Chapter 90 – Shadows of Blood and Ambition
Back in the old days, among the nobility, there was no stain more humiliating than the existence of a half-blood bastard. A child born not only from the disgrace of an affair, but with the taint of common blood in their veins. To the noble houses, such a child was a living reminder of weakness, scandal, and betrayal. If word ever got out, the family would be laughed at for generations.
And yet… behind closed doors, away from prying eyes, such children were far more common than anyone admitted. An unspoken trend emerged among the aristocracy: take in these "unfortunate children," claim to the public that they had been adopted out of charity, and quietly shape them into tools for the true heirs.
Daughters became maids, attending the prestigious academies beside the noble daughters they served. They learned to anticipate every whim, to become their mistress's shadow—both servant and shield. Others were molded into hunters, killers, and agents of dirty work no heir should be caught performing.
But their lives were precarious. If the truth of their blood ever surfaced, ridicule would be merciless. Rivals would whisper in every hall, snicker in every gathering, and wield the scandal like a weapon to tarnish the family's standing. For the bastards themselves, life was a desperate climb toward an impossible goal: acceptance. They worked harder, bled more, and endured punishments no legitimate child would ever face, all in the hope of being acknowledged.
Sometimes… they succeeded too well. And when a bastard outshone the true heir—earning loyalty from servants, admiration from the common folk, or favor from allies—they became a threat. And in the brutal world of noble politics, threats were quietly erased. A "hunting accident." A monster attack no one could have predicted. One way or another, the problem disappeared.
Bastards were never meant to inherit. They were meant to serve. And if they forgot their place… they didn't live long enough to remember it.
Darius Veyne was a man who shouldn't exist. The illegitimate son of Count Arvest Vael and a young maid, he lived under a false name, his lineage buried beneath silence and shame.
Tall, broad-shouldered, and carrying the kind of quiet confidence that unsettled seasoned knights, Darius was a force of nature from the start. As a boy, he haunted the training yards, pestering knights to spar with him. Many laughed—until he began disarming grown men before his twelfth birthday.
Persistence became his weapon. By sheer will and an uncanny gift for mastering any blade, he earned a place in drills. Knights tried to break him with brutal training. Instead, he broke their expectations. Some taught him swordplay, others the glaive, halberd, spear, or war hammer. A few entrusted him with lessons in battlefield tactics and siegecraft.
By eighteen, Darius could pick up any weapon and wield it like it had been made for him. He could take command of a unit, rally men under fire, and strike fear into enemies with his sheer presence.
Stories about him spread like wildfire.
At a harvest festival, he wrestled a rampaging minotaur for two hours before slamming it unconscious into a hay wagon. Eyewitnesses swore the beast later followed him around like a loyal hound, even helping guard caravans.
When orcs poured through the borderlands, he stood alone in a forest pass, holding the bottleneck until his men arrived. By the time they reached him, his armor was so drenched in green blood it looked painted. His soldiers would march into hell for him—not because of orders, but because they'd seen him fight for them.
And then there was the ogre. One drunken night, it stomped into the village square, scattering chickens and smashing stalls. Darius, mug of ale in hand, challenged it to an arm wrestle. Against all reason, the creature agreed. When he slammed its hand into the dirt, the ogre lumbered off muttering about unfair human tricks, while villagers whispered that Darius was either a madman or a hero.
Tavern songs made him a legend. Women whispered his name. But few knew the truth of his blood. Fewer still knew his greatest ally was another bastard—his half-sister, Selene.
Selene served humbly as a maid to the count's daughter at the royal academy. She bore every petty order, every indignity, with grace. But behind her quiet demeanor was a sharp wit and a kindness that drew loyalty from commoners and merchants alike. Noble sons whispered of her beauty.
She became Darius's mirror opposite. Where his name spread through feats of strength, hers spread through charm, diplomacy, and compassion. Together, they were dangerous—too dangerous.
Whispers turned to suspicion. Suspicion to fear. And fear bred betrayal.
The family struck first at Darius. He was sent with his closest men—brothers-in-arms—on a "special request" from the eastern dukedom: to slay an earth dragon that terrorized the land.
They succeeded. But the price was exhaustion, wounds, and hunger on the road home. That was when his elder brother struck.
The ambush was merciless. His men fell one by one, buying him time with their lives. Darius, beaten and bloodied, was thrown into a jagged valley to die like an animal.
But fate was stubborn. Days later, broken and hollow, he crawled out. His comrades gone, his honor stolen, his family lost. Only vengeance remained.
His march home was painted in blood. Beasts that crossed his path—wolves, bears, monsters whispered of in borderland tales—all fell before him. Each fight left the earth littered with corpses, each step carrying him closer to the mansion he once called home.
When he arrived, night fell with it a storm of slaughter. Knights fell in the halls, split apart by his blade. Servants fled as blood painted the marble floors. Only the old knights—men who had trained him as a boy—offered true resistance. Their skill and loyalty to his father made them formidable. But rage lent him strength beyond reason. One by one, they too fell.
Amidst the chaos, Selene appeared. Tears welled in her eyes as she reached for him.
"Darius… please, stop!" she begged. Her voice trembled, but carried the warmth that had always anchored him. "This rage will consume you. You're more than this…"
For a heartbeat, he faltered. Her kindness cut through the storm. But then the memories of betrayal surged back, drowning her words.
He struck down his father. Then his father's wife, who had watched cruelty unfold in silence. Finally, the daughter who tormented Selene—ended before she could comprehend the reckoning that had come for her.
When it was done, the mansion was silent, soaked in crimson. Darius had his vengeance.
Selene emerged as the sole survivor. Her reputation, her beauty, and her kindness allowed her to step into the count's seat unchallenged. To the world, she was the perfect noble lady.
But she knew the truth. Darius was a wanted man. The slayer of nobles. A criminal.
And yet, she needed him. His strength could defend her people, his shadow could crush threats that law and diplomacy could not. She shielded him from the world, hiding him deep within the territory. There, he lived free, only emerging when Selene called upon him for impossible tasks—raiders, monsters, conspiracies.
To the people, Selene was the rightful countess. To the shadows, Darius was the nameless terror who appeared when death itself came knocking.
Present Day
Decades passed.
Now, in his early forties, scarred and hardened, Darius returned from another task his sister had entrusted him with. His boots were caked in dust, his cloak torn from the road. He expected silence—the familiar calm of his hidden refuge.
But something was wrong. His instincts screamed before he even saw it.
The woods were no longer quiet. Voices carried on the wind. Wagons creaked along paths that had once known only his footsteps. There were far too many people in the area—strangers moving about where the land was usually quiet.
He narrowed his eyes, brushing a hand through his hair—a wild blond mane, thick and untamed, hacked short enough not to cover his eyes but long enough to bristle like a lion's mane in the wind. It looked less like the work of a barber and more like something trimmed with a blade, rugged and raw, a reflection of the man himself.
Something was going on here.