While Eon drifted into a deep, exhaustion-filled slumber in the master bedroom, the rest of the manor was far from peaceful. The silence that hung over the upper floors was a heavy, suffocating blanket, but downstairs, in the cramped servant quarters now acting as a makeshift prison, the air was thick with the smell of sweat, fear, and disbelief.
The room was already small before, but now it was packed tight. The guards who had switched sides, at the time of Denares soldiers sudden attack, were all captured and shoved in with Eon's newly acquired "servants", the two most powerful men in the region, Marquess Alaric and his little brother Darius. The humiliation was palpable for the Denares brothers.
Alaric sat on a rough wooden stool, his expensive coat stained with dust, the iron collar around his neck was cold and heavy. Darius on the other hand just slumped in the corner, his eyes vacant, his spirit temporarily broken by the overwhelming terror of the Mana Turmoil he had experienced earlier.
The silence was broken only by the hushed, frantic whispers of the guards. They were huddled as far away from the noble brothers as possible, trading stories like ghost tales.
"Did you see it?" one guard whispered, his voice trembling. "In the basement. He didn't even blink."
"Yeah, I saw," another replied, rubbing his neck as if checking it was still attached. "He killed two of the Count's personal guards. Just like that. Swish. No screaming, no hesitation. He looked… bored. Like he was swatting a fly. I bet he was the one who had killed Count Robert, too."
Alaric, though stripped of his mana and his dignity, had not lost his sharp mind. He kept his eyes closed, feigning sleep, but his ears were tuned to every word.
'He didn't chant?' Alaric analyzed, his mind racing. 'And his physical strength… from the way they are describing, if it is true, then he must not be a normal elf. Plus the way he moved in the hall. It wasn't the movement of a mage. It was the movement of a predator.'
He replayed the encounter in his head. 'Elves were naturally gifted with mana, yes, but their body had just half the strength compared to humans, even though their stamina was superior to ours. They relied on distance, on complex chants, on the grace of nature. But Eon? Eon moved with a brutal efficiency that felt alien.'
'He isn't an elf,' Alaric concluded, a chill running down his spine. 'Not really. Sure The ears are there, the face is there… but what about the soul? The biology? It feels wrong. Is he a construct? A demon wearing an elf's skin?'
Despite guessing this much on his own, Alaric was far from the truth; he could never guess that Eon was a human soul from a world of steel and concrete grafted onto a high-elf body.
Alaric's instincts were screaming that he was dealing with an anomaly. He listened harder to the guards, desperate for a clue, a weakness, anything that could help him break this leash. But all he heard was fear, and absurd rumors.
As he listened to them, Alaric understood in his heart, that escaping from Eon's grasp was not as easy as it looked.
Hours bled into the night. The moon climbed high, casting long, pale beams through the windows of the upper manor.
In the opulent, velvet-draped room of the Count's heir, a figure stirred.
Julius Edger, the young master of the house, groaned. A low, guttural sound escaped his throat as he tried to lift his head. It felt like a boulder was sitting on his skull. His brain was thick and fuzzy, stuffed with cotton, a lingering side effect of the potent sleeping potion Eon had given him, for keeping him out of his way.
He blinked, his eyelids heavy and crusted with sleep. The room was too dark, just a little light filtering through the crack in the heavy curtains.
"Water…" he croaked, but his voice was a dry rasp.
He tried to sit up, but his body felt disconnected, his limbs heavy and slow as if he were moving through molasses. A wave of nausea rolled over him, and a sharp, throbbing ache pulsed behind his eyes.
'What… happened?'
He rubbed his temples, trying to chase away the fog. Memories flashed in disjointed bursts. He remembered being in his room… then a commotion? Sounds of a fight? But they were muffled, distant, like sounds heard from underwater. Had he dreamt them?
Then, the silence hit him.
It wasn't the peaceful silence of the night. It was a dead silence. The kind of silence that happens when a heart stops beating.
Julius pushed the expensive silk sheets aside, his legs wobbling as they hit the cold floor. He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, breathing hard, waiting for the room to stop spinning. His mind was slowly clearing, the fog of the potion lifting just enough to let the panic in.
'The house is too quiet.'
Usually, even at this hour, there were sounds. The distant clanking of armor from the night patrol. The soft footsteps of maids preparing for the morning. The murmur of the estate living and breathing. But Now?
'Nothing.'
Julius stood up, swaying slightly. He ignored the sickness roiling in his gut. His only thought, the single tether keeping him grounded was his mother.
'Mother. Where is she? Is she safe?'
He didn't know about Eon's takeover. He didn't know about the slaughter in the basement or the enslavement of the Marquesses. To his drug-addled brain, all of the things he felt these days were no more than a big Nightmare. All he remember is his mother was abducted, and he was practically forced to give the keys for the slave collars for the elves.
He grabbed a simple but expensive night robe from the chair, wrapping it around his shivering body. He needed answers. And in this house, there was only one person who held the truth. Countess Teresa.
He opened his bedroom door and stepped into the corridor.
The hallway stretched out before him, a tunnel of shadows. He walked slowly, keeping close to the walls, his bare feet making no sound on the thick, plush carpet. The portraits of his ancestors stared down at him from the walls, their eyes looking strange and hollow in the gloom. The heavy velvet curtains looked like shrouds.
He passed the alcove where the night guard always stood.
'Empty.'
He passed the intersection leading to the servant's wing.
'Empty.'
A cold, unfamiliar prickle of fear touched the back of his neck. Julius Edger was a man who dealt in fear; he was the one who inflicted it on maids and slaves. He was not used to feeling it himself.
'Where are the guards?' he thought, his heart rate picking up. 'The servants are never gone like this. Is there a meeting? A shift change?'
He tried to rationalize it. Maybe his father had called everyone to the main hall. Maybe there was a fire drill.
'Do the guards have meetings that require them to leave their posts?'
The question hung in his mind, unanswered. He pushed it down. He would find out soon. He just had to reach her.
As he walked, the oppressive atmosphere of the house seemed to press against him, it reminded him of his childhood. Unearthing memories he usually kept buried deep under layers of cruelty and lust.
Julius hadn't been born a monster. He had been molded into one by the very silence that now surrounded him.
The Edger estate had always been a kingdom of marble coldness. As a child, Julius had learned that he was not a son to be loved, but an heir to be displayed. His father, Count Robert, had secured his lineage and then promptly washed his hands of the family, especially his mother, who was the victim of his father's promiscious life.
Julius remembered the neglect they faced. It wasn't a lack of food or toys; he had everything money could buy. It was an emotional starvation. He remembered watching his mother, the beautiful Countess Teresa, wither away.
She had been isolated, confined to a corner room of the big mansion, by the Count's jealousy and indifference. Meanwhile, the Count paraded his mistresses across the kingdom, a public declaration that his wife was nothing more than a broodmare.
Julius had worshipped his mother. She was the only warm thing in his cold world.
But then, the rot had set in. Teresa, broken by years of solitude and humiliation, had fought back in the only way she knew how. She began to take lovers, even among the war-captive elf slaves.
Julius, still a boy, had witnessed it. He had seen his sacred, untouchable mother descending into a desperate, promiscuous existence just to feel something.
That moment had shattered his psyche. He couldn't reconcile the Madonna he worshipped with the ruined woman he saw. The love twisted into obsession. The admiration twisted into a desperate need for control.
Because his mother was too sacred to touch, he sought to replicate her corruption in others. He needed to debase women to make sense of what had happened to her.
The Head Maid being also the nany of his, had supplied him with many women to play with, townsfolk, minor nobles, and many more.
But it wasn't enough. The hunger grew like void. It turned dark. His attention shifted to the slaves. They were powerless. They couldn't say no. In their complete submission, Julius found a way to act out his rage against his father and his twisted desire for his mother.
He became the monster his own house had created.
Julius shook his head, snapping out of his reverie. Remembering all of this thinking is not helping. He has to focus on the present.
He had reached the West Wing. His mother's private sanctuary.
This area was usually heavily guarded. Tonight, the hallway was deserted.
He approached the double doors of the Countess's chambers. His breath caught in his throat. He reached for the handle, expecting it to be locked. His mother was paranoid about safety; she always bolted her door at night.
The cold brass handle turned easily in his hand.
CLICK.
'Unlocked?'
Julius froze. His hand hovered over the handle. A heavy sense of dread settled in his stomach, heavier than the sickness from the potion.
'Why is it open?'
He paused for a long, anxious moment. He smoothed down his robe, running a hand through his messy hair. He had to look composed. He was a nobleman, not a scared child. He couldn't let her see him weak.
He took a deep, shaky breath, trying to steady his hands.
Then, he pushed the heavy door open.
A soft, warm light spilled out from inside, cutting through the darkness of the hall. He stepped across the threshold, ready to ask her what was happening. Ready to hear her voice. Ready to feel safe again.
But the room beyond the door held secrets that would shatter his world far more completely than his childhood ever had.
Miles away, under the canopy of a dark forest near the main road, the night was alive with the sound of restless horses and hushed conversations.
The main battalion of the Denares army, the fearsome "Diablo" unit, had halted.
Captain Valen, a scarred veteran who had served the Denares family for ten whole years, stood beside his warhorse, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He watched as the main force began to pack up and march south, back toward the Denares estate, following the orders Marquess Alaric had shouted from the gate.
"Retreat! We will not dignify this place!"
Those were the orders. And to a common soldier, they sounded like the arrogant dismissal of a bored noble.
But Captain Valen knew Alaric. He knew the Marquess of Law was a snake who never left a rat alive in a trap. Alaric didn't retreat. He didn't leave insults unanswered. And he certainly didn't leave his precious sister, Elora, in a house he claimed wasn't worth burning down.
'Something is wrong,' Valen thought, his eyes narrowing as he watched the dust settle. 'Alaric's voice… it shook. Just a fraction. But it shook.'
He turned to his lieutenant.
"Take the main battalion back to the estate," Valen ordered, his voice low and gravelly. "Follow the Lord's orders exactly. Make a show of it."
"Sir?" the lieutenant asked. "And you?"
"I'm staying," Valen said. "Take the First Squad to the village of Oakhaven. We'll wait at the tavern there."
"The tavern, sir? Are we celebrating?"
Valen looked back toward the distant silhouette of the Count's manor, his eyes cold and calculating.
"No. We're hunting," Valen replied. "Alaric is a genius, but he's not a coward. If he's running, it's because someone has a knife to his throat. I want a scout sent back to the manor. Shadow movement only. I want to know who is really pulling the strings in that house."
"And if the scout gets caught?"
Valen mounted his horse, the leather creaking.
"Then we'll know that the war isn't over," he said. "It's just begun."
He spurred his horse, leading a small, elite group of twelve riders away from the main column, disappearing into the shadows of the tree line, waiting for the inevitable mistake that Eon, or whoever was in charge, would make.
Author Note:
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