The True Strength of House Fell

The door creaked open, and Solomon Fell stepped into the room as if conjured by the chaos itself. His snow-white hair shimmered under the chandelier light, and his grin—sharp and unbothered—curled with an edge of amusement.

"To think this dinner was finally getting interesting," Solomon remarked, his voice smooth and calm, like he was commenting on a performance meant for his entertainment.

The Silver Mark assassin remained in the center of the carnage, its gauntleted claws dripping blood that pooled on the polished floor. Its hound-like mask betrayed no reaction to Solomon's entrance, but its entire body tensed, turning toward him with the precision of a predator locking onto prey.

The creature lunged, its claws slicing the air with lethal intent, aimed to behead the heir of House Fell.

But Solomon moved with the ease of someone who had been dodging death all his life. He stepped lightly out of the creature's reach, almost casually, like the attack had been slow and unremarkable. His hand darted out as he did so, brushing against the assassin's arm. A sharp hiss followed as steam rose from where Solomon's fingers made contact with the silver armor, the surface glowing an angry red.

The assassin struck again, its second claw aimed for Solomon's chest. The heir didn't flinch. He sighed, almost bored, as his hand snapped up to grip the hound-shaped mask. The Silver Mark stilled for a moment, as if realizing too late that its end had already been sealed.

"It's funny," Solomon said, his tone almost wistful, "that a Silver Mark assassin would think it could touch me."

With a single motion, Solomon wrenched the mask free, tearing the head from the assassin's shoulders. Blood erupted in a crimson arc, spattering the marble floor and soaking the hem of Solomon's cloak. The body collapsed in a heap, twitching once before going still.

The head dangled in Solomon's grip, dripping viscous red that pooled at his feet. He turned it over in his hand, inspecting it like it was some cheap trinket he'd grown bored of.

Mirak couldn't breathe.

The dining hall, which had been alive with tense conversation moments before, was now silent, save for the faint dripping of blood from the severed head. Solomon stood in the center of it all, utterly unfazed, his white hair and polished armor streaked with gore. He glanced around the room, his lazy grin returning as though he'd just completed some mundane chore.

For the first time, Mirak understood.

House Fell didn't reign solely because of its age, wealth, or mastery of barter. Those were reasons enough, but not the foundation of their power. No, it was him. Solomon Fell. The heir of House Fell was no man—he was a monster. And Mirak didn't need to feel the roaring hum of Atta to know it.

Solomon muttered softly, almost to himself, "And here I thought the party was finally starting to liven up. But you…" He tossed the head to the floor, where it rolled to a stop in front of Mirak's feet. "You were just like the rest. Too busy lurking in the shadows."

Then, his gaze shifted to Mirak, and his smile widened.

"You," Solomon said, pointing a single finger at him, "are going to be my guide through the halls."

Mirak stammered, "Y-yes… r-right this way."

"Brother," Sanni's voice cut through the silence, sharp and commanding. She stood now, her tone measured but tight. "You're taking my servant."

Solomon turned to her with an easy smile, blood still dripping from his hands. "Relax, dear little sister. I'll send him back once he shows me a few of the servant corridors. I always get so lost in them."

"I expect him back alive," Sanni said, her voice firm and unyielding.

Solomon gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. "Me? I would never dream of harming your beloved servant. You speak of him so often."

Sanni flushed slightly, but her glare remained steady. "Brother, last time you took something I owned, you gave it back ripped in two."

Mirak stiffened. Torn in two? He was her servant. Was he about to suffer the same fate as the assassin?

"We were children, Sanni," Solomon said lightly, brushing her comment off with a wave of his hand.

"I liked that dress," she retorted, her tone icy.

"It wasn't a dress!" Solomon snapped, sounding genuinely affronted for the first time. Then, as if remembering himself, he waved dismissively again. "But I assure you, he will not die."

"See to it that he doesn't," Sanni said, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Servants who speak Kavish are not so easily replaced."

Several nobles glanced at Mirak, their expressions filled with curiosity and, to his dismay, mild intrigue. He stared at the floor, his jaw tight, praying their attention would pass quickly.

Solomon grinned and clapped a hand onto Mirak's shoulder, steering him toward the exit. The warmth of his grip burned through Mirak's coat, the touch unnatural and almost suffocating.

As they left the dining hall, Solomon leaned down to whisper, his voice low and dangerously calm. "Now, what is an Atta user doing as my sister's servant?"

Mirak tried to squirm, but Solomon's grip tightened, an iron vice against his shoulder.

"If you don't want to follow the Silver Mark's example," Solomon continued, his tone light but laced with menace, "I suggest you answer honestly. They're monstrous creatures, true, but I can be just as unreasonable."

They walked through the corridors in silence, passing servants who scrambled to bow before Solomon. He waved at them with his ever-present grin, his cheerfulness a stark contrast to the blood drying on his clothes.

Finally, they entered a darkened room where the door hung limply from broken hinges. Solomon shoved Mirak forward, stepping in behind him.

Mirak stumbled, the chains on his wrists rattling as he steadied himself. "Why am I here?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

Solomon ignored him, running a finger over the dusty wall. "This estate is steeped in history," he murmured. "Built after the first wall was erected. A legacy of the Fell family."

Then he paused, turning his head slightly. "Not that I care about any of that."

Mirak opened his mouth to respond, but Solomon held up a finger, silencing him. With a faint click, a section of the wall shifted. Wood scraped against wood as a hidden door creaked open, revealing a dark, narrow tunnel.

"Don't worry," Solomon said cheerfully, stepping inside. "Nothing will touch you while I'm around."

Mirak doubted that very much.