A chamber was carved from a single slab of sunglass—a pale, crystal glow shaped by generations of Braithborne Flowsmiths. The walls pulsed faintly with the rhythm of the estate's nobility, each beat tied to the ley -thread that ran beneath the family stronghold.
At its center stood Lord Halrix Braithborne, his mantle draped over one shoulder, the other left bare in old fashion to show the ink-thread scars coiling down his skin: proof of his Threadwalker ascension.
He didn't move.
He simply stood, facing the slowly dimming center glyph, expression hollowed by the weight of what he just seen.
His daughter was there.
At the central ridge.
Where the Sunvault's column of annihilation fell.
She was a genius in her own right, not in direct combat, but in strategy and war tactics—first in line to the Braithborne throne.
She held that line firmly.
Until there was no line left to hold.
The residue glyph before him flickered and faded. Her lifetether, bound to the family's Flow-loom, snapped moments after the blast. No scream. No rupture. Just… absence.
A quiet severing of inheritance.
The silence thickened. Then, from behind the crystal dais, the steward's voice, hesitant:
"My lord… the Vaultmarked are requesting clearance for oversight. They've marked this region as high-risk for dissidence activity."
Lord Halrix turned his head slowly.
Not like a man in grief.
Like a predator given permission.
"Open a line."
The steward froze.
"To whom, my lord?"
"To Serent Vale."
A moment of static panic.
"That requires a Supreme-tier Lightbridge, and—"
"I walk threads. I don't ask."
The steward fled to obey, fingers moving over the spiral inlays of the control pillar. The chamber darkened. Glyphlight gathered, converging into a vertical ellipse at the center of the room. It shimmered like Flow spun into water, then clarified.
The Vaultbridge appeared. Quiet. Cold.
And at its heart: Commander Serent Vale.
His image wavered, but his posture was as rigid as ever, hands behind his back, golden coat gleaming with unreadable sigils.
"Lord Halrix," Vale said, his voice flat.
"You used a Lightbridge. I presume this is urgent."
Halrix didn't blink.
"You murdered my daughter."
A pause. Not long. But long enough to be an insult.
"Your daughter," Vale replied,
"was in an unauthorized position on an active frontline. The tactical strike was—"
"You knew she was there, something of this level required someone of her expertise, but still you allowed your beam of death to fall."
Vale opened his mouth to reply but words couldn't escape from it.
His cold confident demeanor seemingly faltered for a fraction of a second, he knew this conflict wouldn't be avoided with petty excuses.
"There was a miscommunication."
"There was no miscommunication Vale."
Halrix's voice grew heavier as he stared into Vale's eyes through the lightbridge.
"There was disregard," Halrix snapped.
His voice rose, resonance behind it, enough that the walls of the chamber moaned.
"You turned an entire defensive ridge into ruin, knowing our banners flew there."
Vale's expression didn't change.
"Dominion protocol allows preemptive purging when resistance lines fail to communicate intent of noninterference."
"You call that failure?" Halrix hissed.
"She held the line while your Skybinders descended like executioners!"
The Lightbridge shimmered as the Flow in Halrix's veins surged. Tendrils of living thread coiled up from his arms, snapping in and out of the crystal floor, causing the image of Vale to momentarily distort.
"You've always hidden behind your oaths, Vale. But I see now—you're not preserving order."
Vale's tone sharpened like a scalpel:
"I am preserving peace. And peace does not ask for permission."
A beat.
"Tread carefully, Halrix. The war is not coming. It is already here."
Halrix leaned forward, close enough that the threads of his projection licked the Lightbridge's surface.
"Then remember this, 'Commander.'"
"You drew first blood—nobleblood—under truce banners. That means your peace was always a lie."
The call terminated with a flare of silver sparks.
Silence returned. But it was no longer mournful.
It seethed.
Figures watching silently from the chamber's edge awaited their master's order.
Halrix turned from the dying Lightbridge. Behind him, the figures—house advisors gathered in the dark.
"Recall every Scion from outer provinces," he ordered.
"Send word to the Core Council. And prepare the House Loom."
The steward hesitated.
"You mean to—"
"Yes."
Halrix's voice was cold fire.
"It seems the continent has forgotten why my Braithborne Regency has been dominant for so long."
Halrix let the silence linger.
"Now…we remind them. Prepare for war."