Chapter 36: The Twisted Savior

[Aren's Perspective]


The auction’s ashes were still warm, the goblin blood barely dry on Thalosridge’s streets (Chapter 32), when I set my sights on Count Vareon Faelmont. He was too slick, too distant, while Thalos scrambled like a rat in a trap. I knew the Count was hiding something, a secret buried deeper than gold.I’m no ordinary boy—my white mask, etched with a curved smile and sharp eye slits, hides a mind that cuts like a blade.


I stalked one of Faelmont’s couriers.I spotted him—a jittery man with a satchel, riding hard from Thalosridge toward the northern hills. Cloaked in black, my mask tucked under my hood, I trailed him, my small frame slipping through brambles and mist. At a stream, he stopped to water his horse, and I pounced, knocking him out with a stone I’d sharpened for the task. His satchel held a letter, sealed with Faelmont’s crest, its code child’s play for me. Under moonlight, I read: “Ebonshade Facility: accelerate experiments. Secure the captive asset.” My smirk widened, cold and sharp. I burned the letter, left the courier breathing, and crept to Ebonshade Valley, where a mist-shrouded compound loomed, its screams hinting at horrors within. Faelmont’s lab was real, a wound I’d tear open.


I broke into Faelmont’s manor. The Count’s arrogance left gaps, and I’m a shadow that slips through them. That night, with Thalosridge still reeling from the auction’s fall, I scaled the manor’s walls, my black cloak blending with the dark, my mask hidden to avoid notice.I’m small enough to crawl through vents, silent as death. In Faelmont’s study, I pried open a desk, finding a false drawer with a map—Ebonshade Valley, a site marked “Conduit.” Scrawled notes mentioned “experiments” and a “chained subject.” I memorized every line, left no trace, and later scouted the valley, spotting a fortified lab cloaked in unnatural fog. Faelmont’s playing god, and I’ll drag him to ruin.


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[Thalos’s Perspective]
(The following night)


The air in my mansion is a choking haze, thick with the stench of burning wood and the sharp, metallic bite of blood. My grand halls, once a monument to my power, are a slaughterhouse, their marble floors slick with crimson, their gilded tapestries curling into ash. Screams tear through the night—my guards falling like wheat before a scythe, their swords useless; my servants fleeing, their cries drowned by the roar of flames. I stumble through the chaos, my silk robes heavy with soot, my heart hammering against my ribs. House Varnholt’s mercenaries swarm my home, their blades carving through my world, and I don’t know why.


My breath rasps as I clutch the wall, a guard’s body slumping at my feet, his throat slashed, his eyes frozen in death. “Protect me!” I shriek, but my voice is a pitiful wail, swallowed by the din of steel clashing and wood splintering. My men are breaking, their loyalty as brittle as the chandeliers shattering above, raining crystal like deadly snow. A mercenary in black armor charges past, his axe cleaving through a guard’s chest, blood spraying across the marble. The main hall is a battlefield, flames licking up velvet curtains, the heat searing my skin. A marble bust of my grandfather topples, cracking into fragments as another guard falls, his scream cut short by a blade.


Why? I think, my mind a storm of panic and confusion. Why is Varnholt doing this? I’ve done nothing to provoke them—no raids, no slights, no moves against their house. Yet their mercenaries are here, their attack too precise, too vicious to be random. The auction’s fall (Chapter 32) left me exposed, my coffers drained, my alliances fraying. Faelmont’s absence, his refusal to aid me, has weakened my standing (Chapter 35). Information must have leaked, I realize, my stomach twisting. They know I’m vulnerable, a wounded beast ripe for the kill. Varnholt, ever opportunistic, must have seized the chance to crush me, to claim my power for their own.


I run, my legs trembling, shoving past a servant who collapses, her hands clawing at my robes in desperation. The grand hall is a maelstrom—guards fight futilely, their swords sparking against Varnholt’s shields, but they’re outnumbered. A young captain rallies a line, shouting orders, only to crumple as a mercenary’s blade pierces his heart, blood pooling beneath him. The staircase buckles, its banister splintering under a torch’s flame, embers raining down. I choke on smoke, my eyes burning, and stumble toward my study, the only refuge left. The heavy oak door looms ahead, a faint promise of safety. I shove it open, nearly collapsing, my voice a broken plea. “Count Vareon…?”


The study is silent, its crimson drapes untouched, the mahogany desk gleaming under the cold light of chandeliers. No Count, no reinforcements—just a single folded note on the desk, its edges sharp as a guillotine. My hands tremble as I snatch it up, Faelmont’s precise script a dagger to my heart: Attending to personal matters. Do not disturb. Rage surges through me, my knuckles whitening as I crumple the note. “He’s abandoned me,” I whisper, the words a poison in my throat. Faelmont, my supposed ally, has left me to die, retreating to his secret schemes—perhaps that hidden lab in Ebonshade Valley he thinks I don’t suspect (Chapter 35). His betrayal is a wound deeper than Varnholt’s blades.


The door shudders, splintering under a brutal assault. Varnholt’s mercenaries are here, their shouts raw with bloodlust. A blade hacks through the wood, a scarred face glaring through the gap. I back against the wall, my breath shallow, my heart a frantic drum. They know I’m weak, I think, my mind spiraling. The auction, Faelmont’s absence—someone betrayed me, and Varnholt pounced. There’s no escape, no window, no secret passage. My empire, my power—it’s all ash now.


The door buckles, and I brace for the end. But then—motion, a blur in the shadows. A figure in a black cloak moves like a phantom, a white mask gleaming with a curved smile and sharp eye slits. His dagger flashes, slicing through the first mercenary’s throat, blood spraying across the floor. Another charges, his sword raised, but the masked boy ducks, his blade cutting the man’s hamstring. The mercenary falls, screaming, and the boy finishes him with a thrust to the chest. A third hesitates, but the boy is relentless, his dagger finding the man’s heart in a heartbeat. The bodies slump, their blood pooling, the silence sudden and oppressive.


I stare, my breath caught, as the boy turns to me, his mask reflecting the candlelight, a specter of salvation. “Looks like you’re in a bit of a bind, Thalos,” he says, his voice smooth, laced with a chilling amusement that sends a shiver down my spine.


I stagger back, my hands shaking, my voice a stammer. “W-why did you save me? You’re with Varnholt, aren’t you?”


He chuckles, low and deliberate, the sound like ice cracking. “No, Thalos. I’m not with them.”


My mind reels, fear warring with suspicion, then—desperately—gratitude. “Thank you… Thank you for saving me,” I gasp, my voice breaking. “I owe you one."


His mask tilts, the curved smile seeming to mock me. “You can repay me, Thalos,” he says, stepping forward, his shadow swallowing the light. “By helping me destroy Count Vareon Faelmont.”


I freeze, my breath hitching. “What? Why would I—”


“Think,” he cuts in, his voice sharp, a blade against my resolve. “When Varnholt’s men attacked, where was the Count? Did he send help? No. He left you to die while he handled his ‘personal matters.’” He gestures to the crumpled note, his tone dripping with disdain. “You’re a pawn to him, Thalos. Nothing more.”


The words strike like a hammer, shattering my defenses. Faelmont’s absence, his note, Varnholt’s attack—it all aligns. I’ve bled for the Count, run his auctions, taken his risks, while he hoards the profits, safe in his shadows. My hands clench, rage burning through my fear. The boy’s right—Faelmont would discard me like refuse.


“You do all the dirty work,” the boy continues, his voice calm, relentless. “He reaps the rewards. And when you’re no longer useful, he lets you burn.”


I’m silent, my mind a battlefield. Faelmont’s betrayal is a wound I can’t ignore. Varnholt’s attack, fueled by leaked information about my weakness, was the spark, but the Count’s abandonment is the fuel. I meet the boy’s masked gaze, my voice low, resolute. “Yes… Yes, I’ll help you.” I nod, more to myself than to him. “I’ll do whatever it takes to bring down the Count.”


The boy’s mask tilts again, a faint amusement in his stance. “Excellent,” he says, his tone icy. “I knew you’d see things my way.”


In the flickering candlelight of my ruined study, we stand as allies, bound by necessity. The mansion burns, Varnholt’s men are dead, and Faelmont’s betrayal festers in my heart. I need resources—men, gold, information—to strike at the Count. I glance at the boy, his mask a chilling enigma. “I’ll need support,” I say, my voice steadier. “Faelmont’s not an easy target.”


“You’ll have what you need,” he replies, his voice smooth, almost mocking. “But don’t mistake this for kindness, Thalos. You work for me now.”


I swallow, the pact a chain around my neck. I nod, my mind already plotting—how to use this boy, how to survive Faelmont’s wrath, how to claw my way back to power. The study is a tomb, its walls scarred, the air heavy with blood and ash. Outside, my mansion smolders, its grandeur reduced to rubble. I’ve lost everything, but I’m not done. Not yet.


My study is a shadow of itself, the crimson drapes charred, the mahogany desk littered with splinters. The air chokes me, thick with the stench of death and smoke, the distant crackle of fires a grim reminder of my fall. I sit alone, clutching a goblet, my hands trembling, the hearth’s dying flames casting long shadows. Varnholt’s attack was a blade to my heart, their mercenaries carving through my home, exploiting my weakness. Faelmont’s betrayal is a deeper wound, his note a confession of his indifference. The masked boy—my savior, my captor—has bound me to his cause, and I’m not fool enough to trust him.


I stare into the flames, my mind racing. The boy’s power, his precision in slaying Varnholt’s men, is a tool I can wield. Faelmont’s secrets, whatever he hides behind his absence, are a vulnerability I’ll uncover. I’ll play the boy’s game, but I’ll carve my own path. “Whoever you are,” I whisper, my voice a vow, “I’ll use you… and I’ll survive.”


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[Aren perspective]


The forest beyond Thalosridge is a labyrinth of shadows, and I glide through it like a wraith, my black cloak melding with the night, my white mask a pale specter in the moonlight. The mansion’s fires paint the sky red, a canvas of my triumph, and I revel in the chaos I’ve wrought. Thalos thinks I’m his savior, a pathetic delusion I’ve crafted with care.


I engineered this night, every move a stroke of malice. I went there to unearth Thalos’s enemies, pinpointing House Varnholt’s ambition (Chapter 35). In disguise, I razed their outpost, leaving Thalos’s sigil in the ashes, a lie to spark their fury. Varnholt’s attack was my creation, their blades a hammer to shatter the Baron’s world. Saving him was the masterstroke, chaining him to me with gratitude and rage. His hatred for Faelmont is a poison I’ll nurture, a weapon to gut the Count.


A cruel laugh escapes me, sharp and cold. Thalos is a puppet, his strings mine to pull. The girls—red-haired, silver-haired, amber-haired, sapphire-haired, ivory-haired—wait in the shadows, their loyalty a fire I’m fanning (Chapter 35). Faelmont’s lab in Ebonshade Valley hides secrets I’ll rip open.


I pause, my mask gleaming, my heart a cauldron of malevolent delight. This world is my plaything, and I am its destroyer. Thalos, Faelmont, Varnholt—they’re prey, their blood a symphony for my ambition. I’m no hero, no savior—just a boy with a mask, a heart black as pitch, and a hunger to burn it all down. And I’m only getting started.




To be continued...