Suddenly, an alarm blared, echoing throughout the entire estate. The mansion submerged into an intense, violent red glow, washing away every subtle detail of its familiar elegance. Sirens wailed sharply, their piercing cries ricocheting off ornate walls and grand windows. “Intruders,” Michael noted calmly, setting his cup of coffee down.

  “The guards will handle it,” the madam replied, continuing to sip her coffee. “It’s what they’re paid to do.”

  Michael rose from his seat, eyeing his mother's relaxed demeanor amidst the flashing lights and blaring sirens.

  “I'll still go. What if my brothers do something reckless again?” Michael said with a slight smirk.

  “Yes, yes, your brothers do have a knack for trouble,” the madam sighed softly. “Especially Alex—I swear, he's so much like your stubborn father.” She chuckled faintly before adding, “Though you shouldn't be overly concerned. Whatever found its way onto our grounds isn’t particularly strong.” Her eyes briefly flashed with a subtle grey hue.

  Outside, the rain continued its relentless assault. Thunder mingled with the chaos as the security forces mobilized to intercept the intruders. Heavy droplets lashed against the mansion’s fortified walls, lightning momentarily illuminating security personnel into sharp silhouettes. Shouts and hurried footsteps echoed across the sprawling courtyards, blending with the storm's fierce growl. Floodlights pierced the darkness, illuminating spirals of rainfall, painting the manor grounds with transient, radiant strokes.

  Deep within the mansion's halls, warm lanterns and ornate sconces barely softened the mounting tension. Alert staff hurried back and forth, their eyes anxiously darting toward each blaring alarm. The entire building seemed to brace itself, awaiting a confrontation crackling through the charged atmosphere.

  Michael stretched his arms briefly, swiftly exiting the kitchen. Moments earlier, he'd been enjoying his coffee, now abandoned due to the intrusion alarm. His tall frame slipped past an open lounge door left ajar by guards hastily responding to the emergency. Overhead lights shifted to an emergency crimson hue, the manor’s power systems adapting to the sudden crisis. Water dripped from rain-soaked cloaks and uniforms as personnel rushed about.

  “Let's go, Vince,” he motioned toward his butler.

  “Of course, young master,” Vince responded calmly, exchanging a swift glance with the madam, who remained poised despite the turmoil. Even beneath the flickering emergency lights, she maintained her calm composure, finishing her coffee quietly before allowing them to proceed.

  Michael navigated swiftly through the manor's corridors amid swirling staff. Some quickly donned lightweight armor emblazoned with the family crest, others frantically mopped pools of water left by the storm. A few, unaffected by the chaos, continued their daily chores, faithfully maintaining the manor’s disciplined rhythm. Others rushed to oversee emergency repairs, preparing for damage caused by the relentless tempest.

  A blazing bolt of lightning illuminated stained-glass windows above, briefly capturing reflections of staff members hurrying in pairs. The mansion, usually a bastion of refined calm, now balanced precariously between urgent readiness and enforced composure. Sheets of rain battered the windows, obscuring the gardens beyond.

  Finally, Michael reached the armory. Massive oak doors carved intricately marked its entrance. Pushing them open revealed rows of gleaming weapons and meticulously arranged protective gear. Here, attendants in matching black uniforms quickly loaded fresh magazines into rifles, while others handled sophisticated protective suits. The subtle aroma of gun oil and the gentle hum of ventilation filled the space.

  Michael swiftly donned a suit of black combat armor. Each piece was reinforced with Kevlar, woven with sensors and trackers monitoring his vitals and relaying real-time data to the estate’s command center. The chestplate sealed tightly around him with a pneumatic hiss, while a digital readout blinked to life on a wrist guard, confirming operational readiness. The helmet was lightweight and retractable, covering only the back of his head—ideal for unobstructed peripheral vision.

  Vince likewise changed swiftly, exchanging his refined butler attire for a sleek black operative suit. With methodical precision, he secured armor segments—shins, thighs, chest, shoulders—before covering his lower face with a black fabric mask, comfortable yet practical for operations. Typically reserved within manor walls, Vince now revealed a sharper edge, each movement deliberate and refined.

  As the pair moved away from the armory racks, the storm's faint rumbling reverberated through the ceiling, emphasizing their urgency. Alarms continued echoing from distant corridors, signaling the approaching threat at the estate perimeter. Michael exchanged a decisive glance with Vince, who responded with a curt, reassuring nod.

  Exiting back into the hallway, they crossed paths with armed guards swiftly marching in the opposite direction. Each guard saluted Michael before dispersing to defend the mansion’s extensive network of walls and gates. The corridor lights pulsed red in rhythm, mirroring the storm’s furious intensity outside.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  They stepped out into the open through heavy service doors. Cold rain battered them immediately, coursing down stone steps and forming shallow puddles across the pavement. Lightning illuminated the turbulent gray sky intermittently, transforming the drenched world into fleeting scenes of stark contrasts, light against dark.

  Michael raised his head slowly, his gaze drawn upward into the vastness of the sky. A luminous azure abyss had opened, blazing brilliantly amidst the storm clouds. It was a storm of magic—raw, powerful, and ineffable—a phenomenon transcending mere words. It resembled an aurora, yet was infinitely more ferocious, pulsating with a fierce, otherworldly brilliance. Each wave of light cascaded across the heavens, reshaping the dark clouds into ghostly silhouettes, torn like fabric dancing chaotically in an unseen wind.

  “There’s something unnatural about this storm,” Michael whispered, raindrops tracing gentle paths down his face. Awe mingled uneasily in his voice, revealing a deep intuition of forces far beyond ordinary explanation.

  Vince lifted his gaze as well, his habitual calm momentarily broken, eyes widening at the mesmerizing spectacle. Raindrops dripped steadily from the hood of his black operative suit, unnoticed in his momentary astonishment. “This is…” Vince gasped softly, struggling briefly to regain his disciplined composure. “Magic.”

  The single word seemed to pierce the relentless rhythm of rainfall, resonating sharply in Michael’s consciousness. It was a revelation Vince had neither anticipated nor considered possible—a magical phenomenon so immense it defied reality itself. At the heart of the storm, a swirling sphere pulsed violently, saturated with dense mana, warping the very fabric of existence. Lightning flickered and crackled around its edges, leaping and twisting unpredictably, defying the laws of nature.

  “I feel as though fate itself called us outside today, Vince,” Michael murmured, entranced, his breaths quickening in rhythm with the ominous rolling of distant thunder.

  “Perhaps,” Vince offered, his lips quirking into a faint smile. “You have always had an uncanny way of sensing destiny, young master.” His eyes scanned the grounds cautiously, noting the guards hurrying anxiously along the estate’s perimeter, their faces etched with unease beneath the swirling tumult overhead.

  “Of course,” Michael affirmed quietly, eyes still locked upward. “My destiny holds greatness far beyond even your imagination.”

  Suddenly, the rhythmic beat of hurried footsteps pierced through the storm, echoing sharply in their ears. Thunder rumbled in reply, each lightning strike momentarily casting stark silhouettes of armed guards sprinting through the rain-soaked estate. Streams of water pooled along the stone pathways, flowing into muddy puddles beneath flickering security lights.

  Vince reached out, gripping Michael’s shoulder firmly, and indicated toward the troops. Michael nodded resolutely, and together they swiftly joined the guards, moving decisively through the storm’s fierce barrage. Rain cascaded relentlessly down Michael’s newly donned combat armor, while Vince’s sleek black suit shimmered darkly beneath the relentless deluge. The wind gusted unpredictably, whipping sheets of rain across their path as they advanced.

  Abruptly, the blaring alarms ceased, plunging the mansion into an eerie stillness. The sudden silence amplified the steady pattering of rain and the distant echo of thunder. Michael’s breaths quickened slightly, concealed beneath his carefully maintained composure.

  “Why did it stop?” Michael’s voice, edged with apprehension, was barely audible, but Vince heard clearly.

  “Perhaps whatever breached our defenses posed no real threat,” Vince replied, his calm demeanor betraying just a hint of cautious optimism as he surveyed the storm-swept horizon, where the mansion’s towering walls loomed darkly.

  Soon they arrived at a semicircle of guards, all focused intently toward its center, where shadows and torrents of rain obscured clear vision. A bolt of lightning illuminated two prominent figures briefly, sharply defining their forms in the storm’s flash.

  The first was Alex Mercer, eldest son and heir to the Mercer legacy. His tall figure stood shrouded in a grey cloak emblazoned with the Mercy Guild insignia, plated armor peeking through confidently. His short, dark hair, almost black, framed striking features marked by stubbled strength. Despite the storm’s intensity, his posture exuded unwavering command, his sharp eyes vigilant and piercing.

  The second was Jonathan Mercer, kneeling solemnly on the drenched earth, his cloak discarded and armor exposed to the elements. Rain streaked through his parted light-brown hair, cascading onto the soaked ground around him. In his arms, shielded gently by the discarded cloak, lay another figure—dark-skinned and frail, shivering uncontrollably. His body, darkened by the cold, was thin, ravaged by exposure, his long, tangled hair and scraggly beard soaked through. His eyes stared blankly upward, wide and devoid of hope.

  “What’s going on?” Michael’s voice broke the silence, urgency threading subtly beneath his composed exterior.

  “This man was discovered crawling across our grounds. He must have triggered the perimeter sensors, sir,” a guard hastily explained, rain dripping steadily from his helmet.

  Michael stepped forward, moving through the parting guards to the kneeling figures. The water pooled deeply around their boots, streams of rainwater flowing ceaselessly across the stone courtyard. Jonathan cradled the trembling man, his usually confident expression darkened with profound sadness.

  “Please,” the stranger gasped weakly, his voice fragile and desperate, “Drakonians…they attacked our ship…please save my daughter…” His plea faded softly into the rainfall, eyes closing slowly as life slipped away in Jonathan’s steady embrace.

  Jonathan’s hand moved gently, closing the stranger’s eyes with careful reverence before laying him down tenderly, draping him respectfully with his cloak. Rising to his feet amidst the storm, Jonathan’s face hardened with newfound determination, each raindrop intensifying the resolve etched across his features.

  “Men, prepare yourselves!” Jonathan’s voice boomed through the storm, clear and commanding. “We set out immediately for Hamburg.”

  His words resonated deeply, galvanizing the guards around him. They exchanged brief looks, their expressions tense but resolute, acknowledging the gravity of their newly declared mission.