The chamber was a shrine to Aurethian elegancy, its air thick with the scent of aged wine and beeswax candles. Deep maroon walls, clad in damask wallpaper, shimmered with golden floral patterns that danced in the flickering glow of ornate cinder lamps mounted on bronze sconces.
The heavy velvet curtains, the color of claret, were drawn back from a towering arched window, revealing an empty dark sky. The room hummed with decadence, a cocoon of indulgence that shielded its occupants from the cold, unyielding world beyond.
At the heart of the chamber, three oversized cushions, plush and upholstered in emerald silk, formed a decadent triangle around a low mahogany table. Its surface gleamed, inlaid with intricate silver filigree that caught the lamplight like veins of moonlight. A crystal decanter of red wine, its contents half-drunk, stood sentinel beside delicate glasses, their rims stained crimson from eager lips.
The scene was one of excess, of laughter that rang too loud, of desires unbound by propriety.
Herbert Owen of Rustglen occupied the central cushion, his rotund frame sinking into the plush fabric. His burgundy brocade waistcoat strained against his ample belly, the golden buttons gleaming like tiny suns on the verge of bursting. A cravat, tied too tightly around his thick neck, seemed to choke him with every hearty laugh. His bald scalp glistened under the amber light,his sweat beading.
Owen's face was flushed, his eyes bright with gluttonous delight as he raised his glass, gulping the wine with shameless abandon. Each swallow seemed to fuel his mirth, his laughter a bellowing roar that filled the room.
Flanking him were two women, their attire a provocative nod to Aurethian fashion, twisted for allure. Their corsets, laced to punishing tightness, accentuated waists that seemed to defy nature, while their lace skirts, scandalously short, barely grazed the cushions. Sheer stockings peeked from beneath, catching the light as they shifted.
They giggled, their voices a melodic chime, teasing Owen with playful pokes at his belly or a patronizing pat on his head, as one might soothe a favored pet. Their eyes sparkled with mischief.
Across from this raucous trio sat Magnus, a figure of stark contrast. Tall and slender, he seemed carved from shadow, his midnight-black tailcoat embroidered with faint silver vines that shimmered subtly as he moved. His navy silk waistcoat hugged his frame, and a sapphire brooch pinned his cravat, glinting like a frozen tear.
His posture was impeccable, his wine glass held with the grace of an aristocrat at a royal court. His face bore a smile—bright, boyish, almost innocent—but it never reached his eyes, which remained cold, like twin shards of obsidian. He watched Owen with the patience of a predator, his gaze unyielding yet veiled by that disarming smile.
"Herbert," Magnus purred, his voice smooth as satin. "Drink all you want. Indulge." He raised his glass in a mock toast, his eyes never leaving Owen's flushed face.
Owen—Herbert Owen, merchant of Rustglen, a man of crude ambition—grinned broadly, oblivious to the undercurrent in Magnus's tone. He lifted his glass with glee, wine sloshing over the rim, a crimson droplet trailing down his chin.
"To pleasure!" he boomed, and the women echoed his toast with laughter, their voices a chorus of feigned delight.
****
Time passed in a haze of wine and revelry, the chamber alive with the clink of glasses and Owen's booming laughter. The women leaned closer, their teasing more brazen, their fingers brushing Owen's arms, his neck, his straining waistcoat. Magnus remained apart, his smile a fixed mask, his sips measured, his eyes never straying from the scene.
Then, with a lazy lift of his hand, Magnus signaled. The gesture was subtle, but the women understood instantly. They rose in unison, their movements fluid, practiced. With coy curtsies and knowing smiles, they glided toward the door, their skirts whispering against the velvet carpet. The heavy oak door closed behind them with a soft thud, and the room changed.
The warmth bled out, as if the cinder lamps had dimmed of their own accord. The maroon walls, once vibrant, now loomed darker, the golden patterns seeming to writhe like serpents in the shadows. The silence that followed was not empty—it was oppressive, a weight that pressed against the chest. Owen reached for the decanter, his fingers trembling slightly, the jovial haze in his eyes giving way to unease.
Magnus stood, his movements slow, deliberate. His smile remained, but it was sharper now. The air around him crackled with menace, as if the very atmosphere bent to his will. He stepped forward, swift and silent, and seized Owen by the collar. The force tipped the table, and the decanter toppled, wine spilling across the silver filigree.
Magnus's face loomed inches from Owen's, his breath cold despite the room's heat.
"You drink wine," he hissed, his voice low, venomous.
"You dine with the Aurethians, your table heavy with their gold. Your little thieves creep into Aurethia, stealing from nobles' vaults under their very noses. All this—your wealth, your gluttony, your pathetic empire—is possible only because of the Xandros family. And yet, when we ask for something simple, something trivial, you fail. Again. And again."
His grip tightened, and Owen's face paled, the sweat on his brow now a torrent.
"How.... " Magnus continued, his tone like tempered steel.
"... Am I supposed to forgive a trashy Rustglen like you?"
Terror bloomed in Owen's eyes, his earlier joy reduced to ash.
"I-I don't know the girl you want!" he stammered, his voice cracking. "You never told me her name, Magnus! Never described her—what she looks like, where to find her! I don't know who you're searching for!"
Magnus released him abruptly, stepping back with the grace of a dancer. He returned to his cushion, sinking into it as if nothing had occurred. His smile returned, wider now, almost cheerful, though it carried the chill of a winter dawn.
"Hmm," he mused, swirling his wine glass, the crimson liquid catching the light.
"I suppose you're right." He sipped, his eyes gleaming with something unreadable.
Magnus leaned back, his posture relaxed but his presence still commanding.
"The kidnappings are spreading like wildfire," he said, his tone casual, as if discussing the weather.
"The officials—those bumbling guards in their pressed uniforms—are blind and deaf. They chase shadows, nothing more. But the Inquisition…" He paused, his gaze drifting to the window, where the black sky seemed to pulse with unseen threats.
"... They're a different breed entirely."
Owen, still shaken, scoffed, trying to reclaim some bravado.
"Pfft. The officials are fools, Magnus. Pawns in fancy coats. Why fear the Inquisition? They're just another pack of zealots."
Magnus's head turned slowly, his smile vanishing like a snuffed flame.
"You know nothing," he said, his voice soft but laced with disdain.
"The Inquisition are not soldiers, Owen. They are wolves dressed as sheep. Detectives, silent and relentless. They hunt without fanfare, without warning. Do you think they'd ever let us see them coming?"
He let the words hang, heavy as the silence that followed. Owen shifted uncomfortably, his fingers twitching toward his glass but hesitating, as if the wine might betray him.
"As of now," Magnus continued.
"No one suspects the Royal Family. The Cathedrals bear the scrutiny, their priests whispering of curses and divine wrath. The Inquisition has no lead. But the Mechasaints…" His voice darkened, the word carrying a weight Owen couldn't fathom.
"... They are a problem."
Owen's curiosity, reckless and insatiable, overpowered his fear. He leaned forward, his voice low.
"Magnus… what do you do with the girls?"
The room seemed to still, the air growing colder, sharper. Magnus turned his eyes to Owen, and for a moment, they gleamed with something ancient, cruel, and utterly inhuman.
"Ask me that again," he said, his voice a whisper that cut like a blade, "and I'll make you slice off your own fingers… over and over… as they regrow."
Owen's blood ran cold. His breath caught, his hair standing on end as if brushed by a ghostly hand. The threat was not empty; he felt it in his bones, a promise of torment that transcended mortal limits. He swallowed hard, his mind racing.
'If the Inquisition ever knocks, this bastard will throw me to the wolves. But I need him.' Magnus thought.
"Okay Owen..bring me a girl tonight... The one, no one will suspect she's gone missing."
"Okay," Owen muttered, his voice barely audible.
"Okay… I understand." He straightened, forcing confidence he didn't feel.
"I have just the girl. No ties, no family to miss her. No one will trace her."
Magnus raised a brow, his smile returning, though it held no warmth.
"You sure?"
"Ashwyn Solstice," Owen said quickly, the name tumbling out like a desperate offering.
"I don't care about her name," Magnus replied, his tone dismissive. "Just pray she's the one we're looking for. Now go."
Owen didn't hesitate. He stumbled to his feet, his breath shaky, sweat streaming down his face. As he hurried toward the door, his mind churned with fear.
'If he finds out I sent a thief to his mansion… I'm finished.'
As Owen fled the chamber, a new figure entered, passing him in the doorway without a glance. The man was dressed in the black-and-white uniform of a high-ranking Aurethian servant, his polished shoes silent on the velvet carpet. His face was gaunt, clean-shaven, and expressionless, his hair neatly combed, his gloved hands clasped behind his back. He moved with the precision of a machine, bowing deeply to Magnus.
"Young Master is nowhere to be found, sire," the servant said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion.
Magnus said nothing. He set his wine glass on the table with deliberate care, the crystal clinking softly against the silver inlay. Then, a sound—a low chuckle, rising like a tide. It grew into a laugh, wicked and bone-chilling, echoing off the damask walls.
He leaned back on the cushion, his eyes gleaming with a strange, insatiable hunger.
"Riven…" he whispered with menace.
The servant remained motionless, awaiting orders. Outside, the black sky pressed against the window, a silent witness to the darkness unfolding within.
****
Meanwhile....
Ashwyn stood at the door, her back to the room, giving Riven a list of rules. She was dressed simply, in an old, faded t-shirt and jeans that were worn at the knees. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, and she had a no-nonsense expression on her face.
"Okay, Riven, or whatever your name is," she said without turning around. "I'm going to get something to eat. Don't go outside. Don't let anyone in. Don't make a sound. And don't sleep."
Riven, sitting on the edge of the rickety bed, threw his hands up in frustration. "Where am I supposed to go? I just ran away from home, and you're obviously going to lock the door from the outside."
Ashwyn didn't reply. She just gave him an unreadable look over her shoulder before she stepped out and locked the door with a loud click.
"Tch," she cursed under her breath as she walked away. "Why did I bring that fool to my house?"
Riven got up from the bed, closed the window, and started looking for the light switch.
"Does she even have a light?" he muttered, annoyed by the darkness.
He fumbled along the wall, his hand searching for a switch. In the darkness, he misjudged the distance and hit his head on a protruding wooden switch. A single, bare bulb flickered on, illuminating the room in a harsh, yellow light.
"Found...it," he whispered, slumping to the floor, rubbing the sore spot on his forehead.
He spent a while scavenging through the small room. It was little more than a shack.
There wasn't much there: just the bed, a few clothes hanging on a line, and some cooking utensils on a small shelf.
"Ugh, she sure lives a boring life," he groaned, about to give up his search for anything interesting.
Then he noticed a small hole near the floor, a tiny round door in the wooden wall. Curious, he knelt down and put his eye to the opening. At first, all he saw was darkness, but then he noticed two tiny red lights. The lights came closer, and as they did, he could make out the shape of a small animal with round ears, a robust body, and a long tail.
Riven's hair stood on end. His heart skipped a beat as he scrambled onto the bed with incredible speed.
Just then, the door creaked open, and Ashwyn walked in. The small animal emerged from the hole and stood in front of the bed, its nose twitching.
"Kill the beast, Kippy! Kill it!" Riven yelled, pointing a trembling finger at the creature.
Ashwyn just stared at him.
"Don't tell me you've never seen a rat before."