Master of MILFs

A silence hung between them.

Then Selene leaned in, resting her forehead against his.

"I'll pack the tomes. And the chains."

Leon kissed her softly, once. "I'll pack the weapons."

They both looked down at Mike.

Still sleeping.

Still innocent.

For now.

---

Later that night…

A soft wind moved through the trees outside.

But within the sealed box in the hidden fold of space beneath the house…

The Book pulsed once.

Then whispered:

"The blade cannot cut what was never whole."

And somewhere, far away, in the Mourning Caverns-

A Keeper awoke.

---

Twenty-One Years Ago

Southern Front – The Dead Meadow

The air reeked of ash and magic.

Bodies littered the meadow—twisted, charred, some turned to salt. The sun never rose here anymore. Not since the Book had awakened in the hands of the Heretic Circle.

Commander Leon Serevas stood over a crumbled ruin, his blade dripping dark blood. His armor was cracked, his shoulder torn, but his eyes—those eyes were pure steel.

Behind him, soldiers gathered the wounded. Clerics chanted revival hymns. Medics poured liquid light into broken mouths.

But nothing could prepare them for what came next.

A scream tore through the silence.

Not a war-cry. A child's scream.

Leon turned sharply.

A soldier stumbled into view—dragging himself, half-melted, whispering one word again and again:

"Boy… boy… boy…"

Then he collapsed. Dead.

Leon dashed forward, two blades now drawn.

That's when he saw it.

In the center of a ring of corpses stood a child—no older than thirteen. Pale. Thin. His robes bore the mark of the Seventh Legion. He should have been one of them.

But his hands… his hands were soaked in black ink, dripping from his fingers like blood.

And his eyes…

Gods.

His eyes were gone—replaced by two swirling holes of ink, endless and deep, like someone had dipped his soul in the Book itself.

"Stand down!" Leon roared.

The boy tilted his head. "It hurts… in here…" he whispered.

The voice wasn't fully human. Echoed. As if layered with something older.

Leon stepped forward. "I know you're in there. I know. Fight it. What's your name, soldier?"

"…Thomel," the boy murmured.

Leon's eyes softened.

"Thomel. I'm going to help you."

But the boy's body tensed. Veins on his arms bulged and turned violet. Symbols began carving themselves into his skin.

"No—No, no—don't make me do this—I don't want—" the boy sobbed.

Then he screamed.

And the meadow exploded.

Twenty soldiers died instantly. Others burned, turned inside out, vanished mid-step. Magic poured out of the boy like a tidal wave of ink and hate.

Leon was knocked back, armor melted into his skin.

But he got up.

And he ran through the storm.

Straight to the boy.

The voice from the boy's mouth was no longer his:

"You're too late, Bladeking. The child is the gate. The Book is the god. And your sword cuts nothing."

Leon gritted his teeth.

"Then I'll cut you."

He struck with Aelrendel, pure light meeting shadow. A slice meant to kill demons.

It hit.

But the boy didn't fall.

He smiled.

And wept.

"Thank you," Thomel whispered.

And then—

He collapsed, body crumbling to dust.

The ink evaporated.

The voice vanished.

And only silence remained.

---

Back to Present

Leon stood alone at the window, watching the stars.

Selene entered, silent.

"He begged me," Leon said. "Begged me to stop it."

Selene touched his back. "You couldn't save him."

Leon turned, eyes burning with quiet fury.

"I will save Mike."

A cold breeze swept through the open window of Leon's private study, the candlelight flickering against ancient maps and sword schematics hanging on the stone walls. Selene sat beside the fireplace, holding Mike close—he had finally fallen asleep, his head tucked beneath her chin.

Leon stood at his desk, shirtless, with only a long cloak draped around his shoulders. His back bore the scars of wars long past. His right hand—the one that once held the blade that slew kings—now held a quill.

He dipped it into the ink and began to write.

---

To the Grand Council of the Arcanum Magisterium,

From: Leon Serevas, Supreme Commander of the Third Northern Legion, Hero of the Veyron Rebellion, Bearer of the Blade Aelrendel

---

Subject: A Personal Request for the Appointment of a High-Ranked Magical Instructor

I request, without delay, the dispatch of one of your finest—no less than an Archmage-ranked enchanter or a Grand Chantmaster—from your highest circle to oversee the magical education and arcane protection of my son, Mike Serevas.

He has come into contact with a cursed artifact tied to the Book of Echoed Shadows.

I do not ask this lightly.

You know what that name means. You remember the stories. And if it has returned, then you know what must be done.

This is not for politics, nor favor, nor alliance.

This is a father asking for help—for the child who carries both my blood and the interest of something that should not exist.

You will send someone capable of shielding his soul.

You will send someone who can teach him chants to ward off death, to silence whispers, and to protect his dreams.

Send one who does not fear the Book. Or do not send anyone at all.

-Leon Serevas

---

Leon poured wax over the fold, stamped it with his family sigil: a wolf's head surrounded by seven blades.

He turned to Selene, who watched silently, her hand running gently through Mike's hair.

"It's done," he said. "They'll send someone. Someone powerful."

She looked up at him. "And if they don't?"

Leon's expression hardened. "Then I go there myself… and I won't be asking."

He turned to the shadows near the window. A quiet figure emerged—a falcon courier mage, robed in grey, waiting silently.

Leon handed the letter over.

"Fly fast. Fly hard. Do not stop."

The falcon mage nodded, gave a low whistle, and vanished into wind and light.