Lord of the realm

"Your charm doesn't work on me," he said flatly, pushing her away from him with enough force to send her tumbling through the air.

"Find another fool to enchant."

Saphyra caught herself before she could hit the wall, her form allowing her to land softly on her feet. But her beautiful face was now twisted with a mixture of rage and desperate hunger.

No male had ever rejected her so completely, so utterly.

The Origin Bearer was proving more resistant than she had ever imagined possible.

But she was not ready to give up.

Not yet.

Around them, the battle between Odessa and Cornelia continued to rage, neither able to claim victory over the other.

Stone pillars crumbled under the assault of their powers, and the very air crackled with the intensity of their Origin energies.

But Saphyra paid them no attention. Her entire world had narrowed down to the floating figure of Jaenor and the growing need to possess him that burned in her chest like a physical ache.

Odessa was pushed, and so was Cornelia, creating a space between the two of them.

Both of them were panting, not hard, but their breath was coming at a quick pace.

Odessa lowered her blade-storm, though the green weapons continued to hover around her like deadly satellites. On the opposite side of the ruined hall, Cornelia's shadows pulled back into her body, and Saphyra straightened from her predatory crouch.

Jaenor floated down until his feet touched the broken stone floor, his ethereal wings folding behind him but still glowing with crimson energy. He stood beside Odessa, asking her if she was okay.

She nodded her head, telling him she was okay.

The four powerful beings now stood facing each other across the destruction they had wrought—Jaenor and Odessa on one side, and Cornelia and the Siren Queen on the other.

The great hall looked like a battlefield, with shattered stone, broken furniture, and scorch marks covering every surface.

The silence that fell between them was heavy with unfinished business and barely contained violence.

Just then, the great doors burst open once again.

A castle guard stumbled through, his armor dented and his face streaked with sweat and dirt.

He was breathing hard, as if he had run a great distance without stopping. His wide eyes took in the scene of destruction—the floating Origin Bearer, the black-haired death goddess, the vampire noble, and the oceanic beauty of the Siren Queen.

But most importantly, he saw Earl Grimwald slumped against the far wall where Odessa had thrown him.

The frog-man was still breathing, though he looked dazed and battered.

"My lord!" the guard called out, rushing toward his fallen master.

But even as he moved, he continued to speak, his voice cracking with fear and urgency. "My lord, I bring urgent news! The watchers on the north wall have spotted banners approaching from the northwest!"

At the mention of banners, all four of the powerful beings turned their attention to the gasping guard. Earl Grimwald struggled to sit up straighter, his large frog eyes blinking as he tried to focus.

"What... what banners?" the Earl croaked, his voice still weak from his collision with the wall.

The guard swallowed hard, his face pale with terror at what he had to report.

"The golden banners, my lord," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "The Brotherhood of the Inquisition. They ride in force toward our gates."

The reaction was immediate and dramatic.

Saphyra's oceanic eyes widened with something that might have been fear. Her earlier predatory confidence evaporated like mist before the morning sun, replaced by a wariness that spoke of ancient knowledge and hard-learned lessons.

Cornelia hissed like an angry cat, her vampiric fangs extending fully as her beautiful features twisted into a snarl of rage and concern. The red shadows around her began to writhe more frantically, as if they too sensed the approaching danger.

Even Odessa, the death goddess who had shown no fear in the face of a vampire descendant, seemed to stiffen at the mention of that name. Her black hair stirred in winds that touched no one else, and her dark eyes narrowed with calculation.

"The Brotherhood," she said, and her voice carried a note of respect that had been absent when facing Cornelia.

"It has been many years since they dared to venture this far south."

"How many?" Cornelia demanded, her noble composure cracking to reveal the predator beneath. "How many ride with them?"

The guard looked terrified to be the bearer of such news, but he answered anyway. "The watchers count at least two hundred, my lady. Maybe more. They march in perfect formation, and their armor gleams like the sun itself."

Jaenor looked between the three women, seeing how the mere mention of this Brotherhood had changed everything. Where moments before they had been locked in deadly combat, now they stood united by a common concern.

"Who are they?" he asked, his voice still carrying the weight of his Origin power but now tinged with curiosity rather than rage.

Odessa was the one who answered, her ancient eyes still fixed on the nervous guard.

"The Brotherhood of the Inquisition," she said, each word carefully measured.

"They are witch hunters, but not the crude zealots you might expect. These are trained killers, warriors who have spent their lives learning how to fight and kill those who wield Origin power."

Saphyra nodded grimly, her earlier seductive demeanor completely gone.

"They have weapons forged specifically to harm beings like us. Blessed steel that can cut through Origin energy as easily as flesh. Armor that turns aside our most powerful attacks."

"And they have something else," Cornelia added, her vampiric senses apparently picking up something the others had missed.

"They carry with them a Qu'achi aura that dampens Origin power itself. A single man in a golden suit is dangerous. A force of two hundred..."

She didn't finish the sentence, but the implication was clear.

-

Meanwhile, just a few miles outside the city walls, the very force they spoke of was indeed approaching.

The Brotherhood of the Inquisition moved across the moonlit landscape like a golden tide of war. Their armor caught and reflected the pale light, making them appear almost mystical in their gleaming perfection.

But these were no mere knights in shining mail—this was an army designed specifically for hunting and killing the most dangerous creatures in the world.

The force was divided into two distinct groups that moved with perfect coordination despite their different natures.

The first group was composed of humans—tall, strong men whose faces bore the hard lines of professional soldiers. They wore full plate armor made of some golden metal that seemed to glow with its own inner light. Each carried weapons that hummed with barely contained power—swords that could slice through Origin energy, spears that never missed their mark, and crossbows that fired bolts capable of piercing strong defenses.

The second group was made up of beastmen, specifically wolf-folk whose lupine features were clearly visible even beneath their helmets. They were larger than their human companions, with broader shoulders and longer limbs, and their armor was specially crafted to accommodate their non-human bodies. Their weapons were different too – massive two-handed swords, war hammers that could crush stone, and claws that had been enhanced with the same blessed metal that made their human allies so deadly.

Despite their different species, both groups moved with the same disciplined precision. They had trained together, fought together, and bled together. They were more than just an army—they were a brotherhood in the truest sense of the word.

Brotherhood was a mix of various races. There was no distinction, and the ranks were just based on the power levels.

At the head of this formidable force rode their leader.

He was a man in his forties, with the kind of handsome features that would have made him popular at any royal court. His hair was dark gold, kept short and practical beneath his ornate helmet. His jaw was strong and clean-shaven, and his eyes were the pale blue of winter ice. When he spoke, his voice carried the natural authority of someone born to command.

But it was his aura that truly set him apart from his followers.

Power radiated from him like heat from a forge fire.

Not Origin power—that was something different, something these warriors had dedicated their lives to opposing. This was something else entirely, something that seemed to push against the very fabric of reality itself. It was the power to resist, to deny, to stand firm against forces that would bend women to their will.

His golden armor was more elaborate than that of his followers, inscribed with symbols, and seemed to shift and change when observed from the corner of the eye.

Across his back, he carried a sword that was clearly no ordinary weapon—its blade was white as bone, and when the moonlight struck it, it seemed to drink in the illumination rather than reflect it.

This was Lord Commander Thaddeus Brihtbane, the most feared witch hunter in the known world, and he was leading his Brotherhood directly toward the castle where four of the most powerful Origin wielders on the harbor had just revealed their presence to anyone with the ability to sense such things.

The night was about to become very interesting indeed.