The final mournful *BONG* of the north tower bell shivered through the masonry, leaving a hollow vibration in its wake. Iker stood in the grand foyer, a hand resting on the pommel of his father’s ceremonial blade, *Aingura*, a weapon he had kept sheathed since his disgrace. Maialen’s form, a translucent shimmer beside him, solidified slightly, her phantom eyes fixed on the massive oak doors. Her presence offered cold comfort, a grounding weight in the churning air. They both knew who had breached the Aranoa wards. Only one person possessed the audacity to breach his house's enforced solitude, along with the skill to pierce centuries-old wards. The heavy doors swung inward with a groan that seemed to echo the estate’s decay, revealing a figure silhouetted against the pale dawn light. Commander Zuriñe. Her uniform, a crisp slate-grey with the order's silver sigil emblazoned on the breast, cut sharply through the dust and twilight of the foyer. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe knot, and her expression remained rigid, etched with a familiar disapproval that set Iker on edge. Flanking her were two younger guards, hands resting on the pommels of their own consecrated iron. One, a burly man with a permanent scowl, was Galder. The other, a woman whose movements were precise and economical, was Elixabete. “Iker de Aranoa,” Zuriñe’s voice was like flint striking steel, echoing with the unforgiving acoustics of the hall. “It seems your exile has not taught you the virtue of vigilance. Or perhaps, merely the art of allowing your household's legacy to crumble.” Iker offered a sardonic bow, the gesture more insult than deference. “Commander. What a… pleasant surprise. I assume this isn’t merely a social call to admire the cobwebs. Or have you come to offer to dust?” Zuriñe’s eyes, the color of a winter sky, narrowed. “Enough with your petulant theatrics. I am here on official business. Reports of an uncontrolled manifestation, a significant spectral presence emanating from this estate, have reached the Conclave. A presence directly tied to your younger sister, Nerea.” Her gaze flickered to the upper floor, then back to Iker, her assessment cold and damning. “The council has authorized a full assessment of her condition. Given your… past failures, and the breach of protocol that led to your disgrace, it has been decided that direct intervention is necessary.” “Direct intervention?” Iker’s voice sharpened, the sarcasm dissolving into a raw edge of protectiveness. “This is my blood, Zuriñe. My sister. You think to waltz in here and declare her some kind of spectral anomaly because you’ve heard whispers? She’s a child, a girl with a gift she doesn’t understand.” “A gift that threatens to tear the Veil and consume everything around her, by the sound of it,” Zuriñe countered, her voice rising with an imperious weight. “The reports describe a surge of Silent Gloom energy unlike anything recorded since the Sundering. The council cannot ignore such a threat, especially not from an Aranoa. Especially not when its appointed guardian has proven himself incompetent.” Before Iker could retort, a guttural, wet sound, like stones grinding through mud, erupted from the dark pooling beneath the portraits of his stern-faced ancestors. The eyes in the painted canvases seemed to deepen, to draw in the meager light. Then, black coils, thick as a man’s arm and slick with abyssal ichor, burst from the canvases, tearing through the brittle oil paint. They writhed, striking upward like predatory serpents, their tips sharp as obsidian shards toward Nerea’s room on the second floor. The Lurking Sorrow had heard the argument, smelled the fear and the vulnerability. “By the Mother!” Galder yelled, clearing his scabbard, but the limbs moved with impossible speed, too numerous, too diffuse. Iker didn’t hesitate. *Aingura* was already in his hand, a blur of polished steel. He parried a lashing tendril, the spectral energy sizzling against the consecrated metal, forcing it back with a grunt. Another whipped past his head, seeking purchase on the rotted hangings. Maialen, a furious haze of mist, flowed through the attacking shade, her apparition disrupting their cohesion, causing them to flicker and twist. Her silent shriek struck the abomination like a winter gale, buying Iker crucial seconds. He moved with a fluid grace that belied his weariness, a dance of steel and shadow. The appendages, no longer mere rumors of ash, possessed terrifying physicality. They slammed against the marble floor, leaving faint scorch marks, splintered the antique furniture. Galder swung his blade wide, connecting with one, but the darkness simply reformed, denser, stronger. Elixabete tried to create a protective ward, chanting rapidly, but the sheer malevolence of the Lurking Sorrow was overwhelming. Iker ducked under a sweeping attack that would have decapitated him, spinning to deliver a precise cut to the limb's base, where it emerged from a crumbling portrait of a long-dead Aranoa matron. The black stalk hissed, recoiling. He pivoted and lunged, his steel carving silver arcs, deflecting, cutting, forcing the horror back, away from the stairs that led to Nerea. Galder, who had once trained under Iker, watched, mouth agape. The disgraced officer, the man Zuriñe had written off, moved with a ferocity and precision that outstripped both her active subordinates combined. He was a master of the blade, his movements honed by years of constant, claustrophobic combat within these very walls. But the entity was regenerating, adapting. It learned. The thrashing limbs began to coalesce, forming a monstrous, shapeless maw that seemed to drink the light, radiating suffocating dread. It was too vast, too powerful for steel alone. Iker saw the fear flicker in Zuriñe’s usually stoic eyes. He saw the way Elixabete’s ward was failing, the light around her trembling. He saw the maw expand, ready to swallow the foyer whole. There was only one way. A forbidden path. With a sharp intake of air, Iker plunged the steel point into his palm, crimson welling up. He smeared the blood, burning hot against his skin, across a specific, arcane pattern etched into the blade’s crossguard—a ritual mark he had deciphered in forbidden texts. As the blood touched the etched silver, it flared with a guttural, searing light. He thrust the glowing blade forward, chanting a single, guttural word of command in an ancient, forgotten tongue. The air split, the darkness shrieked, and a torrent of concentrated force blasted from the steel, a blinding crimson shockwave that tore through the Lurking Sorrow’s physical manifestation. The horror recoiled with an earth-shattering wail, its limbs thrashing, tearing at the old portraits, then dissolving into wisps, retreating back into the painted gloom from which they came. The air grew still, heavy with the stench of ozone and rotting leaves. A silence, deeper than before, settled over the foyer. On the marble floor, where the Lurking Sorrow had massed, a scorched mark lingered: a swirling sigil of decay, the stone blackened and crumbling into grey dust. Zuriñe’s face, pale from the attack, hardened into an expression of unadulterated fury. Her gaze was locked onto Iker’s bloodied hand, then to the faint, lingering crimson glow on *Aingura*’s hilt. “A blood rune,” she hissed, her tone low, yet cutting through the lingering tension like a whip. “You dare defile Warden steel with such vile, forbidden sorcery? You’ve sunk lower than I ever imagined, Iker. This reckless disregard for protocol, this blatant invocation of raw, unsanctioned power… you are a danger, not just to yourself, but to everyone around you. Especially Nerea.” She stepped forward, her authority radiating outwards, chilling the air more effectively than the entity’s retreat. “Effective immediately, I am relieving you of all duties as guardian of this estate. You are confined to these grounds. You will not leave. Galder and Elixabete will ensure your compliance. I will conduct the High Table's assessment of Nerea de Aranoa personally. And I will find out what foul ritual you used, what other abominations you’ve brought into this house.” Iker’s hand throbbed, his heart a raw, bleeding wound. He wanted to lash out, to scream, but her words were already a cage snapping shut around him. His sister, the last piece of his family, was now under the direct, unfeeling scrutiny of the very institution he had failed, the very establishment that had cast him out. And he was powerless to stop it.

Unwelcome Authority