The study of Baron Thalos’s mansion was a bastion of decadence, its crimson velvet drapes swallowing the dim glow of crystal chandeliers that hung like frozen stars from the vaulted ceiling. Shelves of leather-bound tomes lined the walls, their musty scent mingling with the polished mahogany desk’s wax, a testament to wealth forged in shadows. Yet, the air was thick with dread, as if the room itself sensed the Baron’s unraveling. Thalos paced, his silk robes rustling with each frantic step, sweat glistening on his brow like a crown of fear. His trembling hands clutched a crumpled parchment, its words a verdict that burned through his soul.
The report was a catastrophe. Last night, goblins had stormed the underground auction in Thalosridge’s black market, a clandestine affair where masked VIPs—nobles, merchants, and shadow brokers—bartered gold for lives. The attack was a slaughter. Prominent patrons lay dead, their blood pooling on the stone floors, and every slave, the auction’s grim currency, had been freed, vanishing into the night. The Broker, the cunning orchestrator of this misery, was found with his throat slit, a silent casualty of the chaos (Chapter 32). Thalos’s empire, woven from chains and secrets, was in ruins.
“This… this cannot be,” Thalos whispered, his voice a ragged plea to an uncaring void. His heart pounded, each beat a hammer against his ribs. The auction was his lifeline, a web of power linking the underworld to the elite. Its destruction was not just a loss—it was a declaration of his vulnerability.
A sharp, frantic knock shattered his spiraling thoughts. The heavy oak door creaked open, revealing a trusted aide, his face ashen, eyes wide with terror. The man’s breath came in shallow gasps, as if he’d fled from death itself.
“My Lord,” the aide stammered, his voice cracking like dry twigs, “Count Faelmont demands your immediate presence.”
Thalos’s breath caught, his face draining of color until he seemed a specter in his own hall. “Faelmont… he knows?” The words were a whisper, a desperate hope for reprieve.
The aide hesitated, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he nodded grimly. “Yes, my Lord. He is… not pleased.”
Thalos’s legs wobbled, barely supporting him. Count Vareon Faelmont was a tempest in human form, his name a blade that cut through pride and pretense. To face his wrath was to invite ruin. Clutching the damning parchment, Thalos forced himself toward the grand hall, each step a march toward judgment, his mind a whirlwind of dread and fleeting excuses.
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The grand hall was a cavern of cold marble, its towering columns casting long shadows under the flickering torchlight. The air was thick, suffocating, as if the stone walls held their breath. At the center stood Count Vareon Faelmont, a formidable figure cloaked in crimson, his icy blue eyes glinting with a fury that could freeze blood. His presence was a force, commanding and unyielding, bending the air to his will. Thalos stood to his side, a trembling silhouette, his sweat-soaked face glistening, his eyes darting like those of a cornered beast.
“You incompetent fool!” Faelmont’s voice erupted, a thunderclap that echoed off the walls, shaking the torches in their sconces. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
Thalos flinched, his body recoiling as if struck. His voice, when it came, was a cracked whisper. “M-My Lord, it was an unforeseen attack—”
“Unforeseen?” Faelmont’s lips curled into a sneer, his eyes blazing with cold malice. “Your negligence has cost us everything! VIPs slaughtered, our trust with the nobles shattered, and every slave gone!” He took a menacing step forward, his shadow engulfing Thalos. “And do you know why? Because of your safety, you secured your precious mansion, but there weren’t enough men at the auction to fight off those goblins!”
Thalos’s knees buckled, his hands clutching at the air for support. The accusation was a dagger, piercing his defenses. He had fortified the mansion, diverting guards to protect his own walls, fearing whispers of unrest in Thalosridge. The auction, he’d assumed, was impregnable, its secrecy its shield. But the goblins—those wretched creatures—had exploited his miscalculation, their savagery orchestrated by an unseen hand (Chapter 29).
“I… I thought—” Thalos began, his voice trembling.
“You thought?” Faelmont’s voice was a whip crack, cutting him off. “You thought your cowardice would go unnoticed? Your failure has exposed us, Thalos! The black market will see us as weak, our allies will falter, our enemies will strike.” His voice dropped to a deadly whisper, each word dripping venom. “Do you comprehend the scale of this disaster?”
Thalos’s lips quivered, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Y-Yes, my Lord,” he choked out.
Faelmont’s gaze bore into him, unyielding, a predator sizing up its prey. “Your auction was our strongest card, our leverage over the nobles, our dominance in the shadows. Now, it’s gone, and we’re vulnerable.” He leaned closer, his voice a hiss. “You will answer for this.”
Thalos, desperate to salvage something, clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. “We need to cover this up immediately—” he ventured, his voice shaking.
Faelmont’s glare silenced him, sharp as a blade. “No. There’s no covering this up. Our only option is to salvage what remains and hunt down whoever orchestrated this.” His eyes locked onto Thalos, cold and unforgiving. “And you will handle it personally.”
Thalos’s face contorted with terror. “But, Count, I—”
“No arguments.” Faelmont’s voice was cold steel, final and absolute. “Find out who did this and eliminate them. If you fail, you’ll wish you’d died with those VIPs.”
As he spoke, Faelmont’s mind turned inward, a flicker of distraction beneath his icy facade. I have another business to attend to, he thought, his focus drifting to the secret experiment lab hidden in Ebonshade Valley, a place Thalos knew nothing of. An important experiment is about to unfold, one that could shift the balance of power. The lab’s grotesque work—mutated creatures, forbidden magics—demanded his attention, but Thalos’s failure forced him to delegate this hunt, a necessity that grated against his need for control.
Thalos, oblivious to Faelmont’s thoughts, trembled under the weight of the command. His lips moved, forming a barely audible response. “I… I won’t fail, my Lord.” But his eyes betrayed his fear, his mind drowning in the impossible task.
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[Just before sunrise]
Beyond the gilded cage of Thalosridge, the forest stretches like a kingdom of shadows and secrets, its gnarled trees clawing at the starless sky. The moon, a pale crescent, spills a silvery glow, painting the leaves in ghostly shades of silver and gray. A cool breeze weaves through the canopy, carrying the raw scent of moss and pine, a sharp rebuke to the blood and treachery that still stains my thoughts from the auction’s ruin (Chapter 32). I stand at the forest’s edge, a lone figure draped in black, my plain white mask—carved with a curved smile and sharp eye slits—catching the moonlight’s faint gleam. At six years old, I’m a paradox, my black hair a wild halo, my presence a cold, unyielding force that dwarfs my small frame.
“Time to meet them,” I murmured, adjusting my cloak with a practiced flick. A smirk curls beneath my mask, unseen but sharp. The five girls I freed from the auction’s chains (Chapter 33) dared to request this meeting, their defiance a flicker of fire that stirs my curiosity. “Why not humor their boldness?” I muse, my voice a low, dark thread of amusement. “They might prove… valuable.”
The forest thickens as I glide forward, the path narrowing, the canopy swallowing all but slivers of moonlight. The air turns colder, heavier, pressing against my skin like a warning. Silence reigns, broken only by the rustle of leaves and the distant, mournful hoot of an owl. My steps are soundless, my senses honed to a razor’s edge, catching every whisper of the night. Soon, I spot them in a small clearing, where moonlight pools like molten silver. Five girls stand in a loose semicircle, their young faces carved with wariness and resolve, their eyes alight with a fire born of pain and defiance.
The red-haired girl, her bright locks blazing like a torch in the moonlight, locks eyes with me first. Her gaze sharpens, her body tensing, ready to move. The silver-haired girl, her hair shimmering like spun starlight, stands poised, her calm facade veiling a coiled readiness. The amber-haired girl, her golden-orange hair tied back, radiates quiet strength, her eyes cautious yet hopeful. The sapphire-haired girl, her deep blue braids tight and disciplined, holds herself with a soldier’s precision, while the ivory-haired girl, her pale white hair flowing like a phantom’s veil, burns with an eerie intensity, her stare unyielding.
“It’s him,” the amber-haired girl whispers, her voice trembling with awe and fear.
I step into the clearing, my presence a silent command, the curved smile of my mask taunting the tension in the air. I halt a few paces away, my cloak swaying in the breeze, my masked face a blank slate. Their unease is a living thing, a storm brewing in the stillness.
“You wanted to meet me?” I ask, my voice cold and steady, cutting through the night like a blade.
The red-haired girl narrows her eyes, her voice sharp as flint. “Why did you free us?”
I tilt my head, a playful gesture that belies the ice in my tone. “Do I need a reason?”
Her fists clench, her voice rising, raw with suspicion. “People don’t risk their lives for nothing.”
“Maybe I’m not a person,” I counter, my words flat, laced with a chill amusement that unsettles the air.
The silver-haired girl steps forward, her voice steady, her moonlight hair catching the light like a beacon. “You saved us, but why the mask? Who are you?”
“Does it matter?” I cross my arms, the eye slits of my mask glinting. “I did what I wanted. Nothing more.”
They exchange glances, their suspicion softened by a grudging respect. Their faces—young, like mine, aged six to thirteen—bear the weight of their past: chains, cages, the auction’s leering patrons. Yet their eyes blaze with defiance, a refusal to be broken.
“You could’ve fled,” I pressed, my voice slicing through their silence. “Vanished into the hills, built new lives. But you’re here, waiting for me. So tell me—what do you want?”
The clearing falls silent, the rustling leaves the only sound. They stand frozen, their resolve tested by the weight of my words.
The sapphire-haired girl breaks the silence, her voice fierce, her blue braids swaying with her conviction. “We want justice.”
The ivory-haired girl nods, her pale hair shifting like a specter’s shroud. “We want to destroy the slave trade. No one should suffer like we did.”
The amber-haired girl’s voice is sharp, her golden-orange hair glinting in the moonlight. “We want their blood.”
I study them, my expression hidden behind the mask, my silence stretching like a taut wire. “Ambitious,” I say at last, my tone dripping with disdain. “But foolish. You’re weak. Five children against an empire of slavers? You’ll be dead before you begin.”
Their faces darken, their fists clenching, but none challenge me. They know I speak truth—their resolve is a spark against a tempest.
“Do you think anger alone will carry you?” I press my voice a blade, cutting deeper. “It won’t. You’ll fall before you scratch the surface.”
The red-haired girl’s hands tremble, her voice a low growl. “Then what? We’re doomed?”
I let the silence linger, my shadow long and menacing in the moonlight, a specter of their fears. “No,” I say finally, my voice low and deliberate. “You need power.”
Their eyes widen, a flicker of hope piercing their defiance.“I can give you that power,”
I continue, my tone icy, each word a binding vow. “I can forge you into blades to carve through this world’s rot. But power has a price. Are you willing to pay for it?”
They don’t hesitate. The silver-haired girl speaks for them, her voice unwavering. “Yes.”
“And,” the sapphire-haired girl adds, her voice fierce, “we swear our loyalty to you.”
Amusement stirs within me, a cold flicker beneath the mask, felt in the chill of my presence. They’re young, unpolished, their resolve raw steel waiting to be shaped. They have no idea what it means to follow me, a boy whose heart is as dark as the shadows I command.
“Very well,” I say, my tone glacial, sealing their fate. “Follow me, and I’ll forge you into something this world will fear.”
Their eyes gleam with a dangerous resolve, their young faces hardened with purpose. In this moonlit clearing, a rebellion is born, guided by me, a boy whose motives are as veiled as the mask I wear.
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In Thalosridge, Baron Thalos sits alone in his study, Count Faelmont’s words echoing like a death knell. He clutches a goblet, his hands trembling, and stares into the hearth’s flames, the weight of his failure crushing him.
“Whoever you are,” he whispers, “I’ll find you. And you’ll pay.”
But I’m already moving through the forest, the five girls trailing behind me, their footsteps silent, their hearts ablaze. The world will soon tremble beneath the shadows we cast.
To be continued...
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