The road back was swallowed by silence.
The wind rose.
It cut like invisible blades across their skin, sharp as knives, carrying the metallic scent of blood mixed with frost.
Behind Lucian trudged the broken remains of what once proudly called themselves the "Black Iron Hounds"—now little more than whipped strays, heads bowed in shame and terror.
But their fear wasn't for the pale, frail young lord walking at the front.
That man moved with a sickly elegance, thin enough to be blown away by the very wind itself.
No—their terror was reserved for the two nightmares flanking him.
To his left, Azagor — a walking volcano of rage. Every step he took across the frozen earth landed like the strike of a warhammer, sending dull booms echoing through the wasteland.
To his right, Mephistor — the ever-smiling viper. His polite, bloodthirsty smirk never left his face, and in the eerie silence, he even hummed a light, cheerful tune.
In that suffocating stillness, the melody was somehow more chilling than any war cry.
At last, Blackwood Keep appeared through the gloom.
It wasn't a fortress—it was a skeleton, gnawed bare by time.
One of its main gates hung by a single hinge, groaning under its own weight.
The battlements were pockmarked with scars, like a beast whose teeth had long since been shattered.
As the group passed through the broken gates, shadows scattered.
A few skeletal servants scurried like frightened rats, vanishing into the corners.
They were thin as corpses, their hollow eyes vacant, carrying that same lifeless numbness that belonged only to those who had long since abandoned hope.
The hall was a tomb.
Dirty high windows cast faint beams of light where thousands of dust motes swirled wildly, like panicked spirits.
The air reeked of mold, rot, and the stale breath of forgotten time.
At the far end stood a raised platform, atop which sat something that might have once been called a throne—but now was nothing more than rotten, humbled wood.
From deeper shadows, an old man shuffled forward.
His back was hunched, his face carved with deep, weathered lines, but there was no fear in his cloudy eyes—only a bottomless, haunting exhaustion.
He was Elias—the steward of Blackwood Keep.
With a creaking sound like an ancient door, he offered a shallow bow.
"My lord," he rasped, voice as dry as autumn leaves."Nothing has changed. This place remains… as ruined as you left it."
His gaze remained locked on Lucian, entirely unbothered by the two horrors standing at his master's side.
He had seen plenty of exiled lords return with strange new 'things' before.
Those things never lasted long.
Lucian said nothing. His cold eyes simply swept across the wreckage of his so-called domain.
That's when Mephistor stepped forward.
His movement was silent, graceful as a stalking cat, feet landing softly on the dusty stone.
With gloved fingers, he traced along a table thick with grime, then theatrically lifted his hand to inspect the filth.
"A ruin?" Mephistor chuckled, turning toward the old steward.
"Elias, yes? That's your name, I believe?"
He didn't wait for a response, his voice smooth and pleasant, yet hiding sharp edges beneath:
"Let's take stock, shall we?"
"Tell me, old man—how many souls still breathe within this delightful mausoleum of a keep?"
At last, Elias shifted his gaze away from Lucian, meeting Mephistor's eyes with the same unchanging, hollow fatigue.
"Twelve, counting myself," he answered flatly, as if reciting a weather report.
"Not counting the rats, of course."