Rebirth System: Blood and Ash

Moonlight dripped into Gerald's room like liquid silver, it painted shadows across the luxirious furnishings.

The soft, decadent sheets left twisted and discarded at the edge of the bed. The room, luxurious with artworks and artifacts from distant lands, felt alive with muted sounds—breaths, whispers, the rhythmic shuffling of skin against skin.

A woman's moans filled the chamber, soft gasps and throaty sighs escaping her parted lips as Gerald held her close.

His hand gripped her wrist, fingers trailing over her skin as he drew her arm behind her back, pressing her forward, bent over the bed, her body exposed in the moonlight's caress. Their movements, uncensored and raw, blended with the rustle of sheets and the creak of wood, the room steeped in the heat and sweat of their union.

Gerald's breaths were deep, ragged, and each thrust drew out a soft cry from her lips, her body arching into him as though trying to close every distance—trying to feel him as deeply inside her as she could.

But then, the heavy door swung open.

"Out," came the sharp, commanding voice.

Lady Mirella Vane, in all her poised elegance, stood in the doorway, eyes narrowed, lips pressed. In a flash, the woman scrambled to grab a sheet, draping herself in the thin cloth that did little to hide her naked form, but she wasted no time.

She hurried past Lady Mirella, clutching the fabric to her chest, her cheeks flushed as she avoided the woman's steely gaze.

Gerald watched, a smirk on his lips as he turned, slipping on a pair of loose shorts, his muscles glistening faintly with a sheen of sweat. His expression was anything but apologetic, and he let out a soft chuckle as he leaned against the bedpost, folding his arms.

"Aunt Mirella," he drawled, the remnants of his pleasure still evident in his lazy grin. "To what do I owe this… late visit?"

Lady Mirella stepped into the room, closing the door behind her with a soft but deliberate click. Her dark hair, coiled elegantly at the nape of her neck, reflected a hint of silver in the moonlight.

Her presence was as severe as it was refined, clothed in a midnight-black gown that hugged her figure and glittered with fine embroidery in the silver of the moon. She moved gracefully, her gaze sharp as ever, assessing Gerald with a look that could peel back layers.

She seemed more sculpted in marble than flesh—her beauty as bewitching to a man as her body, every feature carefully controlled, each motion measured.

"Have you noticed what's happening around us?"

Her voice was low and steady, but there was an edge beneath her calm tone—a slight urgency that sliced through the room.

Gerald shrugged, arching a brow.

"Is this about the fourth prince? You can't be serious, Aunt Mirella. Aric? The 'sick Prince'—he's hardly a threat to anyone."

Her mouth tightened. She moved to the window, gazing out over the grounds as if to gather her thoughts, the silence between them pregnant with a weight only years of secrets could carry.

She turned to him then, her gaze piercing.

"No one thought he could stay out of his bed for more than an hour, much less roam about the imperial city as he has. But he's done that," she replied, her voice soft yet biting, each word as though a warning.

She continued.

"No one thought he'd be capable of traveling to Byzeth alone—Byzeth, Gerald—in his condition, mind you. But he did that as well. And not a single soul could have believed he'd go to war against a kingdom, quell a rebellion, and sever the head of a king who should surpass him infinitely in strength… but he did that too."

Gerald's smile faded, replaced by a contemplative frown as he pushed off the bedpost.

His eyes narrowed, a faint glint of intrigue slipping into his gaze.

"So he has spirit, perhaps even luck. What of it?"

"What of it?" Mirella echoed, her voice a low hiss.

She approached him, her eyes fierce, and he was suddenly reminded that his aunt's strength did not lie solely in her charm and guile.

"Gerald, your father and I and all that came before us have spent years cultivating our alliances, establishing House Vane as the empire's gateway to wealth, opportunity, and influence. We've built this house brick by brick, made it indispensable to the empire's survival. Do you really want to risk that by underestimating a rising threat?"

He scoffed, running a hand through his dark hair.

"Rising threat? You speak as if he's capable of toppling us. The boy has no influence, no allies beyond a few stragglers. He's a passing storm at best, one that will eventually lose its power."

Mirella's lips curled into a tight smile, but it was without warmth.

"That's what everyone thought—until he proved them wrong. And now, there's a banquet tomorrow to welcome him back to Valeria. A celebration of his supposed 'victory' over Byzeth. The emperor is rewarding him, showering him with honors that were never his to claim. Tell me, Gerald… does that seem like a passing storm to you?"

Gerald's gaze dropped to the floor, brow furrowed. House Vane had spent years amassing quiet control over trade and guilds, bringing gold into Valeria and into their coffers alike, but power was fickle, as fleeting as smoke.

He glanced back up at his aunt, a spark of calculation flickering in his eyes.

"And what would you have me do?" he asked, his voice barely audible, tinged with an edge of reluctant curiosity.

Mirella studied him, as though gauging whether he could be trusted with her plan. Finally, she let out a slow, measured breath.

"Observe him tomorrow. Seek his company, perhaps, see where his ambitions lie. But Gerald," she added, leaning closer, her gaze sharp as glass, "do not underestimate him. He may be only one man, but he's shown he can shift the tide if he so wishes. We cannot afford to ignore someone with such potential—someone the emperor himself seems willing to embrace as a rising star."

The thought unsettled Gerald, and he turned to the window, casting his gaze out over the moonlit estate. Rydell Hall, the heart of House Vane, rose strong and unyielding against the night sky, it was the best telling their wealth and influence.

But in the distance, beyond the estate's borders, lay the broader empire—a place where whispers of change seemed to linger, threatening the stability they had so carefully crafted.

"You're worried he'll threaten the balance we've built," he murmured, half to himself, fingers drumming against the windowsill.

Mirella's voice was calm but unyielding.

"I'm saying he already has. And if he can bring down a kingdom, who's to say he won't bring down a house?"

For a moment, they stood in silence, their reflections ghostly in the window's glass. Gerald felt the weight of his aunt's words, the subtle pressure to act, to see this prince not as a weakling, but as a dangerous opponent—a man who had clawed his way out of obscurity and left a trail of blood behind him.

Finally, he turned to face her, a new resolve settling in his eyes.

"Tomorrow night, then," he said, voice steady. "I'll find a way to meet him, test the waters. But Aunt Mirella," he added, a sly grin curling at his lips, "don't expect me to bend the knee to the sickly prince. House Vane may bow to no one, but we do know how to play the game."

Mirella's lips curved into a faint smile, approval glinting in her eyes.

"Good. Just remember, Gerald, that in this game, fortunes can change with a single move. Keep your wits about you."

As she left, closing the door quietly behind her, Gerald stood alone in the dim light, the words lingering in the air. The moon had shifted in the sky, leaving shadows that danced along the walls, tracing patterns as intricate and shifting as the politics that governed Valeria.

Tomorrow, he would meet this prince. And whether Aric Valerian was a mere upstart or a genuine threat, Gerald intended to find out.