Let them come

The moment Adrian vanished from the Carter Manor; he didn't walk—he stormed.

His steps were sharp, each one cracking the ground beneath him as he moved beyond Uthean's walls and into the surrounding cliffs. His aura boiled, shadows bending away from his presence as if afraid of being consumed.

And then—

Boom.

With one punch, a mountain's side collapsed.

Stone shattered like glass, the tremor shaking far beyond the hills. Debris rained down in a cloud of dust and fury, but Adrian just stood there, eyes locked on the crater he'd made.

"Why..." he muttered, voice low and conflicted.

"Why do I feel animosity?"

He didn't know who he was angry at—Leron? Eloise?

Or... himself?

---

Back at the Wilbert estate...

He returned with a darkness that wrapped around him like a cloak. The guards saw it—the heat in his gaze, the pressure in the air. No one dared speak. No one dared breathe.

He walked straight to the guardhouse.

"Christopher," he said, voice like thunder.

The chief of security turned with a bow. "Young Master."

"Bring me a criminal," Adrian growled. "One no one will miss."

Everyone stiffened.

No one asked why. They all just knew—Adrian was off limits. And something had just snapped inside him.

"Yes, young master," Christopher said immediately, without emotion.

---

Meanwhile, at the Carter Manor...

The room was quiet, but the air was thick with tension.

Old Lue stood at the foot of the bed, arms folded, her eyes sharp and ancient.

"You are an angel," she said.

Leron, sitting upright now, blinked. "How did you…?"

He hesitated. "You and that Gyn—Eloise—she said it like a compliment. She didn't even know what she was saying."

Lue scoffed. "Do I look Gyn to you? Or Elven?"

She stepped forward, letting her aura shimmer faintly, moonlight silver and ancient magic coiling around her.

"I am Lue Thorne. Twelfth Matriarch of the Thorne Fairy Tribe. One of the last Houses that remembers what real bloodlines are. So, I ask again—who are you?"

Leron's smile returned, faint and regal. His silver-blond hair glowed faintly, his back straightening with noble grace.

"I am Leron Vaciem," he said, his voice calm and proud.

"Eighth Prince of the Vaciem Angels."

////

In the Wilbert manor, down the silent halls and behind the heavy doors of Adrian's chambers, something was wrong.

A cabinet door was ajar.

To the casual eye, it looked like someone had forgotten to shut it. But anyone with sense—real sense—would've noticed that what was inside wasn't just misplaced clothing or dusty heirlooms.

It was a tear in space itself.

A swirling, endless void—black and shifting, humming with unstable energy. A rift. One not meant to exist in this world.

And within it, Adrian stood.

The air was thick and metallic, the scent of blood coating everything like a heavy mist. The ground beneath his feet pulsed with crimson patterns—runic lines carved by rage. His arms hung loose by his sides, but his hands... his hands dripped.

Red.

The remains of whatever or whoever had been dragged in here to sate the storm inside him.

Adrian stared at the blood lazily, as if it was paint on a canvas, he'd only half-finished. There was no regret. No fear. Only… stillness.

A ripple in the void signaled her arrival.

"Hmm."

Smoke danced in the air, swirling into the shape of a woman. Olga's bare feet touched the blood-slick floor with a whisper, her pale body emerging slowly, her witch's robe flowing like liquid shadow.

She raised a brow, eyes flicking from Adrian to the twitching mess behind him.

"You really are testing the edge, child," Olga said with that lazy, amused drawl. "Your actions are bringing unwanted attention."

Adrian didn't turn. He just stared at his stained hand, twisting his fingers like he was still figuring them out.

"I seem to be in the mood to let out anger," he replied.

His voice was calm. Too calm. The kind that made your spine curl and your instincts scream.

Olga sighed and walked a slow circle around him.

"You're drawing eyes—things that were content to leave you be. Even the Divine order court are peeking in now. You sure you wanna throw that kind of tantrum?"

Adrian blinked, the shadows flickering around him like they were reacting to his thoughts.

"They should know better," he murmured. "Than to look."

A pause.

Then a smile that didn't belong on his face. "Or maybe… they should come."

Olga narrowed her eyes.

"You're unraveling faster than I expected," she whispered. "Was it the girl?"

Adrian didn't answer.

Didn't have to.

The void pulsed once—deeper, darker—and the rift behind him widened slightly, screaming softly like a wounded beast.

"Just don't forget, Adrian," Olga said, her voice suddenly sharp and cold. "Even mortals bleed when they don't know what they're made of. Don't be foolish. Don't forget who you are."

And just like that, she vanished—smoke in a world already full of darkness.

Adrian was alone again.

His breathing steadied, eyes closing slowly as he whispered to the void.

"Then let them come."