The corridor stretched out before me, all too familiar, yet utterly transformed. What had once been a grand hallway, adorned with lavish furnishings, now lay in ruin. Shattered lamps that had once bathed the space in warm light were strewn across the ground, their broken shards glittering in the dim, eerie glow. Chairs and tables lay toppled, splintered as if some violent force had torn through the palace. It was as if the plague of chaos had already made its way inside these very walls.
A distant commotion sounded from the room ahead, causing me to panic. Odessa. I quickened my pace, my feet hitting the marble floor with sharp thuds. Faster and faster.
Entering the great hall brought a wave of confusion. The familiar throne at the far end of the room stood dark and imposing, just as I remembered. Above, the grand ceilings soared high, their frescoes telling tales of Heladon’s fallen lords and legendary heroes. But none of that held my attention. The scene before me twisted my stomach.
Chlodovech, the tyrant king, was on his knees, hunched over in a position of submission I never thought I’d see. Surrounding him were soldiers, but not Heladonic. No, these men were from Orerha, their silver-blue armor glinting in the faint light. Their swords hovered at Chlodovech’s throat.
Princess Alba stood off to the side, cowering in the shadows, her face pale. But it was the throne that made my blood run cold. Seated upon it was not Chlodovech, but King Cyrulen of Orerha, a man I’d never met yet recognized immediately. His blonde hair, though pristine, contrasted with his aged skin. He exuded a power Chlodovech could only dare to possess.
To the left, Avelina lay in a crumpled heap, her body bloodied beyond recognition. Aldric knelt beside her, his face drained of all color, his eyes hollow with fear. And then... Odessa. My heart lurched at the sight of her, unconscious on the cold stone floor, her body limp, wrapped in blood-stained bandages.
If they had harmed her... if any one of them had laid a hand on her, I would tear this entire hall apart, limb by limb.
Chlodovech, despite his dire position, was the first to notice me. His bloodshot eyes widened with a twisted glimmer of hope. "Alaric," he gasped, a wide, sickly grin splitting his face. "Look at what they've done."
King Cyrulen shifted his gaze to me, his expression amused. “So, this is the boy?” His voice was condescending in presence.
Chlodovech ignored the king, evidently desperate. “This is mutiny, Alaric. Don’t let them kill me,” he pleaded, voice trembling. “If they win, they'll become unstoppable. A nation no one could win against.”
I stood frozen, taking it all in. The wedding had been nothing but a façade, a trap Chlodovech had stumbled into with his usual arrogance. He’d thought he was securing an heir, solidifying his rule. Instead, he had walked straight into a noose of his own making. One that even fooled the nation.
Cyrulen’s laughter broke through my thoughts. "Mutiny? Against this sorry excuse for a ruler? Please." He shook his head, his smile widening as he looked around at his soldiers. "I’ve heard the tales. How you ran, Alaric, how this coward was your only hope during the war. Truly pathetic, don’t you think?" His men snickered in unison, obediently following their king’s lead. Cyrulen’s eyes told of amusement.
"It’s... brilliant," Aldric’s weak voice piped up from his corner, groveling as usual. “You’re brilliant, my lord.”
Cyrulen moved toward Aldric, his armor clinking with each step, casting deep thuds that echoed loudly. Stopping beside him, Cyrulen grabbed a fistful of Aldric’s hair, yanking his head back so his gaze met the ceiling. “No one likes an ass-kisser,” Cyrulen growled before tossing Aldric aside like a piece of trash.
The king turned his attention back to me, his amusement fading into a long stare. “And you? What do you want in all of this?”
For a fleeting second, my rage faltered, a glimpse of my old self creeping in. “I only want the girl,” I said, my voice steady. “Then I’ll leave.”
Cyrulen’s eyes flicked to Odessa, still unconscious on the floor. “The girl?” He studied her for a moment before tilting his head, curiosity playing on his face. “And who is she to you?”
“Sister,” I answered without hesitation.
His brow furrowed as he processed the information. “So... you’re a Faust?”
Swallowing hard, I gave a small nod, “Unfortunately.”
“Hm,” Cyrulen muttered with an almost casual look. “Say... do we have any remaining rope?”
“Yes, sir,” a soldier with a deep voice immediately responded.
“Good.” The King flicked a finger in my direction, his eyes narrowing. “Bind him.”
“What the hell?” I exclaimed, but his soldiers moved swiftly, surrounding me in an instant.
Cyrulen ascended the throne once again, settling into it with a calm that seemed chillingly natural. “Once Chlodovech is dead,” he announced to the room, his voice booming easily, “Heladon will fall, and with it, the ruling class. None will escape. Today will be the rise of--”
The rest of his declaration was swallowed by screams. His men dropped, their bodies convulsing as fiery spikes erupted from their stomachs, eyes, and faces, before collapsing onto the smooth marble floor with sickening thuds.
“Nothing,” I said coldly, locking eyes with Cyrulen. “You’ll rule... nothing.”
The King unsheathed his longsword in one fluid motion, his remaining soldiers following suit, though they too seemed to hesitate now.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Chlodovech’s face twist into a grotesque smile, his teeth yellow and rotten, “That’s right... he doesn’t deserve to sit on that throne, Alaric. We can rule to--”
I cut him off sharply, stepping closer to him. “You,” I knelt down beside him, my voice dropping to a venomous whisper, locking gazes, “were never fit to be born.”
His smile faltered, eyes widening in realization. “Down. With. Chlodovech.” My hand moved to his forehead, and immediately his skin sizzled under my touch. The stench of burning flesh filled the air as his scraggly voice broke into agonized screams, his body thrashing beneath my grip.
He fought, his limbs flailing as he tried to escape, but I pressed harder, forcing him to the floor where he writhed helplessly. The heat intensified, my hand imprinting deep into his skull, branding him as the failure he was.
Minutes passed—long, torturous minutes—before I withdrew my hand, his skin peeling away in sticky strands. His face was a charred mess, but it wasn’t enough. My fist slammed into his head, again and again. Each punch bruised my knuckles, sent waves of pain through my bones, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. His gurgled cries turned into nothing but bubbling sounds as blood pooled from his mouth.
Only when his body lay still, his skull a ruined pulp, did I stand, chest heaving from the exertion. His death wasn’t peaceful. His reign wasn’t glorious. And now, Heladon had fallen. May he meet Vollith.
King Cyrulen stared at me, his mouth agape as if the very air had been stolen from his lungs. His eyes widened in disbelief, his grip tightening around the armrests of the throne as the disgusting, sticky blood dripped from my knuckles, splattering onto the floor like a grotesque waterfall crashing against jagged rocks.
I lifted my head, locking eyes with him. His fear was palpable, almost phsyical in the silent air. His body slumped backward into the grand, tyrannous chair, his composure slipping away like sand through his fingers.
With a single thrust of both hands into the air, an inferno erupted. His soldiers, who once stood tall and ready, were now engulfed in flames—yet these were not the vibrant, multicolored flames of before. No, these were flames of pure red, burning with a rage and intensity that turned the very lighting of the room into a deep, searing crimson. Even I flinched at the overwhelming heat that roared to life around me.
The flames danced violently, consuming the soldiers where they stood. Their agonized screams barely had a moment to escape before they were reduced to smoldering black husks. Nothing remained of them but twisted, charred skeletons, their outlines barely recognizable through the thick haze of smoke.
I tilted my head, watching coldly as their ashes fell to the ground, drifting through the air like cursed snowflakes. The once grand room was now a tomb, painted in the scarlet glow of destruction. Cyrulen’s face, once filled with arrogance, now reflected only terror, his body sinking further into the throne, as if it could shield him from the inevitable.
I took a slow, heavy step forward, my voice low, “You’re next.”
“Alaric…” Her voice quivered, fragile as the breath that carried it, each syllable trembling with fear.
Time itself seemed to slow as I hesitated, my feet heavy as I turned to face her. Odessa stood there, leaning against one of the marble pillars, the only thing holding her frail body upright. Her hand pressed against her bandages, where blood had already begun to seep through. Her eyes, wide and glassy, darted from me to the gruesome sight behind me.
"Odessa..." I mouthed, barely managing to form the words. A weak smile tugged at the corners of my lips, though even I wasn’t sure why. Relief, maybe? Hope? But the moment I stepped toward her, she recoiled, her body trembling, eyes filled with something worse than fear—revulsion.
“What are you…” My voice faltered, trailing off as I followed her gaze. The sight behind me, the carnage I’d wrought, finally decided to hit me. The charred remains of men who only moments ago had been alive, Chlodovech’s mutilated, blood-soaked body crumpled on the floor. Even Aldric, barely able to stand, his eyes wide with horror.
“I— I didn’t…” The words stuck in my throat, choking me. My vision suddenly blurred. The burning bodies, the screaming souls, the torn flesh— it all spiraled back to me, so goddamn overwhelming... and... the stench...
“Oh… oh my god.” A wave of nausea surged through me, so sudden and violent it felt like I was drowning in sickness. My knees weakened just thinking about the lives taken from my hands.
“It’s...” She tried to speak, her voice strained, each word a struggle, “It’s okay... Alaric...” Her breath was labored, her body trembling as she winced, “We need to...”
Those were the last words I’d ever hear from her. Words that felt so utterly insignificant now. Odessa—the girl I had known my entire life, the one person who ever truly cared about me, who had been by my side through everything—was gone.
An arrow had torn through her head. I hadn’t even seen it coming. Her eyes widened in shock, mouth falling open as the light drained from her. She crumpled to the ground, lifeless, in one swift, horrific instant.
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. I just stared, paralyzed as her body hit the cold stone floor with a sickening thud. The Sovurn had breached the palace, mistaking her for an enemy. They swarmed past me, indifferent, uncaring, dismissing me as though I was nothing. And maybe I was.
Everything inside me went numb. The world blurred around me as I dropped to my knees. The impact of my body hitting the stone didn’t hurt, nothing did. Every sound in the room, every voice, every footstep, had become a piercing screech, blending into a cacophony of noise I couldn’t comprehend.
I crawled toward her, barely able to move, my shaking hand hovering over her face. Her eyes—still open, still wide with shock—stared up at nothing.
"Odessa..." The name fell from my lips, trembling, barely a whisper. “Od...” But it didn’t matter. It didn’t fucking matter how many times I said her name. She wasn’t coming back.
I felt a hand grip my shoulder, pulling me into the horrible present. My body jerked, eyes still locked on Odessa’s lifeless form, her body cradled in my arms. The hand pulled harder, and I spun around in fury, ready to lash out.
It was Elias, Ikevine’s non-blood brother in the Sovurn, standing there with a scowl already etched deep into his face. His eyes scanned the carnage, the charred remains of Cyrulen’s soldiers, the aftermath of my rampage. “Did you do all this?” His tone wasn’t surprised—just disappointed, like he already knew the answer.
My breath came in shallow gasps, hands shaking, drenched in tears and blood. I could barely hear him over the ringing in my ears. “Yes,” I muttered, the words spilling out like venom. “I fucking burned them all.” Saying it aloud made it real, made it hurt all the more.
Elias huffed; his voice flat. “Ikevine really believed you could stop it.”
Stop what? My mind tried to make sense of his words, but I couldn’t grasp it. There was nothing left to stop, no one left to save. I couldn’t save her. I couldn’t save anyone.
Without another word, I bent down and lifted Odessa’s limp body into my arms, her head lolling to the side, eyes still open in that haunting, vacant stare. She felt so light now, like a feather, but the weight of her death was unbearable.
“Where are you going?” Elias’s question permeated through everything, but I didn’t answer right away. I walked a few paces, the cold biting through the hall, the wind sneaking in through every crack and crevice. It felt like the world was closing in around me.
I stopped, the truth clawing at my throat, the words choking me before I could speak. “I don’t deserve to be around anyone,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “I’m too dangerous… too unstable... I—I can’t control it anymore.” Each word trailed off, but I doubted Elias cared. I didn’t wait for his response.
I stepped outside into the bitter snow, the wind cutting across my face like knives. And that’s when I saw them.
The dead. Standing there, watching me. Rufaek, his body mangled, murdered by my dagger. The creature from the woods, the one I impaled with a wooden stake. Soldiers I had burned to death, their eyes black and accusing. Odessa… standing among them, the gaping hole in her head fresh and raw, gaze penetrating me.
I kept walking, my feet dragging through the snow, the weight of her body growing heavier with each step. Hallucinations, ghosts—whatever they were—they followed me. Vesperus appeared, his bloodied form smiling that twisted smile. And beside him, Belzarok, his half-exploded head oozing with mockery.
I walked through them, not stopping, not flinching. They dissolved into nothingness, but their eyes never left me. Their eyes—cold, dead, unblinking—followed my every move as I trudged through the cobblestone streets.
Pulling me from Skarseld was a mistake. Whatever that goddamned entity was, it should have left me to rot in that forsaken realm for all eternity. To let me slip into oblivion, forgotten, where I couldn’t hurt anyone else. And Vollith? That “misunderstood” goddess? She knew what would happen. She fucking knew. She saw every step I’d take, every flame I’d ignite, and still—she let me walk free with this power, this curse, ensuring that all this destruction, all this misery, would unravel.
Every act, every death, every mistake was nothing more than a thread in a web I didn’t even realize I was caught in. My life? Over. Done. There was nothing left. Not after Odessa, not after the trail of fire I’d left behind.
And true to the nature of this universe, it didn’t care. It didn’t let go. The pain lingered, tightening around me, refusing to let me breathe, refusing to let me die. I had been spared, but not saved.
There was only one thing left to do.
ns 15.158.61.8da2
