Ch 11.2

Back in the Pavilion’s guest quarters, laughter spilled freely.

Wallus lounged on the sofa, one leg draped over the armrest, a glass of wine swirling lazily in his hand. His men sat scattered around the room, boots on tables, bottles half-empty, the air thick with alcohol and smug satisfaction.

“Tch,” one of them muttered, glancing around. “The place feels dead tonight. No girls to cuddle around. I miss their screaming.”

Wallus chuckled softly, unbothered.

“Well, there was a funeral,” he said, taking a slow sip. “One of the girls decided to hang herself. The least I could do was give the animals a day to mourn their own.” His lips curled. “I’m not heartless.”

The men snorted.

Wallus lifted his glass, the wine catching the lamplight like blood.

“Let’s have a toast,” he said lightly. “To the poor girl. May she be reborn as something better next time. Preferably human.”

Laughter erupted. Glasses clinked.

“To rebirth!”

“To silence!”

“To fewer headaches!”

They drank, the sound of merriment echoing through the cabin, unchecked and unchallenged.

One of the men, a bald, middle-aged brute, rose from his seat, stretching.
So,” he said with a grin, “should we go grab a few servants for tonight? What do you say?”

“Sounds perfect,” another chimed in, already laughing.

Wallus didn’t answer right away. He took a slow sip of his wine, then stepped toward the bald man. He placed one of his hands on the shoulder, the gesture almost friendly.

“Hey, Richard.”

The bald man turned at once, eager and grinning, too drunk on the room’s laughter to notice how Wallus’s voice had gone flat.

“Yeah, boss?” Richard said. “You like the idea too, right?”

Wallus’s smile never came. His eyes, however, hardened.
“Your memory-erasure spell,” he said calmly, “was sloppy.”

The room went quiet. Laughter died mid-breath. Every crewmate turned to look at Richard.

“The girl broke too early,” Wallus continued, voice low and even.
“Don’t you think? Or have you started cutting corners?”

Richard’s smile faltered. Sweat beaded along his scalp.
“I—I did cast it,” he stammered. “But sometimes beastwomen have higher resistance. Their minds can—”

The sentence never finished.

Wallus smashed the wine glass straight into Richard’s face and followed with a brutal punch. The man was thrown backwards, crashing onto the floor with a scream as shards of glass tore into his skin.

“AAAH—!” Richard howled, clutching his bleeding face.

Wallus stood over him, utterly unmoved.

“You think those animals can resist our mana?” he said coldly. “That only tells me you’ve grown lazy.” He looked down with open contempt. “I told you to wipe them clean. Now one’s dead, and because of you, we’re short on bodies for the plan.”

Wallus glanced at Richard and clicked his tongue. “Tch. Useless.”

Richard wailed on the floor, the sound raw and animal, fingers slick with blood as he rocked back and forth. Wallus didn’t even glance down at him. He simply picked up another bottle of wine and uncorked it with a dull pop.

“Well,” he said calmly, taking a long swig, “now the girls will be more on guard. That little mess sped things up.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Send word to our friend. We’re skipping ahead. A few steps at least.”

Richard dragged himself onto his knees, face shredded and swollen, eyes wild.
“I—I’m sorry, boss. Please. Forgive me. I’ll do better. I swear—”

Wallus exhaled, irritated, and waved a lazy hand.

“Someone patch him up. Use a potion.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “And shut him up. The noise is getting on my nerves.” He paused, then added flatly, “I only enjoy screaming when it comes from women.”

Two men moved in, grabbing Richard by the shoulders as another roughly pried shards of glass from his face. His cries were muffled as a potion was forced down his throat.

Wallus turned toward the window, gazing out at the quiet night beyond the cabins. The Pavilion lights glimmered faintly in the distance, warm and ignorant.

“We’ve overstayed,” he said at last. “It’s time we prepare to move.”

One of the crewmates hesitated before stepping closer.

“But, Captain… shouldn’t we wait for Bishop Fernandes to return?”

Wallus scoffed, taking another drink.

“That bishop walked straight into a lion’s jaws. Sending a zealot like him to negotiate with warlords was stupidity, plain and simple.” He shook his head. “These barbarians are easy to manipulate, but you don’t send a mad dog to do it.”

The man swallowed.

“Sir… we’re still under Church orders. If we leave without the bishop, they’ll skin us alive.”

Wallus’s expression darkened.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this whole mess,” he muttered. “Why he left us stranded here in the first place, I don’t know. We’ll wait—for now.” He turned back toward the room. “But if things start going sideways, we leave. No hesitation.”

He paused at the doorway.

“Get the supplies ready. Ships prepped by tomorrow. I want them ready to sail at a moment’s notice.”

With that, Wallus disappeared into his room, bottle in hand.

Behind him, the cabin felt colder somehow. The men exchanged uneasy looks, the earlier laughter long gone. Whatever was coming, they could all feel it pressing closer—tight, heavy, and inevitable.