately, he nodded.

  “I accept you.”

  His voice trembled—but not with fear.

  With resolve.

  The mist reacted instantly.

  It quivered violently, swirling in on itself, thickening, stretching—as if it were laughing without a mouth.

  “Good,” Hatred said, pleased.

  “Call the Generals, Lucius. Tell them I require their presence.”

  Lucius bowed deeply, head lowered.

  “Of course,” he said.

  “…Lord Hatred.”

  Ten minutes later, the chamber filled.

  A long obsidian table stretched through the room, lit only by dim, pulsing torches. One by one, figures arrived—each carrying an aura that bent the air around them.

  Eight in total.

  At the far end sat Hatred itself, mist coiled like a throne.

  To Hatred’s right—

  Baron.

  Straight-backed. Immaculate. A soldier to the core. His short hair was shaved clean, his expression carved from discipline. He did not fidget. Did not blink. He had served the previous vessel—and would serve again.

  Trust and Thrust.

  Twin brothers slouched into their seats, thick arms folded, axes resting lazily against the table. Their eyes were half-lidded, bodies relaxed—but their presence reeked of violence barely restrained. Men who laughed while killing.

  The Demon Child.

  Masked. Braided hair falling over his shoulders. A sword rested at his side, untouched. His aura glowed a deep, ominous red, but his posture remained calm. That calm was what frightened people the most.

  To Hatred’s left—

  Paardos.

  An elf with cheetah-like eyes, golden and sharp. His movements were fluid, predatory, and elegant. He leaned forward slightly, always ready. Always hunting.

  Pest.

  A madman slouched in his chair, rocking back and forth as if listening to a tune no one else could hear. Dark green hair framed his face, makeup smeared in ways that made him look less human than monster.

  Tarot.

  A boy—no older than fifteen—sat sideways in his chair, feet propped up, staring at the ceiling. Dark eyes. Empty expression. Too calm for someone so young.

  And finally—

  Lucius.

  He sat straight.

  Confident. Composed.

  Long hair falling down his back. One blue eye shining with angelic geometry. His staff rested beside him, steady and unmoving.

  Hatred spoke.

  “I have chosen the new vessel.”

  Silence.

  No gasps. No murmurs. Only tension.

  Hatred continued.

  “The one worthy of wielding my power is—”

  Paardos leaned forward.

  “Lucius.”

  Every gaze snapped to him.

  No one spoke.

  But annoyance lingered thick in the air.

  Then Paardos broke.

  “Are you joking?” he shouted, slamming a hand on the table. “That is your choice?!”

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  The mist trembled.

  Slowly.

  Dangerously.

  “Are you implying,” Hatred asked calmly,

  “that I have made a mistake?”

  Paardos didn’t stop.

  “He is the weakest among us! Why—”

  He choked.

  His body lifted slightly from the chair, limbs stiffening as invisible pressure crushed his throat. His face twisted in panic as he clawed at the air.

  “Are you questioning my will, Paardos?”

  “I—can’t—breathe—” Paardos gasped.

  Hatred released him.

  He collapsed back into his seat, coughing violently.

  “The meeting is over,” Hatred said coldly.

  “I have nothing further to discuss.”

  Then—

  “Lord Baron.”

  Baron stood instantly, fist over his chest.

  “You served Stuart,” Hatred said. “You will serve Lucius.”

  “With all my abilities,” Baron replied without hesitation.

  “Good.”

  Hatred’s presence expanded.

  “You are dismissed.”

  One by one, they rose and left—silent, obedient.

  Paardos lingered.

  Just for a second.

  His eyes burned with fury as they locked with Lucius’.

  Lucius felt it—but dismissed it.

  He will be nothing, Lucius thought.

  Not once I have the power.

  The doors shut.

  Only Hatred and Lucius remained.

  “Open your mouth,” Hatred said.

  Lucius hesitated.

  Then obeyed.

  Black mist poured forward—slow, deliberate—slipping past his lips, invading him inch by inch.

  The pain was immediate.

  White-hot. Crushing. As if his veins were being filled with fire and ice at the same time.

  His vision blurred.

  His body screamed.

  But Lucius did not.

  He endured.

  This pain is nothing, he told himself.

  If this is the price, then I will pay it.

  The mist vanished.

  Hatred was gone.

  Only Lucius remained.

  Standing.

  Overflowing.

  Power surged through him—vast, unnatural, intoxicating.

  He walked toward the massive gates.

  Placed his hand upon them.

  And pushed.

  At the exit of the door stood a girl with blonde hair and blue eyes, holding a book open somewhere in the middle, her finger marking the page as if she had been interrupted mid-thought.

  “Hey, Lucy,” she said without looking up at first.

  “What happened? Why were the other generals talking about you… annoyed?”

  She finally raised her eyes.

  It was Lexy.

  Now fully grown.

  She looked annoyed—arms loosely crossed, eyebrows slightly drawn together—but it was clearly fake. A performance. One she had practiced many times before.

  “Did you do something that made them mad?” she asked.

  Lucius stopped in front of her. His posture was calm, steady—the same as always. If something inside him had changed, it didn’t show.

  “Lexy,” he said, evenly.

  “I am the new vessel.”

  Lexy blinked once.

  Then her eyes gleamed.

  Not widened in shock. Not narrowed in fear. They simply… shone.

  “Wow,” she said, a little too quickly.

  “I am so happy for you.”

  She closed the book without marking the page and stepped forward, wrapping her arms around him. The hug was warm. Tight. A second too long.

  Her smile, when she pulled back, stayed frozen just a bit too wide.

  Lucius noticed.

  And treated it as normal.

  Lexy stepped back, smoothing her hair, reopening her book as if nothing worth remembering had just happened.

  “Well,” she said lightly, eyes already drifting back to the page,

  “I guess congratulations are in order.”

  Lucius nodded.

  “Yes,” he replied.

  She watched him for a moment longer than necessary, her eyes searching his face—quietly, carefully—as if expecting something to surface.

  It didn’t.

  Lucius turned and walked down the corridor.

  Each step echoed the same as before.

  His breathing was steady.

  His grip on his staff was firm.

  Nothing felt different.

  And yet—

  The air around him felt… attentive.

  He ignored it.

  Behind him, Lexy remained still, her finger unmoving on the page. She did not turn it.

  Her smile turned into something devilish the moment Lucius disappeared from sight.

  Ominous.

  Far away from the Cult of Hatred’s base.

  In a village south of Aquilonis, time passed differently.

  Reid and Arttu ate.

  They ate like people who had survived something and didn’t want to think about it.

  Pies first—sweet and warm, filling their hands with crumbs that stuck to their fingers. Tarts with shiny tops that cracked softly when bitten. Cakes layered with cream so thick it made their jaws tired. Chocolate that melted instantly and stained their lips. Milk puddings served warm, sprinkled lightly with spice.

  And rice pudding.

  Arttu loved rice pudding.

  He ate it carefully every time, spoon slow, posture straight, eyes focused like it was important work. Reid noticed after the second bowl and didn’t ask anymore. He just ordered another.

  They stayed in the dessert shop so long that the owner stopped giving them menus and started guessing instead.

  By the end of the first day, Reid leaned back in his chair, stomach round, armor straps uncomfortably tight.

  “I think,” he said thoughtfully,

  “If I die now, I will die fulfilled.”

  Arttu nodded with complete seriousness.

  By the second day, they were barely able to fit in their chairs.

  By the third morning, they walked.

  Slowly.

  Very slowly.

  When they reached Bob’s shop, the door creaked open.

  Bob looked up.

  Then froze.

  He stared.

  “…What,” Bob said carefully, “happened to you two?”

  Reid and Arttu stood there, both visibly stuffed. Reid’s armor looked like it was fighting for its life. Arttu’s cheeks were rounder than usual, his steps cautious.

  Reid placed a hand on his stomach.

  “We lived,” he said while giving out a burp.

  Bob rubbed his eyes.

  “You look like you lost a war against a bakery.”

  They stepped inside.

  The smell hit immediately.

  Old air. Dust. Something sour. Something damp.

  The room was a disaster.

  Papers were scattered across the floor. Tools left wherever they’d fallen. Empty mugs on shelves. Ink stains on the desk like past mistakes no one bothered to clean. Mud tracked everywhere.

  Arttu frowned.

  Reid blinked once.

  “…Okay,” Reid said slowly.

  “So this is your real office.”

  Bob sniffed.

  “This one’s for work.”

  He disappeared behind a pile of parchment and returned with a rolled scroll, shoving it into Reid’s hands.

  “The outline,” Bob said. “Measurements. Structure. Roof pitch. If you mess this up, don’t say my name.”

  Reid carefully unrolled it, eyes scanning the lines like they were sacred runes.

  Bob leaned against the desk and explained—about digging deep foundations, about packing rubble, about why rushing meant collapse. He spoke about wood, about joints, about patience.

  “No nails,” Bob said firmly. “Ever.”

  Reid nodded, as if this was a holy law.

  Arttu listened quietly, memorizing everything even if he didn’t fully understand it.

  When they paid, Bob hesitated.

  “…Don’t die,” he muttered. “And don’t build stupid.”

  Reid smiled.

  “We’ll try.”

  They left.

  Outside, the air felt lighter.

  They bought the tools from the village. Axes heavier than Reid expected. Rope rough against his palms. Chisels sharp enough to demand respect.

  Arttu carried what he could.

  They walked back.

  The place was waiting.

  Open land. Soft wind. A vast, clear forest stretching out as it had always been there just for them. Aquilonis was close enough to feel safe, far enough to feel free.

  Grass bent beneath their boots.

  Reid set the tools down and exhaled.

  Arttu stood beside him.

  For a moment, neither spoke.

  Then Reid smiled.

  “Well,” he said,

  “Let’s start working.”

  Arttu nodded.

  And with that, they started building their house.

  ? The Dragon Striker Duology (Steampunk fantasy) ?

  by DanWerkhoven

  In a frozen wasteland stands a city built from the slaughtered corpses of an ancient race…

  The Dragon Striker Duology.

  What to Expect:

  - Complex family dynamics

  - Alchemy and technology-based magic system

  - A cold, harsh world invaded by dragons and monsters