Chapter 73: The Price of Treachery and the Taste of Ash
The plush, burgundy velvet of the study room felt suffocating. Stacian Von Gremohiah gripped the doorframe, her knuckles white, the intricate carvings biting into her skin. The wood felt cold, a stark contrast to the flaring, molten core of rage that was churning in her chest.
Twitch. Twitch. Her fingers spasmed, a physical echo of the memories that refused to fade.
She saw it all again: the Rukeon villagers—sun-weathered faces split by wide, genuine smiles, their cheers rising like a physical wave in the valley air. Peace and loyalty to Leornars. She remembered the arduous days, the relentless magical labor it took to channel the main tributary, forcing the life-giving water to snake its way to their arid lands. The triumphant roar when the first cool, clear water rushed into their newly dug channels.
"They threw a feast for me," she muttered, the sound a low, venomous hiss that escaped the heavy oak door. "They raised their crude wine in my honor for granting access to the Lurtra and Avangard trade routes. And this... this is the repayment."
A bitter, philosophical weariness settled over her. She pushed off the doorframe, her tall, elegant frame moving with a sudden, sharp jerk. Her vibrant crimson eyes, usually holding an intelligent, calculating calm, were now alight with a dangerous, unstable fire.
"Truly," she spoke to the empty corridor, her voice laced with chilling self-pity, "a blind man will cast away the stick that helped him walk the second he regains his sight. I guess all humans are the same. Deceptive."
She stepped out into the sunlit castle corridor, the massive, polished black marble floor reflecting the high, arched windows. The hallway was normally a place of quiet, scholarly hustle, but today, two figures were waiting for her, leaning against a pillar carved with the crest of Lord Leornars: a stylized serpent entwined around a silver crown.
Salene was all cold, clinical impatience, her silver-white hair tied back in a severe braid that matched the sharp angles of her face. Beside her, Ayesha stood with a relaxed, almost bored posture, her dark, silken robes pooling gracefully around her boots.
"What are you two doing here?" Stacian asked, her voice snapping back into its usual controlled tone, though the edge of residual anger was still audible.
Ayesha pushed off the pillar, offering a lazy, knowing smile. "Well, you know. Someone needs to handle the heavy lifting. Three hundred instant casualties and carrying the kids? That's definitely a two-person job, at minimum."
"Did—" Stacian began, already intuiting the answer, but Salene's voice cut across the silence, crisp and devoid of emotion.
"Yes. Lord Leornars sent us. And yes, I am truly busy, so let's get this done. I have fascinating experiments to conduct on the corpses afterward." She adjusted a leather wrist-cuff, her eyes distant, already contemplating biological samples.
Masochistic. Truly. The shared, silent thought flashed between Stacian and Ayesha, a moment of dark, mutual understanding before they turned to follow the path of retribution.
The Street Performer and the Scent of Ash
The trio walked through the lower city streets of Avangard. The kingdom was a vibrant tapestry of rapid construction and magical innovation. They headed south, where the air was warmer and smelled faintly of woodsmoke and spices.
Midway, the flow of foot traffic bottlenecked.
"Oh, look," Ayesha murmured, pointing.
They stopped, momentarily distracted by a street performance. Sasha, a talented, young fire mage known for her artistry, was the center of attention. She wasn't using her magic for destruction; instead, a mesmerizing column of clean, vibrant flame twisted and danced before her.
Fwoosh! The fire solidified into the perfect silhouette of a falcon, its wings beating in silent, golden rhythm. Whoosh! It dissolved and reformed instantly, shifting into a playful, purring cat, complete with flickering ears. The crowd was silent, mesmerized by the sheer control.
Stacian watched, a flicker of appreciation in her eyes for the pure, unadulterated magical talent, before the dark purpose of their mission flooded her mind again.
They continued past the growing crowd. Just as they turned the corner, they passed a woman in heavy traveler's gear. Sahara Kurnov. Stacian's senses barely registered her, too focused on the task at hand. The momentary distraction was over.
The village came into view. Rukeon was nestled low in a small, green valley, deceptively peaceful. The afternoon sun cast long shadows over the humble thatched roofs and neat fences.
Stacian raised her hand. A wave of shimmering, opalescent energy sprang up, a dome-shaped magic barrier that silently sealed the entire village off from the outside world. No one could leave, no scream could escape. The air grew heavy.
As she strode into the village square, a man, bent with age but moving with surprising speed, rushed toward her. It was the Village Leader, his face wreathed in a manufactured smile that didn't quite reach his pale, beady eyes.
"Lady Stacian Von Gremohiah," the old man chirped, hands clasped low. "What can we do for you on this lovely day? Is the Lord King well?"
His voice was oily, too eager, too familiar. Stacian stopped ten feet from him, her composure cracking.
"Enough," she said simply.
She didn't raise her hand to cast a spell or draw a weapon. Instead, she focused her will, activating the hidden power she rarely used:
> Skill Activated: Divine Eyes of Shalba
>
The world dissolved into a sickening wash of red. The magical filter pierced through the flesh, the mundane lies, and the cultivated masks, searching only for the raw, unfiltered truth of the soul.
The instant the skill engaged, a sharp, searing pain shot behind her eyes, and her vision swam with a metallic, blinding red—like looking through a sheet of freshly spilled blood.
What she saw ripped the breath from her lungs.
Every single figure she looked at—the smiling leader, the women hanging laundry, the children playing near the fountain—was a monster in disguise. Their souls were a churning, putrid darkness, a stain on the world. The truth was violently, sickeningly clear: cannibals. Every cheerful wave, every polite nod, every act of "loyalty" was a performance masking depravity.
Stacian took a sharp, reflexive step back, her leather boot crunching on loose gravel. The revulsion was immediate, overwhelming. It was worse than she had imagined.
She blinked, deactivating the skill. The crimson blur faded, leaving her gasping, the taste of bile at the back of her throat.
"Salene. Ayesha." Her voice was a low, ragged whisper, heavy with pure, undisguised disgust. "Erase them all."
Salene and Ayesha exchanged a quick, meaningful glance. The Village Leader's fake smile finally faltered, replaced by a look of bewildered panic.
"Lady Stacian? What are you—"
"What about the kids?" Salene asked, her voice still clinical, but with a slight, almost imperceptible hesitation.
Stacian looked at the Village Leader's suddenly terrified face, then swept her gaze over the genuinely shocked villagers who had started whispering and moving toward the edges of the barrier. The image of those corrupted souls, those cannibalistic cravings, was still burned behind her eyes.
"I said kill them all." The finality in her tone was absolute. There would be no mercy.
The villagers broke. A collective scream of fear and denial rose, instantly muffled and contained by the barrier as they tried to scatter.
Salene's expression finally showed a hint of excitement. Her silver-white hair seemed to glow as a profound magical pressure descended.
> Skill Activated: Sucrion the Small World
>
Two massive, leathery black wings erupted from her back, tearing the fabric of her robe. They weren't wings for flight; they were wings of shadow and void. A swirling, dark vortex opened behind her.
The fleeing villagers didn't even get two steps. Their screams cut off with horrifying abruptness as their bodies convulsed. Through the visible distortion in the air, organs—hearts, livers, lungs—were violently, instantly teleported out of their bodies, leaving behind limp, rapidly emptying shells. The corpses, now magically lightweight, were instantly dragged into the gaping, pocket-dimensional void behind Salene, disappearing without a trace. It was efficient, instantaneous, and utterly grotesque.
Ayesha, meanwhile, focused on a smaller group of panicked men who had grabbed pitchforks and axes, their eyes wild with desperation. She didn't bother with messy blood spells.
> Skill Activated: Yurian
>
The moment the skill activated, the men's eyes glazed over. Their frantic movements froze, then re-engaged with a disturbing, mechanical twitch. Their minds were no longer their own; their senses were completely corrupted. Under Ayesha's silent, psychic command, they turned on each other, pitchforks driving into former neighbors, axes swinging into former friends. The sound of their self-inflicted slaughter was horrible, but necessary.
Stacian stepped over the rapidly dissolving battlefield. The stench of fear and fresh blood was already being sucked away by Salene's void. She moved with purpose toward a small hut, kicking open the flimsy wooden door.
Inside, the light was dim. A small child, no older than six, sat on the dirt floor, gnawing on a piece of flesh. Stacian didn't need the Divine Eyes to confirm the jagged, recognizable features of a demi-human corpse.
She closed the door slowly, quietly, the coldness returning to her eyes. There was no innocence to save here.
She continued, stopping at the Village Leader's main house. A rhythmic, muffled banging noise was coming from the floorboards near the hearth.
With a grunt of effort, she grabbed the edge of the hearthstone, using a burst of raw physical strength mixed with magic to tear it up, instantly ripping open the floor. A steep, narrow staircase descended into the darkness.
Stacian followed, the air immediately turning stagnant, heavy with the chemical smell of decay and synthesis.
The basement opened into a rough, hastily constructed laboratory. Flasks bubbled, strange apparatuses hissed, and on the ground, several figures lay motionless. They were demi-humans, their eyes bleeding dark, thick liquid. Their nostrils were rimmed with a fine, toxic, white dust: Pollium drug residue.
The Pollium drug—the cheap, magically enhanced narcotic designed to render demi-humans pliable and easily disposable. This was no simple cannibalism; this was organized, large-scale, horrifying exploitation.
She walked deeper. The laboratory ended abruptly at a heavy wooden door secured with a simple padlock. She shattered the lock with a flick of her hand.
Inside was a dungeon. Living, terrified demi-humans—elves, beastkin, dwarves—were chained to the wall, weak but alive. They stared at her with wide, traumatized eyes.
"It's over," Stacian said, her voice softer than it had been all day. "You are free."
She shattered the chains with a controlled burst of void energy, leading the shivering, fragile group back up the stairs and into the fading light of the village square.
The Village Leader, dazed but not yet dead, was crawling away from Salene's vortex. Stacian caught him like a rag doll, her hand closing around his scrawny throat. She lifted him easily, his feet dangling.
"Who told you to do this?" Her rage had returned, cold and surgical this time.
The man choked, clawing weakly at her strong wrist. "The... the Duke of Seraphim Kingdom," he wheezed, the words ragged. "Paid us... to move here... when Avangard was being constructed... to sow chaos..."
Seraphim Kingdom. A new piece slotted into the dark puzzle.
Stacian didn't wait for another word. She twisted her wrist once, sharply. Snap. The Village Leader's neck broke, and his body slumped, lifeless. She dropped the corpse and let it be dragged away into the swirling oblivion.
She turned away from the carnage, looking at the silent, burning remnants of Rukeon village. What was left of the structures glowed with tiny, residual fires.
She raised a single finger toward the valley. The air around her hummed with terrifying concentration.
> Skill Activated: Dark Aria
>
A column of pure, concentrated void energy flame erupted from her fingertip. It wasn't ordinary fire; it was the magic of nothingness, designed to erase. It swept over the village like a cleansing wave. Infrastructure, wood, stone, and the blood-soaked earth itself were consumed in seconds, not by heat, but by fundamental magical destruction.
When the void flame subsided, there was only a patch of slightly smoking, undisturbed ash. The village of Rukeon was gone. No foundation, no structure, no grave. It had never existed.
"Cannibalism and organized sabotage within Avangard's borders," she murmured, gazing at the patch of nothingness. "Unacceptable."
Meanwhile, miles away in the capital of Durmount, the atmosphere was thick with tension and false calm.
Princess Selrose stood in her private antechamber, the chill of the stone floor creeping up her satin slippers. She held a vial of aphrodisiac, the liquid inside a sickly, viscous blue. This was the final, devastating piece of the master plan crafted by Leornars.
Clink. She poured the entire bottle into her father's bowl of soup, watching the blue dissipate into the earthy brown liquid. She stirred it methodically, then quickly recited a complex, low-level incantation—an anti-detoxifying spell—to ensure the poison could not be magically neutralized for several hours.
She pulled a folded letter from her sleeve and read it one last time, the candlelight catching the fierce, cold concentration in her eyes.
> '...pour in the aphrodisiac in his meals and stay in the room. Let him try to assault you and scream for the guards. Let him have now a much more complicated problem to deal with. This will now be the final piece for him to be dismissed from office permanently for attempted rape of the princess. Even if he's your father, he has no right to assault you.'
>
Yes. Leornars' logic was flawless, ruthless, and absolute. Political crimes could be debated. An assault on a royal princess was an unforgivable offense that demanded instant, decisive removal.
Selrose held the paper over a flickering candle. The flame caught, consuming the parchment in a silent, crackling whisper. The ashes fell onto her palm, and she crushed them instantly, ensuring no evidence remained.
She composed her face into a mask of dutiful concern and walked into the small, heavily guarded chambers where her father, the King, was imprisoned.
The man who sat staring blankly at the wall was a shadow. The powerful, arrogant monarch she remembered was diminished—thinner, his clothes rumpled, his eyes tired and haunted by guilt and failed strategies.
"Father," she said gently, holding out the bowl. "I brought you your supper."
He looked up at her, a flicker of the old spark of pride and suspicion in his gaze. "Selrose... why? Why are you still here, child?"
"I am your daughter," she replied simply, keeping her voice even. "I will not abandon you."
He ate quickly, gulping the savory broth, desperate for sustenance. A few minutes later, as Selrose watched, the effect began. His eyes grew wide, hot, and instantly bloodshot. The exhaustion vanished, replaced by a feverish, terrifying intensity.
He looked at her, not as a daughter, but as a desired object, his mind completely enslaved by the chemical rush. He lunged across the small table.
Clang! The bowl shattered on the stone floor.
The two loyal guards stationed outside had been waiting for the coded sound. They burst in to find the King, his aged body trembling with unnatural strength, tearing at his daughter's clothes, his breath hot and ragged against her neck.
Selrose let out a piercing, gut-wrenching scream—a sound of sheer, unadulterated terror that would echo through the entire wing.
The King was instantly, brutally grabbed. The guards, their faces contorted with horror and fury at the sight, slammed him into the wall. He cried out, the physical shock momentarily clearing the drug-induced haze.
He looked down at his trembling hands, at the tear in his daughter's dress, at the shattered soup bowl, and the devastating realization hit him. He was defeated. Utterly, irrevocably destroyed.
Selrose, still "shaking," slowly raised her head, her face wet with faked tears. Her eyes, however, were dry and hard. She leaned close to his ear, her voice a poisonous, chilling whisper meant only for him.
"You opposed Leornars, Father." Her mouth curved into a slow, evil smirk, the first genuine expression he had seen from her in months. "I will make you pay for your insolence. I hope you enjoy the Guillotine. Goodbye, Father."
The King's eyes dilated in horror. He stared at her, the pieces of the puzzle—the rumors, the accidents, the betrayals—finally snapping together into a grotesque, horrifying image.
"You did this?" he roared, his voice raw with despair. "All of it? Made me look like a fool!"
His screams were cut short as the guards, muttering threats and insults, tied him securely for immediate transfer to the highest security prison. Selrose walked out of the room, her high, triumphant laughter echoing down the corridor behind her.
Back in the newly scorched valley near Avangard, a figure stood silhouetted against the sinking sun on a distant rooftop. It was Kylie, the vengeful hero.
He had just witnessed the absolute humiliation of his own shadow clone—a carefully crafted magical puppet—vanquished by Leornars with a single, contemptuous jab days prior. The memory was an acid burn in his mind.
He ground his teeth together, the frustration tasting metallic on his tongue. "I know. To get him back, I won't face him. I'll hit him where it hurts. I'll kill someone important to him."
His eyes narrowed as he watched the distant castle gate. Three distinct figures were approaching, having finished their work: Stacian, Ayesha, and Salene. Stacian Von Gremohiah was known to be a key mirror figure of Avangard. Perfect.
Kylie adjusted his posture, focusing his will to maintain his signature high-level stealth skill. The air shimmered around him, rendering him not just invisible, but undetectable by mundane senses. He was completely hidden.
Or so he thought.
He glanced down at the trio below. They had stopped moving.
Stacian was looking straight up. Ayesha was pointing directly at his rooftop. Salene simply raised a bored eyebrow.
A profound, icy chill—not of air, but of pure dread—raked down Kylie's spine. His grin vanished, replaced by an expression of pure, gut-wrenching panic.
"How?" he thought, his blood running cold. "Can they see me? Impossible!"
He checked his skill, running a quick mental diagnostic. Perfect activation. No magic leakage. No sound. No visible ripple. He was completely sealed. He even looked behind him, thinking a fourth party might have surprised him, but there was nothing.
When he looked down again, the trio was gone, having smoothly entered the castle grounds. They had seen him. They knew he was there. They just hadn't bothered to engage.
Kylie dropped onto the tiled roof, his bravado utterly stripped away.
"What the hell is going on in this kingdom?" he whispered into the gathering twilight, clutching the edges of his invisibility.
Deeper into the continent, far from the polished marble and political maneuvering of Avangard, Leornars and his immediate companions had arrived at the outer boundary of the secretive Elven Kingdom Forest.
The air here was thick with the scent of damp moss, ancient pine, and unspoiled earth. The moonlight filtered down through the impossibly tall canopy, casting the forest floor in shifting patterns of silver and deep shadow.
As they set up a makeshift camp—Leornars, Zaryter, Zhyier, and Zhyelena—a low, unified rustling sound surrounded them.
Instantly, they were encircled. Elven scouts, dressed in cloaks woven from forest materials, materialized from the shadows, their long, slender bows drawn taut, arrows nocked and pointed directly at Leornars' group.
Leornars, leaning against a centuries-old root, didn't even bother to stand. He simply tilted his head, his silver eyes reflecting the glint of the arrowheads. His expression was one of profound, utter boredom.
"Seriously," he drawled, his voice carrying easily through the quiet forest. "Arrows? Is that all," he paused, dragging out the word, "...gentlemen?"
Before the elves could react, Leornars activated a spell so swiftly, it bypassed the need for incantation or gesture. It wasn't physical; it was a targeted psychic assault.
> Skill Activated: Phantom Illusion
>
A wave of invisible, soul-based energy washed over the ring of elves. For them, time instantly warped. The present vanished, replaced by the crushing weight of their deepest, most traumatic memories. They relived their greatest fears, their most terrible losses, their moments of failure—all on repeat, in an endless, agonizing loop.
The tension in their bow arms vanished. A soft clatter, clatter, clatter echoed as the elves, eyes wide and unfocused, began dropping their precious bows, tears and silent sobs racking their bodies. They were paralyzed, trapped in the infinite loop of their own terror.
"Efficient," Leornars commented dryly.
He and Zaryter moved with practiced speed. Zaryter conjured the Divine Chains of Detriment—shackles of celestial light that bound the elves securely. Leornars used his own Threads of Abstract—thin, nearly invisible lines of void energy—to further secure the struggling bodies.
The forest quieted once more. Leornars stretched, relaxing against the root again.
Suddenly, a clean whizzing sound split the air. An arrow, perfectly aimed, streaked toward Leornars' head.
Fzzzt. The arrow stopped dead an inch from his face, deflected by an invisible, shimmering barrier that Zhyier had instantly erected. Zhyier, the quiet, towering guard, stood ready.
But then: Thwack.
A second arrow, heavier and laced with a stronger anti-magic ward, pierced clean through Zhyier's barrier and embedded itself harmlessly in the tree bark right beside Leornars' ear.
Leornars blinked, a flicker of genuine interest lighting his silver eyes. He plucked the feathered shaft from the bark.
"Oh," he said, examining the rune-carved wood. "That's new." He sounded mildly surprised, almost delighted.
From the deep shadows of the ancient trees, the Elven Crowned Prince stepped out. He was tall, regal, and radiating intense, youthful anger. He held his great bow high, another arrow nocked, its point glowing faintly.
"Lord...?" Zhyelena began, her hand already moving toward the dagger concealed beneath her gown.
Leornars held up a dismissive hand. "No. Don't kill him yet. I want to see what he can do."
Zhyelena instantly vanished, melting into the shadows behind the Prince, her movements utterly silent and untraceable.
The Prince, unaware he now stood between a bored god and a deadly, invisible assassin, aimed his shot with fierce focus.
"Intruders!" he shouted, his voice echoing with righteous Elven pride. "You dare trespass on our sacred ground and violate our people?!"
Leornars sighed, tossing the captured arrow aside. He looked at the furious, handsome young man with an expression of profound weariness.
"Brat, do you have eyes? You attacked me, that's basic defense, " Leornars called him.