Chapter Fifty Nine: Most Powerful Woman

An abandoned cart. Five corpses scattered like discarded rags. That was what I found on the roadside.
The cart was ostentatious—more carriage than cart. Gold trim lined every edge, and a purple lacquer gleamed under the sun. The wheels themselves were gilded. Whoever owned this thing wasn’t poor.
Around it lay five bodies that looked like hired guards or adventurers. Their skin had withered to parchment; their faces were hollow and colorless as if all life had been vacuumed from them. Beside a few of the corpses small piles of gray ash rested like burned offerings.
There were telltale signs of magic on the ground—faint circles, singed dirt—but no wreckage beyond the bodies. What lingered instead was a scent I had never smelled before: impossibly sweet, heavy in the air, and strangely unnerving. It tightened the back of my throat, made my head swim. I couldn’t find a name for it; it felt like the scent of power itself.
Curiosity pushed me closer to the cart. Inside, beneath a canopy of rich fabric, I found a bed—lavish and perfectly fitted to the cart’s interior. It was longer and wider than any cart-bed I’d seen; this was built for someone who traveled in comfort.
And on that bed: a cocoon. Not silk and leaves, but a purple-wrapped shell shaped like a human body—tall, smooth, sealed shut. It gave the impression of being both fragile and impossible to break.
I leaped onto the bed and nearly sank into how soft it was. This was no ordinary cart. The cocoon towered over me—at least two meters. Whoever lay inside must be enormous.
I tried prising the cocoon open with my hands. It wouldn’t give. The threads that formed its surface were taut and fine, like braided wire; each tug bit my fingertips until blood welled. They were not ordinary fibers. Magic, perhaps—defensive, strong enough to keep whatever was inside from being disturbed.
Why was it so tough? My mind raced. Was this a trap? A defensive shell triggered by danger? If so, who had drawn the others here and left them dead? The questions pushed aside caution. I had to know if someone alive remained inside.
Knowing I couldn’t leave it where highway robbers or wild beasts might find it, I hauled the cocoon home. Duddul refused to come near it; he had bolted the moment I touched the cart earlier. That in itself was telling.
I was halfway to my room with the cocoon when a piercing scream cut through the air. I dropped the bundle and ran.
Meila was rolling on the living-room floor, her movements frantic and uncontrolled. She thrashed from cushion to cushion, knocking a table each time, and kept calling out in short, panicked bursts. “It’s— it’s making me dizzy! I can’t—!”
I rushed to her. Up close, the same heavy sweetness hung in the air. Her breathing was ragged; she looked flushed and confused, grasping her head like someone caught in a spell.
“Meila!” I grabbed her hand. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m… I’m burning up!” she gasped. Her eyes were wide, unfocused. “Everything… everything’s shouting at me!”
She lunged—pulled me down as she went—and for a moment she clung to me as if I were the only anchor in a storm. The intensity of her grip frightened me: it was not desire, not in the way I’d seen before, but a raw, animal need, a mindless pull toward something unseen.
“Meila, stay with me. Breathe. Tell me what you remember,” I ordered.
She blinked and seemed to tear herself back. Her voice came out small and ashamed. “I… I don’t know. I felt—like someone was calling me. Like something was right beside me.” She covered her face, humiliated. “I’m sorry. I… I acted like an idiot.”
Duddul stayed close at the doorway, unsettled but watchful. After a couple of minutes Meila’s breathing settled; her color returned. She looked exhausted and frightened.
“I heard rumors,” she said finally, speaking slowly as if recollection cost effort. “About a warlord—one of the three who rule parts of this continent. They say she has a presence so strong that none can come near without paying a price. Men lose their will, women lose their minds… whole towns fall into ruin when she walks through. They call her the Demon Warlord. They say she commands servants who can extract the life from men and unhinge women with a whisper.”
I remembered the stories now—the murmurings in taverns, the warnings of traveling merchants. “You think that scent came from her?” I asked.
Meila nodded. “It’s possible. Even the scent clinging to a cloak can be dangerous. If she is the one in that cocoon—if any part of her is still active—then anyone who breathes it in will be in danger. It’s not just attraction; it scrambles the mind.”
My chest tightened. “So what do we do? We can’t just leave her here if she wakes. A radius like that—three hundred meters, if those tales are true—would put the whole neighborhood at risk.”
“Then we remove her, of course,” Meila said, voice shaking. “Get her as far away as possible.”
Before we could take another step, a voice cut through the dusk—high, authoritative, immediately familiar. “You low lives! You will not harm our master!”
Two figures descended from the sky, wings beating slowly, landing beyond the yard like shadows folding into themselves. Even at a distance their forms announced danger: sharp features, an air of predatory grace. They wore uniforms of dark fabric and moved with a confidence that announced they were not servants but warriors.
Every hair on my neck stood up. Meila’s whisper came out like a prayer. “Those must be her attendants.”
The two approached with methodical steps. Up close, their appearance was unsettlingly immaculate: tall, poised, and exuding a composed, dangerous warmth rather than warmth in any human sense. Their speech was polite but edged with command.
“My name is Baera,” one said, voice cool. “We have come for our master.”
“We appreciate your cooperation,” the other added. “You sheltered her from brigands. We will take her home before the protections wear off.”
They took the cocoon without argument. They moved with the efficiency of well-trained agents; in less than a minute they carried the bundle out through our back door and were gone, wings folding the air around them.
As the two figures winged away toward the northwest—the direction of the great manor I’d been curious about—Meila’s hand trembled where it gripped mine.
“They were the warlord’s attendants,” she said, unable to meet my eyes. “Probably sentries. You weren’t affected in the same way I was—you must have had only a short exposure. If the master had been free… God help us.”
I tried to joke to steady her. “You know you looked ridiculous rolling across the floor.”
She shot me a glare that was half-anger, half-embarrassment. “Don’t. I nearly lost myself out there.”
We decided to wait until nightfall before leaving the house. Even though the attendants had taken the cocoon, the memory of that scent lingered in the air—potent enough to unsettle the entire neighborhood. When we walked back, the streets were chaotic. People milled about in a trance-like state, dazed and disoriented. Some were tearful, some stumbled blindly; others had abandoned their clothes in their confusion. It was a city of ghosts walking under a spell.
It didn’t make sense. If the cocoon was gone, should they still be like that? Or had the exposure been enough to drag some beyond help? We hurried home and shut the doors. Meila didn’t come out of her room for the rest of the evening; she refused to see anyone. I left food at her door until morning. She took it, but stayed wrapped up and silent.
The reality of what we’d encountered settled on me like a frost. If one person’s presence could wreak such havoc while sealed in a cocoon, what would they be like when awake? Being near that kind of power was terrifying. I knew then, with a clarity that chilled me, that this warlord was not a rumor to be scoffed at.
A day later I found myself back in the dungeon—part to clear my head, part because I couldn’t let myself be stalled. The floor felt different this time: a branching labyrinth of caves, lit by slow-burning lanterns that hung from stalactites. Monsters that had once felled me were now brittle under a single strike. I tested my strength and found my abilities intact—no strange suppression this time—and that relief tasted like victory.
The cave led me through a progression of enemies, each tougher than the last. Small, wrinkled humanoids with crude daggers appeared first; my sword sent them to dust before they could react. I pressed on, deeper, until I came on a larger chamber where two prisoners were bound to wooden poles—an elf man and a human woman, both bruised and exhausted.
Upon seeing me, the elf cried out "Please help us!!" 
I ran for them, sword ready, only to be overwhelmed. The monsters swarmed, pinning me under their weight. For a terrible moment I felt helpless again—my strength felt muted, as if some invisible force dampened my strikes. Panic crept in when I shouted “Close your eyes!”
At first I thought it a desperate trick. Then, when the prisoners shut their eyes, something happened—my body seemed to breathe. The pressure lifted. I burst into motion and released a burst of blinding light from my throat: a technique I’d practiced, an attack that seared through darkness. Monsters were thrown back like flames blown by wind. I moved in a circle, each swing clearing another path, until the monsters lay scattered and fizzling.
I freed the two prisoners. The woman’s knees gave out; the elf wept with relief. “How did you—?” he asked, astonished as if my survival was an answer to a long prayer.
We barely had time to breathe. A monstrous roar shuddered through the caverns: the boss. A hulking ogre smashed through a huge door in the ceiling and strode into the chamber, swinging a club spiked with iron. Its bulk broke the stone beneath its feet.
“Run!” the elf shouted, terror making his voice thin.
I planted myself between the beast and the prisoners. The ogre lunged, slow but devastating. I parried and slashed; its hide was tougher than earlier monsters, but each blow became a point of leverage. When I struck its weapon arm, the club split like paper. The ogre howled and ignited in a brief, fierce fire. It collapsed, leaving behind a yellow stone that rolled across the floor.
The woman cried out with relief. “You saved us,” she said, breathless. “I…I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Get out of here while you still can,” I told them. The elf could barely stand; I carried him on my back and took what items the monsters had dropped. Two minutes later I stepped out of the dungeon into daylight, the city beyond calm and ordinary as if no nightmare had been whispered into its stones.
I gave the elf a ride to his neighborhood in a dragon-drawn carriage and watched him shuffle home, pale and fragile but alive. When I climbed back into the carriage to return, I nearly fell out.
A familiar silhouette boarded the carriage—a dark elf woman who had accompanied Mandon Modnoc during earlier dealings. Her features were striking: dark skin, long hair, and a presence that made me think of sharp steel wrapped in velvet.
“Long time no see,” she said, settling opposite me. There was a casual cruelty in her smile. “I remember the offer our patron made… about lending you one of us. Perhaps it’s time to reconsider.”
My chest tightened. I could feel the same old alarm—an inkling that dealings with nobles and their retainers always carried a price. “I’m not interested in bargains,” I said.
She laughed softly, the sound like a lock clicking. “We’ll see about that.”
The carriage rolled on, the city sliding past like a painted backdrop. For the first time in days, I felt the burden of what we’d seen: a cocoon that could unmake reason, attendants who came as easily as wind, and a warlord whose shadow stretched farther than any one of us imagined. Whatever the future held, it had grown sharper at the edges.