Leaning against the wood, he breathed with difficulty, but his voice, though weak, carried an unquestionable weight:
"Stop that." The voice, though weak, silenced the tension. "If you want answers, that's not the way you'll get them. There are those who can extract what we need… but for that, he must remain whole."
Doros crossed his arms, looking at Kael with seriousness:
"She refuses to leave for days. Do you think now she'll do differently?"
Ereon remained at the side, calm, the gaze cold and calculating, absorbing every detail of the situation. He spoke with the same coldness that characterized him, almost as if dictating a sentence:
"Can someone explain to me?"
Kael lowered his head, voice low and heavy with guilt:
"Isabela… after what she did in the war against the Count, she locked herself away. Doesn't speak to anyone."
Ereon smiled slightly, that smile that mixed irony and threat:
"Then she will have no choice. Her sin will not be washed with our blood. She will speak… one way or another."
Doros frowned, worry evident:
"And what do you intend to do?"
Ereon spun the sword, pointing it calmly to the ground:
"We'll ask politely." His voice was icy, but loaded with control. "Now, someone show the way."
Silence reigned. Ereon advanced, the shadow around his feet undulating like a living liquid. Kael, weakened, indicated the way with difficulty, and Doros remained behind, alert. Médea followed in silence, observing every detail, while the servant led by Ereon did not stop trembling.
The barony's corridor was narrow and cold, with torches casting trembling reflections over the stone walls. Each door seemed to guard ancient secrets, each step echoed softly, as if the castle itself held its breath.
Finally they arrived before a simple cell, without chains, without reinforced locks — no one had forced her to stay there. Isabela was huddled in a corner, hair disheveled, isolated from the rest of the barony. Ereon stopped before that silence as if measuring the depth of something sunken he kneeled the man before him.
"Interesting," he said, voice low and sharp "voluntary imprisonment. Cheap theater, and yet well performed. From the memories of this body, you were upright, just. Tell me then: what sin demands so much spectacle?"
The air grew denser. Doros opened his mouth to speak; Kael, weak, raised his hand and stopped him with a gesture. He stepped back, eyes hard. Médea remained behind, motionless, observing.
"I'm out of time" continued Ereon, unhurried, with that smile that doesn't warm. "This body is not for long curtains. Did you know?" he looked at Kael; Kael didn't answer.
Ereon leaned one step forward, without getting close — the shadow around him brushed the ground as if it were alive — and spoke now more directly, with cold mockery:
"I thought of asking Gaia," he said, pointing to Kael with a cold smile "; she owes me. But soon we saw it won't happen. Betrayal hurts, doesn't it? Has a peculiar taste… And bitter."
Isabela raised a thread of a gaze, but faced no one. Doros held his breath.
"Then be brief," said Ereon, the voice trading sarcasm for steel "you leave seclusion, or you watch. Watch while I find what I need. Watch the servant speak, or watch the servant suffer. Choice is not exactly freedom; it's only the courtesy I'm offering before the method."
He spun the blade in his hand, sharp gaze.
"And if you prefer to hasten the path to death, great," he went on, in an almost affectionate tone "your divine energy will be useful to keep this body a bit longer. A favor I'll do willingly."
There was no bargaining in the offer — only a warning embedded in poison. The corridor seemed to compress around the final word.
Isabela remained motionless, huddled in the corner, empty eyes glued to the wall. For an instant it seemed that nothing had reached her — as if Ereon were just another shadow crossing the room.
"I… I can't. What I did is unforgivable," she murmured, low, broken voice.
The servant knelt between Ereon and Isabela. Small, vulnerable, he feinted his own dread. Ereon advanced unhurried; the shadow around his feet undulated like black liquid. In a precise movement, he drove the blade into the servant's shoulder. Blood spurted, staining the stone; the metallic smell filled the air.
"Please… continue," said Ereon, icy and sarcastic, as if asking for an intimate favor.
The servant's agonizing scream ricocheted through the stones. It was like lighting a spark inside Isabela: her eyes widened, the wall that protected her gave way.
"You don't understand!" she exploded, the voice tearing the room.
Ereon tilted his head, amused in implacability.
"I understand very well," he replied, dry. "I just don't have time for your dramas. If you want to die, die," he made a light gesture with the blade "but don't drag us with you."
Ereon remained motionless, the shadow around his feet undulating like living ink. The silence folded time, carrying echoes of ancient memories — centuries of wars, betrayals, and sins that still vibrated through the world. With sharp and icy voice, he spoke:
"What you did… what you failed to do… doesn't matter." The blade in his hand reflected the torchlight, but it was the weight of the voice that burned. "What matters is that out there, innocents will pay for your silence. Sixteen centuries ago, I saw empires fall, villages be wiped out, lives erased… and while you stand here still, the barony walks to its ruin — and it will be by hands of an enemy whose desire and motivation we can't even understand."
Isabela advanced, grabbing the kneeling servant with contained fury. In a crack of energy, blue flames engulfed the man. The fire did not consume like common flames; it licked flesh and air with a cold glow, drawing moans that reverberated through the stone walls. Doros and Médea stepped back, shocked. Kael remained strangely calm. Ereon, motionless, observed every movement, every detail, without blinking.
Isabela breathed heavily, incandescent eyes fixed on Ereon while the servant trembled in her hands. Ereon raised the blade, not moving a muscle beyond his gaze, each word a silent strike:
"It's no use. The boy you knew died months ago."
The flames diminished until they went out, leaving the servant fallen, inert, on the ground. Ereon looked at him with surgical attention, without losing rhythm, as if each instant were calculated:
"Now, start with the part where you tell us: who is he and why does he attack us?" he ordered, the blade still stained with blood, each syllable a sentence that admitted no delay.
The memories of the previous night slowly dissolved before the bodies that surrounded Ereon. Each face, each gesture, seemed to echo from memory into reality, bringing forth the contained panic of the Viscount.
Feeling the presence of that being approaching, he shouted, the voice crossing the entire barony:"Run to the flowers…"
Before he could finish, something took the field. A strange wave of energy spread across the ground, heavy, suffocating, bending the air around. The guards saw the Viscount's body being thrown into the trees. All stopped, motionless, feeling death approach like a living, invisible, and inevitable shadow.
A knight turned, overcome by despair. What he saw made him swallow the air. Ereon was fallen, and there was no one behind him. The presence was palpable, crushing; the space around seemed distorted, draining courage and meaning. The silence that took the field was solid, almost suffocating.
When he turned his eyes toward the forest again, horror exploded before him. At the edge of the forest, the hundred knights who hadn't managed to escape were fallen, dead in seconds. In an instant, everything had changed.
A moment of confusion crossed his mind. He could see his body standing, his own head still connected, before being thrown. Then, the shock: the head separated from the body and hit the ground. A tear slid, silent, while a mute scream escaped his lips, even though no one could hear it. "I'm sorry… I won't be able to see her dressed as a bride…" he thought, while absolute terror burned every fiber of his being.
Even decapitated, he managed to cast a last look at the form that advanced slowly into the forest. Ethereal and shadowy body, covered by a living cloak of metallic darkness; horns and golden adornments symbolized the union between chaos and royalty. Each step radiated pure terror, crushing any notion of reality.
The screams echoed, distorted, while the form disappeared into the mist. The void of darkness took his mind. He was the last witness of that horror — the last to behold the appearance of that being, which by itself embodied a lived and pure terror, omen of a brutal hunt about to begin. Nothing could save them from what was coming.