On a late night, under the cover of darkness and complacency, an ominous cloud began to swell over the Infernal Clan's main estate.

However, no alarm was raised; to the sentinels patrolling the grounds below, it was just another storm cloud drifting across a moonless sky. Unbeknownst to anyone in the estate, this particular cloud was quietly drinking in moisture and water, growing larger and heavier with each passing hour.

By dawn, it had bloomed into a massive thunderhead that loomed over the entire estate.

The morning light was dim and filtered, the rising sun unable to penetrate the nearly black sky overhead. On the ground, servants and guards exchanged uneasy glances at the peculiar storm, but they took solace in the reports from the clan's scouts.

It was, they insisted, merely an odd but natural weather, nothing more.

In any case, the Infernal Clan remained unconcerned; after all, a bit of unusual weather was not cause for alarm.

* * * * *

Aephelia moved through torch-lit corridors clad in tattered gray rags, the same garments she had been forced to change into when first imprisoned weeks ago.

Her posture was hunched from hunger and hardship, but her eyes were strangely calm. The summons had come quite expectedly.

Here she was, being led into the light of day and up the stone steps to stand before the grand oak doors of the Patriarch's office.

The reason for Aephelia's summons lay in an alarming discovery made earlier when the guard was delivering her meal for the day.

One of the estate's prized Gromstels had been found dead in the very cell where Aephelia was imprisoned. Its escape from captivity and violent demise were matters the Patriarch could not ignore.

As Aephelia was being brought to the office, the details of the incident had already reached the Patriarch's ears: a chain of negligence and misfortune that had led to this loss.

The night before, the Gromstel cub had somehow broken free from its cage in the alchemical laboratories. Those laboratories were uncomfortably close to the underground prison cells, a factor born of practicality, since the clan's more unscrupulous alchemists occasionally used prisoners as test subjects and materials, it only made sense for the two functions to be near, as everything could be transferred easily between the labs and the dungeon.

According to reports, a junior alchemy assistant had defied explicit instructions and failed to fully shave off the creature's claws during its last sedation.

It was a short-sighted act of greed and ignorance. Gromstels, as few outside those who still know of their existence, possess claws of exceptional hardness; even as cubs, they can slowly saw through iron if given enough time.

Tragically, that is precisely what happened. Over the course of the night, with its claws not fully shaved down, the cub gradually chipped away at the iron bars of its cage. By the time morning had arrived, the cub was gone from its cage.

Drawn perhaps by scent or by sheer animal instinct, the injured and disoriented cub eventually stumbled upon the room where Aephelia was held. The dungeon guards, inattentive and unprepared, even slightly drunk from celebrating due to the clan's recent accomplishment, failed to notice the small shadow limping and dragging itself across the narrow passages.

The Gromstel cub stopped at one door in particular and began scratching. Its little claws scrabbled and scraped, boring a small hole into the old wood of the door.

When a guard finally arrived on the morning round to deliver Aephelia's meager ration of food, he was greeted by a gruesome sight. A thin trail of blood led through a ragged opening gnawed at the base of the door.

Alarmed, the guard flung the door wide. Inside the cramped stone cell, he found Aephelia unconscious on the floor, caked from head to toe in dried blood. Beside her lay the Gromstel cub, its small body torn open, but its entrails, for some reason, properly placed neatly beside it.

The discovery horrified the guard. He scarcely knew what to make of it.

Aephelia was still alive, breathing shallowly.

The Gromstel cub, however, was clearly dead, and in a manner no one could easily fathom. The guard's shouts quickly brought others running. Within minutes, a report of the incident was sent up the chain of command to the Patriarch himself.

The initial assumption among the baffled onlookers was that Aephelia, in some desperate act of self-defense or madness, had somehow killed the creature with her bare hands. Yet the circumstances defied easy explanation: How had the cub gotten into her cell in the first place? Why was Aephelia, a girl with no known affinity for magic, still alive at all after a confrontation with the beast? And most perplexing of all, what exactly had happened in that cell during the night?

Rumors swirled in murmurs as Aephelia, half-conscious and smeared with blood, was dragged up from the dungeon.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

The alchemy assistant responsible for the cub's escape was swiftly arrested and thrown into a cell of his own, his frantic excuses ignored. He claimed that he "only wanted to preserve the cub's usefulness" by not over-trimming its claws, letting it grow faster so they could shave it down to fine powder again; an easy way to keep procuring valuable material. He never imagined that his small oversight would cost the clan one of the last few specimens of a possibly extinct beast.

His fate was grim, but of secondary concern. All attention now turned to Aephelia, and what was to be done with her.

Inside the high-ceilinged office of the Patriarch, there was a heavy silence as Aephelia was made to stand on the ornate carpet before a massive mahogany desk. The Patriarch of the Infernal Clan sat behind it, ostensibly engrossed in a document, likely the written report detailing the gruesome scene.

He did not acknowledge the girl's presence at first.

At a curt nod from the Patriarch, the attending guards and the secretary who had led her inside exited the chamber, closing the tall double doors behind them. The air felt thick, and not just from the humidity of the brewing storm outside.

Aephelia performed a noble curtsy. "Good morning, Patriarch," she said, making a point to emphasize his title.

Only then did the Patriarch lift his eyes from the report in his hand. He, the 9th-generation Patriarch of the Infernal Clan, held an imposing presence; an aura of controlled fire, both literal and figurative, seemed to radiate from him.

Without warning, he rose and moved around the desk to stand before Aephelia. Before she could react, his hand raised.

Slap!

It cracked across her face in a sudden backhanded slap. The sharp strike sent Aephelia stumbling to the side; she caught herself on trembling legs. A coppery taste flooded her mouth as blood trickled from a freshly split lip.

"Yet again, you've caused another loss to this family," the Patriarch said coldly, his voice low and seething. He turned his back on her and paced away a few steps, clasping his hands tightly behind him.

Aephelia raised a hand to her stinging cheek, steadying her breath. She did not cry out or plead; she merely straightened her posture once more, her eyes tracking the Patriarch's movements carefully.

Settling back into his high-backed chair, the Patriarch's eyes were fixed on Aephelia with a cold stare. "What do you have to say for yourself?" he demanded. His tone was that of a man long accustomed to obedience and weary of disappointment.

With her ears still ringing from the slap, Aephelia understood that any ordinary excuse or apology would be futile. Over the years she has lived here, she felt like she had a good grasp of the man's personality.

The Patriarch probably expected either fearful silence or her groveling on the ground, begging for mercy, either would satisfy his need to reassert control.

Instead, Aephelia chose a different reply, one that caught the Patriarch off guard.

Wiping the blood from her lip with the back of her hand, she met his eyes and said quietly, "What loss, Patriarch? I awakened."

The Patriarch's eyes narrowed. He had not anticipated such an answer. Aephelia's voice had no tremor, and her gaze did not falter. Yet the claim she made was outrageous.

The Patriarch's lip curled in disdain. He turned his attention back to the papers on his desk, shuffling them as if Aephelia's words were barely worth registering. "Now you've resorted to lies?" he muttered, almost to himself, scribbling something as he spoke.

Without looking up, he continued in a scathing tone, "Understand this, a Gromstel's heart may induce an Awakening, but it cannot assure one. Even when used by our alchemists to brew the proper elixir, the effect is not guaranteed. And yet you ate it raw."

He tapped the pen against the paper on his desk, each tap felt like a tiny punctuation of blame. "Cannibalizing a valuable clan asset, continuing actions unbefitting of an Infernal Child… All for what? A desperate hope to gain power?" He let out a short, disbelieving breath. "And still I sense no mana in you. I see not a single trace of an awakening."

He leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "It seems you weren't paying as close attention to your lessons as your tutors claimed," the Patriarch continued, his voice almost conversational in its scorn. "Or perhaps your time rotting in that cell has addled your wits. You've always been one who hid your arrogance beneath your eyes, but this lie… this is a new low."

Outside, the rain started falling.

Aephelia stood as still as a statue. The red bruise on her face was darkening, but her eyes remained locked on the Patriarch's, unwavering and oddly bright.

With a final flourish, the Patriarch signed his name to whatever decree he had been penning, likely an order extending her imprisonment, or worse.

He spoke almost as an afterthought, "No matter. Your falsehood changes nothing. You will return to the darkness below and remain there until I decide how to dispose of you."

He looked up and was met with an expression bordering on serenity, almost insolence. Aephelia was smiling at him. It was a subtle smile, a mere curl of her lips, but on her bruised and bloodied face it was utterly out of place.

There was a glint in her eyes he had never seen before, a mix of rage and pity.

"Would you humor my words for a moment, Patriarch?" Aephelia said softly, the polite words dripping with a quiet confidence.

Angered at her seeming indifference to the punishment, he slammed his palm down on the desk and grabbed a small brass bell sitting at the corner.

"Guards!" he barked toward the door, not taking his eyes off Aephelia. "Take her back to the underground prison. Extend her sentence indefinitely."

However.

No one came.

They waited.

A moment passed, then another.

Beyond the thick doors, no shuffle of boots could be heard, no dutiful voices responding.

The corridor beyond the office lay in eerie silence, save for the muffled drumming of rain outside the window. The Patriarch's scowl deepened. He rang the bell again, twice in quick succession.

Still nothing.

No one responded.

Uncertainty began to creep into the Patriarch's eyes as he realized that, for some reason, his orders were not being obeyed.

Aephelia stood perfectly still before him; dirt, blood, and grime dirtied the plush carpet beneath her. And yet, the faint smile never left her face.

A single droplet of water, leaking through a hairline crack in the window frame, traced a winding path down the glass like a lone tear.

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