War At The Doorstep

Footsteps echoed through the brightly lit halls of a turf headquarters, blocks away from the ruins of Lazarus.

A tall demon in a light brown suit, coat draped over one arm, strode toward an unassuming door—the audience waiting beyond was anything but ordinary.

He stopped before two guards, more strung-out junkies than professional muscle.

“Sorry. Boss’s orders.”

He stood still as they frisked him, silently wondering if “Boss” meant the Boss, or merely their leader inside. Even as an advisor to the head of the family, he had to guess who's who.

After a thorough check, he got the nod. One guard knocked a password-like rhythm on the door. It swung open, and he stepped into chaos.

The room buzzed with rowdy underlings—and a few silent types whose glares could kill.

Gold glinted from the advisor’s ear as he walked to the table where his mark waited.

“Velgrand. It’s been a while.”

The chair spun. Velgrand’s brows arched, feigning surprise.

“Consigliere! Didn’t expect you at this hour.”

“Nor did the Boss expect you to stir up trouble before the Dons convene,” the Consigliere shot back. “That’s days away, and still you couldn’t wait to chase your petty indulgence.”

Velgrand’s expression soured as he leaned on the desk.

“Alright, Signore. I just wanted to meet the man. I mean, think about it—a rare soul, a divine being, here in Inferno?” Velgrand shrugged. “And he was on disputed ground, so…”

“Disputed doesn’t make it ours,” the Consigliere’s voice cut through. “You’re walking on dangerous ground—between the Godfather, the Boss, and that wildcard whose intentions nobody knows.”

Velgrand scoffed, shaking his head.

“That soul’s already dead, Signor Soran. He fought back—and my job is to make sure that always costs something.”

“How sure are you?” Soran asked, cool and direct. “A body that burns, still breathes.”

Velgrand's smug mask slipped.

“Look, Velgrand. The Boss entrusted you with this territory because Don Lucian vouched for you.”

Soran straightened up, glaring down at Velgrand.

"But right now, you are not a Morvasco. You are a Dracone, and you are not above the family. Don’t forget that, capo.”

With that, Soran turned and strode to the door. Velgrand's minions suddenly went silent, the Consigliere's aura a trailing warning.

Velgrand sneered, conjuring a knife as he watched Soran disappear past the door.

“Soran Valmir. That bastard,” he scorned, driving the blade halfway into the desk.

---

At the Godfather's citadel, steel clashed—unusually loud, full of spirit.

"What now, Grandark?" Morrigan scoffed as Tristan struggled to deflect her attacks. She danced around him—graceful, with the venom of a viper.

"All that power, but can't form a measly sword?" she taunted, swarming him with strikes.

Tristan, barely able to breathe, refused to back down. "I'm not used to swords."

Morrigan snickered. "Now you're making excuses."

Tristan finally found his footing and dodged a thrust, ramming Morrigan with his shoulder. She lost her balance, and Tristan slipped past her blade, aiming at her throat.

"Got you."

Unfazed, Morrigan parried Tristan's blade with a hidden dagger. Tristan's knees gave way, and he stumbled onto the training room floor.

Morrigan stared at Tristan, turned, and walked toward the entrance.

"Rest up. We'll resume later," she said, almost dismissively.

On the other side of the entrance, the Godfather met her.

"How was he?"

"So-so." Morrigan shrugged as they passed each other. "Promising, but he's all over the place."

The Godfather rubbed his chin. "I'll talk to him."

With a sigh, he pushed the door open and vanished into the room.

Inside, Tristan sat on the floor, huffing and looking roughed up. He held his locket as if sitting with a confidante.

"How was it, boy?" the elder asked. "Did she give you a hard time?"

Tristan exhaled. "She didn't let up once."

The Godfather chuckled. "That's Morrigan for you. She's a sweetheart, but business is business."

Tristan groaned as he stretched. "I did ask for her help. Now I regret it."

"Your physical injuries seemed to have healed faster than expected. But that power—how do you feel about it?"

Tristan looked at his hands, flexing both.

"It's like carrying weights all the time. And when I try to use it, it feels worse."

"Not too surprising," the Godfather nodded. He looked up, then gazed around the room. "This room stands at a massive concentration of dark energy. If you're not used to it, you'll feel the pressure."

"But if I'm correct, that power you wield is a fraction of the cosmic willpower—the unstoppable drive to push forward against all logic and limits."

Tristan glanced at the old man, then turned his attention to his locket.

The elder noticed Tristan's confusion.

"Please ignore my musings. It's not easy being old." He laughed. "This power is not of demons nor angels. It is something else, gifted to you by the unseen forces of the universe—and to a very few before you."

Tristan remembered his shadow's words.

"Very well. Take this burden and bear it, in search of your own truth. Carry it as your cross, so that in your suffering, you may find the peace you long for."

Those words didn't feel like a gift. Nonetheless, Tristan decided to take it one step at a time.

"I am having difficulty controlling its form."

"Oh. Let me see." The Godfather muttered as he sat before Tristan. "Try it this way. Your will is the one giving it its 'body.' Imagine clay. Take some of it—an amount you believe you can mold easily. Too little, and it won't be potent enough. Too much, and it might spiral out of control. Then, shape it into a sphere, and hold it in that form as long as you can."

Tristan crossed his legs in a relaxed, meditative position. With both arms folded, palms facing each other, he conjured a ball of energy, as big as he could control. Finally, it settled, more or less stable.

The Godfather checked his watch as Tristan focused. The old man whispered the seconds as they ticked by, and Tristan finally let go.

"Sixty counts. Not bad. Now, hold it for sixty, and within the next sixty, infuse a part of your soul into it—give it a form, a weapon you resonate with."

Tristan tried again, holding the sphere almost perfectly.

But shaping it into a weapon was easier said than done. After several tries, Tristan was sweating worse than when sparring with Morrigan.

Back at the drawing board, the Godfather continued.

"Giving it a 'soul' is more mental than willpower. If your mind is in chaos, you'll struggle to materialize anything."

Tristan paused, trying his best to relax his psyche.

"Think—do you have anything or anyone that helps you find peace?"

Tristan's eyes widened. He unlatched his locket, revealing a vibrant portrait of a woman.

"My wife, Lira."

The Godfather instantly sensed Tristan's aura ease.

"Alright. Think of any weapon you could associate with your wife. Then, infuse your soul into the sphere with that thought."

Tristan paused. A weapon and Lira?

He dug into his mental vault and the only ones he recalled were kitchen knives, the spatula she’d flail when chasing him out of the kitchen, a broomstick when he was making fun of her, and garden spades while she talked to her plants.

Out of nowhere, Tristan broke into a hearty laugh.

"What about kitchen knives and garden spades?" Tristan joked, teary-eyed.

The Godfather froze. Suddenly, Tristan's aura shifted—from gloomy and desperate to light and full of hope. At the end of the day, Tristan was just a man in love—and was grieving because of it.

"Ragazzo, I guess anything can be a weapon if it means something."

For once, even the Godfather found himself smiling.

Tristan let himself breathe. For the first time, the path ahead didn’t seem impossible.

"I got it now, Sir. I have an idea."

---

Tristan leaned back on a couch. Lira curled up beside him, sleeping on his lap.

The television flickered. A film tape whirred as images danced on the screen.

It was a movie about a man seeking revenge against the people who killed his dog.

He watched the grieving anti-hero fight against all odds, sheer will and determination driving every step. The hero completed his mission, but the movie's end hinted at more pain and suffering.

Tristan brushed Lira's hair as he finished the movie in awe and wonder.

"I want to try that, someday."

A memory he cherished—a wish he hoped he’d never have to make real.