Chapter 83 : Shadows Over Arkwyn

[ Morning]
Neon and Radon moved silently through the shadowed balcony corridor of Lord Cedric’s mansion. Morning light filtered through stained glass, scattering muted rainbows across the polished wooden floors. Every step they took was measured, careful — a whisper of movement against the quiet hum of servants attending their morning tasks.
Below them, the grand hall sprawled, full of the town’s key figures. It was a room of polished wood, intricate carvings, and chandeliers that reflected light like captured stars. Neon pressed herself against the cool stone railing. Radon crouched beside her, scanning each figure.
The weight of the moment was already palpable. The nobles did not chatter idly; they waited, eyes flicking toward the center where Lord Cedric Althorne stood.
Cedric’s shoulders sagged slightly, not from weakness but from the burden of responsibility. His kind face carried worry, his amber eyes scanning the room before settling on each of the gathered council members.
“To all gathered here,” he began, voice calm but heavy, “we face the Weeping Cycle. Ny’Tharal demands a tribute unlike any before. And we… we have no choice but to comply.”
A murmur rippled through the room. Some nobles whispered to neighbors; others stiffened, faces pale. Neon’s eyes sparkled at the sight. “That hesitation,” she muttered to Radon, “they don’t act yet, but every movement betrays fear.”
Radon’s lips twitched slightly. “Observation is key. Notice their reactions, how each processes the burden. Some will falter.”
Cedric’s gaze lingered on Valerian Drost, standing slightly to the left. His hair was neatly combed, eyes sharp, posture disciplined. Left hand of Arkwyn — responsible for defense and strategy. Every muscle in his body suggested control, readiness, the embodiment of precision.
Cedric moved to the right, gesturing toward Merrick Solane, his right hand and steward of the city’s wealth. Every gesture Merrick made exuded calculation. His fingers tapped on a ledger as if the answers to the city’s survival lay in precise arithmetic.
Other figures in the hall completed the picture of Arkwyn’s elite:
Lady Elysia Thorn, custodian of magical affairs, eyes gleaming faintly as she measured subtle mana fluctuations in the room.
Master Thalen Durn, historian and ritual adviser, adjusting his spectacles as though bracing for the burden of prophecy.
Captain Sylas Marrow, head of intelligence, standing slightly forward, eyes scanning the room with near-perceptive intensity, noting who whispered, who shifted, who faltered.
Priestess Mirielle, overseeing the spiritual sanctity of the town, hands clasped tightly over her robes, lips pressed in silent prayer.

Neon tilted her head, impressed. “That’s a lot of power and influence gathered in one place. And Cedric… look at him. He’s not cruel, he’s torn. That’s the kind of leader who carries guilt like armor.”
Radon nodded, voice low. “He’s accountable, yet constrained. That is rare.”
Cedric inhaled deeply, steadying himself. “As you all know, the Weeping Cycle approaches. Without tribute… our town will not survive. Ny’Tharal demands humans. Along with resources: Mana Crystals, meat, provisions.”
A heavy silence followed. Neon’s lips curled into a faint smirk. “The stakes are visible. Fear, respect, guilt… all cataloged in one glance.”
Cedric’s amber eyes swept the room. “The monster has advanced its demands. It seeks more human sacrifice now — earlier than expected. Instability accelerates its hunger. If we hesitate, the consequences will be catastrophic.”
Lady Elysia shifted, whispering to herself, eyes narrowing. “Mana alignment… it must be precise. Any mistake could doom the town.”
Merrick Solane’s fingers tapped faster on his ledger. “Resources and timing… we must ensure no deviation. Arkwyn’s survival depends on meticulous planning.”
Cedric’s hands gripped the table. “I am aware of the weight this places upon us all. But if Arkwyn is to endure, there is no alternative. The sacrifices… they must be delivered in two nights. Dockyard will serve as the staging ground. Twenty adults, from poor or weak families, will be selected.”
A murmur of disbelief traveled across the room. Neon leaned slightly forward, whispering to Radon, “Twenty adults. Poor families. Cedric himself… he’s hesitating to speak it, but he knows what this means.”
Radon’s eyes scanned the others. “Notice their reactions. Valerian’s posture is rigid, no trace of empathy. Merrick calculates losses and gains. Lady Elysia worries about magical misalignment. Each plays a part.”
Captain Sylas Marrow stepped forward, voice low but firm. “Guards and scouts will secure the selection. No mistakes, no leaks. Arkwyn’s survival is non-negotiable.”
Cedric nodded, almost imperceptibly. “Prepare the people. Gather them. Two nights hence, they must be at the dockyard. The Weeping Cycle allows no delay.”
Master Thalen Durn whispered, “The cycle is relentless… errors invite disaster.”
High Priestess Mirielle’s voice trembled slightly. “May the gods forgive us…”
Neon’s grin widened, whispering to Radon, “Guilt, fear, calculation — all visible. We’re watching the dominoes line up.”
Radon’s fingers brushed her dagger. “Observation only. Our time will come later.”
Cedric’s voice carried over the hall once more, heavy and measured. “I do not like this. I do not want this. But as lord, my duty is to protect Arkwyn… even at the cost of my conscience.”
The room remained tense. Every noble processed this decree differently. Some bowed their heads in silent despair. Others clenched fists, hiding outrage. Neon watched Merrick’s jaw tighten as he tabulated resources. Lady Elysia’s eyes flicked to the ceiling, as if willing the magic to obey without falter.
Radon exhaled softly. “All the pieces are in motion. Everyone has a role — voluntary or not.”
Neon’s lips curled in amusement. “And the mistakes, the fear, the hesitation — that’s all visible too. Valuable information.”
The council continued to discuss logistics:
Routes to the dockyard
Timing for gathering the twenty adults
Provisions and Mana Crystal allocation
Guard rotation and spell wards to prevent interference
Coordination to ensure no rumors leak into the streets

Cedric remained at the center, guilt etched across his face. Every word he spoke, every glance he shared, carried the weight of moral compromise.
Neon whispered, “He’s not cruel. He’s bound by circumstance. That’s what makes him interesting.”
Radon nodded slightly, eyes sharp. “And everyone else has their strength… and their weakness. Catalog it all. It will matter.”
Cedric’s final words brought the meeting to a close. “Prepare them. Ensure every detail is observed. Arkwyn’s survival depends upon our compliance and efficiency. Two nights. Dockyard. No deviation.”
The room fell silent, nobles exchanging glances, some trembling, some resolute. Cedric remained a picture of reluctant leadership, shoulders sagging under invisible weight, eyes heavy with the knowledge of inevitable suffering.
From their perch, Neon and Radon absorbed every detail — the expressions, the gestures, the tone, the hesitation. Every subtle hint, every ripple of tension, every unspoken thought.
Neon whispered, “Two nights. Dockyard. Twenty adults. Noted. Every detail, every nuance.”
Radon’s gaze swept the hall one last time. “And the Weeping Cycle doesn’t wait. Neither should we.”
The council dispersed slowly. Nobles moved with purpose, leaving Cedric standing alone for a moment, hands gripping the table. His amber eyes stared at the polished wood, reflecting his internal struggle.
Neon and Radon melted back into the shadows, silent observers of a grim plan. The sun climbed higher, but in the grand hall, a heavier shadow lingered — the shadow of the Weeping Cycle, and the consequences of duty weighed against morality.
—------[ Afternoon]
The morning sun had climbed high over the northern district, casting weak light across narrow streets. Shadows clung stubbornly to corners, hiding the edges of Valerian’s estate.
Narissa crouched at the front gate, hands brushing lightly against the cold wrought iron. The doors were tall, polished dark with intricate engravings, faint mana traces lingering along the edges of the lock.
“Valerian is not here,” she muttered sharply, lips pressing together. “And won’t be coming for at least three days.”
Her amber eyes scanned the silent guards stationed at the gate. Posture disciplined. Alert but not overly vigilant. Enough to notice minor disturbances but unaware of her presence.
She pressed her back to the stone wall, crouching low, eyes narrowing as she studied the estate. Servants moved quietly within the gates, unaware. Shadows shifted, ribbons from the festival debris swaying gently in the courtyard.
A frustrated sigh escaped her lips. “This is pointless,” she thought. “No Valerian. Nothing to observe. No chance to intervene.”
Her fingers brushed along the gate again, tracing faint scratches in the metal. Signs of passage, routine checks — proof that someone had been here recently, though nothing actionable.
Narissa’s jaw tightened. She had expected confrontation, answers, perhaps even an opportunity to interfere. But the estate remained silent. Empty. Ordered. Untouchable.
She pushed herself to her feet, leaning lightly on the iron gate. Her amber eyes swept the surroundings one last time, committing every detail to memory. Guards, doors, windows, mana residue, the faint hum of activity within the house.
“Three days,” she murmured, lips curling into a faint, wry smile. “Well… there’s nothing to do here for now.”
Narissa stepped back from the gate, the morning sun warming her face. The estate loomed behind her, imposing but distant, its secrets safely tucked away.
With a final glance over her shoulder, she turned fully toward the open streets. Today, Just the city, the gentle stir of life, and a rare chance to enjoy the quiet before the storm.
Her steps were light, almost playful, as she disappeared down the street, slipping into the rhythm of the waking city — for now, leaving the manor, and its mysteries, untouched