As we stepped inside the Château d'Aigrefoin, I was impressed by how well the atmosphere felt, the entire place was filled with a quiet elegance. Sure, there was luxury everywhere, great riches on full display.
But it was done tastefully; whoever was in charge of decorating this place knew what they were doing.
Beyond that, the whole place was shining, the floors were polished to perfection, and not a speck of dust could be found on the many pieces of art covering the walls.
Even more surprising was how light everything was; it was well lit and bright, welcoming even. Not at all what I expected from the lair of a dark witch like Selene Gallio.
"I expected more skulls… maybe some blood? Flayed humans still screaming or something." Mordred muttered from beside me, she too, felt weird due to how different it was from what was expected.
"Indeed, it's a nice place, a jewel of France." I agreed, but that was a mistake.
Mordred was affected by the mystical dislike of France, and she had none of the restraint that I possessed.
With a quick and fluid movement, Clarent II spun on her finger, before she gripped the grip and pulled the trigger.
A bolt of pure energy moved through the air and struck a century-old bust of some important French person, reducing it to charred rubble and dust.
Mordred let out a satisfied little breath through her nose. "Better."
I gave her a sideways glance, unamused. "Must you cause problems everywhere I bring you? This is a public building… I think…" I really didn't know, but whatever it was, ruining it was a shame, even if it was French.
"If they didn't want it ruined, they shouldn't have let an evil witch use it as her base, so let's burn this place to the ground!" Mordred cheered herself on as she wasted no time running off further into the building.
I sighed and shook my head as I followed behind her. We had no time to waste. If we wanted to save the members of the Church, we had to move fast, but thankfully, this place wasn't some maze filled with defences; it was offering up no resistance at all.
It was suspicious indeed, it screamed trap from far away, but I also knew that while it was indeed a trap, I wasn't the target, the trap had already closed behind the target, the Church. I was there to take advantage of that fact.
We moved through what must have once been a reception hall, high-ceilinged and lined with white stone columns softened by age and light. Everything here felt too peaceful. Even the air had that quiet, dignified stillness particular to old estates — the kind that felt like it belonged to a monastery, not a battlefield.
Beyond a tall pair of arched doors, we stepped into a gallery that might have been a cloister, judging by the pattern of the windows and how sunlight streamed across the floors in warm, slanted beams. Statues were displayed in tasteful alcoves along the walls: saints, monks, philosophers… or what resembled them in French Catholicism. Their stone eyes seemed to follow us as we moved.
Mordred walked a little faster, her boots thudding heavily against the polished oak parquet. She turned one of the small sculptures upside down as we passed, balancing it on its head. I ignored it. For now.
"You think Selene lives here full-time?" she asked, her voice bouncing off the clean stone walls. "It's too well-maintained to be a ruin."
"I doubt it," I answered, running a finger along the wall as we passed a brass-framed mirror. No doubt. No magic. Just fine gilding and the scent of lavender polish. "I'm pretty sure I heard this place was a museum or something."
"A museum of what? French military tactic? Surrender right away?" Mordred snorted as she mocked France, at least the modern version of the nation.
"Of the past, France has nothing to be proud of these days, so they got to remember back when they still had a backbone." I joined her in throwing some stones at France, but honestly, they made it too easy.
Mordred chuckled, "I knew you understood me, Father!" She cheered as we continued, her gun often blasting some piece of art apart, just taking out her disdain for a place like this on the poor relics of the past.
We ascended a staircase lined with red carpet, the kind that muffled our footsteps just enough to be unsettling. Above us hung a massive chandelier, old and delicate, casting shifting prisms of light as we passed beneath it. There were no defenses. No wards. Just elegance, sunlight, and silence.
Too silent.
Too empty.
I had expected more screams, more torture of the Church team that went in before us, but I couldn't even hear that, the entire place was just… silent… empty…
Or at least it appeared empty. I could still sense the dark magic of the mistress of this place, as well as the unnatural presence of vampires throughout the area, along with a few humans scattered here and there. However, so far, our path had been clear.
Lancelot and the others were entering from another point, and I suspected that they might have drawn attention away from us, although I'm not sure how that happened. I would expect them to be stealthier than us, given how loud Mordred trashed the place.
We rounded the corner into a broad corridor lined with tall windows, the afternoon sun pouring in so brightly it made everything shimmer like a dream. The corridor ended in a large pair of double doors — lacquered wood, gilded handles, and more French pomp than I thought possible to condense into a single entrance.
That was where Selene waited.
I could feel her magic like humidity in the air now — thick, cloying, old. Not aggressive. Not yet. No, she wanted us to come to her willingly. And we would.
But not alone.
From a side passage to the left, a door slammed open with a sharp bang.
Out stepped Lancelot, sword drawn and slightly scuffed. His coat was torn near the shoulder, stained with what I assumed was vampire blood.
He gave us a nod, calm and professional as ever. "I'm glad to see you are unhurt, your majesty."
"So, you were the one stealing all the fun, damned French adulterer." Mordred cursed under her breath.
"We cleared the west wing," he said as Nightcrawler appeared behind him in a puff of sulfur, followed by the twins Manon and Maxime.
"Damn, that was crazy, I never knew Vampires were that scary." Manon said, appearing slightly shaken by what she had seen.
"They weren't that scary," Maxime said, trying to act brave. "Mordred handled way worse, I'm sure." He tried to flatter his crush, but sadly for him, Mordred was in no mood for flattery.
"Let's move, our host awaits us, and it's rude to keep a lady waiting." I said, looking towards the door beside us, and feeling the darkness dwelling within.
Mordred didn't wait for ceremony. With a sharp grin and a muttered "Knock knock," she kicked forward, and Clarent II's barrel discharged with a flash and a thunderclap. The double doors — once ornate, gilded, and undoubtedly expensive — shattered inward, splinters cartwheeling across the floor like shrapnel.
The salon beyond was beautiful, in that maddeningly perfect way that made you wonder if even the dust motes were choreographed. Tall windows let in the last of the day's golden light, casting long shadows across polished floors of cream-colored stone.
Selene sat not on a throne of bones or a dais of darkness, but a simple velvet-backed fauteuil with hand-carved legs — antique, elegant, and obscenely out of place given what surrounded her.
The Church's strike team knelt in a pitiful heap at the room's center, broken and bloodied. Their weapons were gone, their white surplices stained red. One young man coughed as we entered, a wet, rattling sound that promised a lungful of blood.
Selene didn't rise. She merely sipped from a cut-crystal glass filled with something too thick to be wine, and arched a brow.
Along the walls stood her servants, not vampires for once, they couldn't stand the bright lights flooding the room; instead, it was humans, all dressed in finely tailored suits and silk gloves, their service to evil clearly paying hazard pay.
Mordred raised her weapon. "Finally. Something worth shooting."
Selene chuckled, soft and melodic. "So it is Starks' puppets." Her gaze drifted lazily towards Mordred's smoking weapon. "Not subtle, but certainly theatrical."
She set her glass aside with careful precision, her fingers too pale, too long. "I was told he wouldn't interfere. That he'd keep his toys to himself — but no, of course not. That man can't resist poking into places he doesn't belong." She gestured vaguely toward us. "And so he sends in you. Cosplayers with guns."
"Starks' puppets? Why don't I show you puppets!" Mordred hissed, clearly upset, and opened fire at Selene's feet. "Dance puppet!"
Streaks of energy flew through the chamber, but none of the servants moved, nor did any of us. Not even Selene moved; she just looked at Mordred with scorn as a magical barrier intercepted the energy shots.
"Is that all?" she snorted and ignored Mordred.
Her eyes locked onto the twins now — her gaze sharpening like a knife being drawn across glass. "But the rest of you… You brought me a gift."
Manon flinched, and Maxime instinctively stepped forward, his hands curling into fists, a shimmer of psychic pressure rippling off him.
"You've been a thorn in my side," Selene purred, "and I had only just begun plotting how best to pluck you out. Yet here you are. Delivered. Gift-wrapped in arrogance."
Lancelot moved slightly, subtly positioning himself between the twins and Selene's seated form. His blade didn't waver.
I took a step forward, I felt sick looking at the woman sitting there… No… Calling her a woman was wrong. She wasn't even human… the evil… the amount of death she had caused… the horrid sins she had committed, it was like nothing I had ever seen.
She was a monster, a beast in human guise. Honestly, I doubted even Morgana, my true target, was as bad as this monster. I had thought her nothing more than a piece to bring out my target, bait, but now… she was a worthy target herself.
"Selene Gallio," I said, stepping fully into the golden light, my voice steady and solemn. Her attention flicked toward me, curious now, perhaps even amused. "At first, I came here to use you. To bait Morgan out of hiding. I thought of you as a stepping stone. A shadow. Nothing more."
Secace Morgan, the gun I had used while in his disguise, it felt heavy in my hand, but it wasn't enough, not for this. With a thought, I send it back into my soul.
"But now that I've seen what you are — the rot you feed on, the lives you've stolen, the filth you drape in velvet — I know better."
Her smile didn't falter, but her fingers twitched on the rim of her crystal glass.
"You are no longer a means to an end," I said. "You are a monster that must be judged."
And I would be her executioner.
"I planned to use this only against Morgan, but you, too, are worthy of it." I called upon another weapon, one that had stayed deep in my soul since I was reborn in this strange state, one that I didn't think I would use.
It wasn't holy light that filled my hand, but darkness, cold and crushing. The air inside the chamber seemed to freeze as my fingers closed around the hilt of my sword, the dark cursed weapon of my dark alter.
Excalibur Morgan, the sword of ruin, the sword of the end. The very antithesis of its holy counterpart.
Selene's eyes widened in shock and fear as she felt the power; even Lancelot and Mordred stepped back as the dark, crushing power.
"Selene Gallio, I, Arthuria Pendragon, shall be your judge, and I shall be your executioner!"
(End of chapter)