Dorian walked out of the mansion, the evening sky stretched above him slightly dark, yet still brushed with the faint glow of fading daylight. The breeze was cool and tender, whispering through the trees. He didn't take the carriage; instead, he walked, almost strolling, his hands behind his back, his boots crunching lightly against the gravel. A low hum escaped his lips the same unnerving tune he had once played at the Crimson Dais.
He walked for what seemed like forever, past silent alleys and the murmuring edge of town, until the dim gold of the setting sun surrendered completely to the dark. The moon rose pale and proud, scattered stars crowding a clear, cloudless sky. By the time he reached the local market, night had settled fully.
The air was thick with noise and life. Horses neighed as carts rattled along the muddy road, vendors shouted over one another, and smoke from frying oil coiled through the damp air. The ground was uneven, narrow, and slick from a day's worth of rain and footsteps. Some stalls had already shut their flaps, while others remained open, desperate for one or more buyers to come before night closed in.
People jostled and bumped into one another, curses mixing with laughter, the chaos oddly comforting. Dorian had always loved this part of the town the noise, the smells, the life of it all. Among the less privileged, among the rough edges of humanity, he felt something he rarely did among nobles, a sense of being, of belonging, even if just for a moment. It drove away the gnawing loneliness that lingered in him like an ache.
"Dorian!" a familiar voice shouted from behind, loud enough to rise above the clamor.
He turned, seeing Neal pushing through the crowd with a small grin. Dorian waited, hands tucked casually in his pockets.
"Good evening, Dorian," Neal greeted, slightly breathless.
"Amazing evening to you too, Neal," Dorian replied, a faint smile gracing his face as the cool night air brushed strands of his black hair across his forehead. "To what reason do you call me?"
"I just saw you passing and wanted to greet you," Neal said with an easy tone.
"Well, thank you," Dorian said softly. It would have been strange hearing a noble thank a pauper, yet he did so without hesitation.
"How was today's sale?" Dorian asked, his curiosity genuine.
"It was okay," Neal replied, rubbing the back of his neck. "Just thinking of shifting business, though."
"Why?" Dorian asked, walking alongside him through the lively market street.
"There are too many stalls selling fruits," Neal explained. "Everyone's selling the same thing. Buyers have choices. Profits are small."
"So what do you plan to do?" Dorian asked. He had offered to help Neal before, but Neal always refused pride, or perhaps fear of owing a noble. He might have spoken freely with Dorian, even called him a friend, but deep down, he still drew a line between their worlds.
"I plan on star—" Neal's words cut off abruptly as Dorian suddenly pushed him aside.
An arrow whizzed past them, cutting through the air where Neal had just been standing.
Neal froze, eyes wide, heart pounding. The crowd's noise changed panic rippled through the air. Screams replaced chatter. People dropped baskets, ran in all directions, carts overturned, horses reared. The air thickened with confusion and terror.
Dorian didn't flinch. He stood still, gaze calm, scanning the direction the arrow had come from.
Neal opened his mouth to speak, but Dorian stopped him with a firm tone.
"No."
His voice was steady, sharp. "Go back."
Neal hesitated, but something in Dorian's eyes told him not to argue. He turned and ran as Dorian walked forward, deeper into the chaos.
He stopped when he saw them, masked men, a full group, emerging from the shadows. Their weapons glinted under the moonlight, their stances tense. Dorian tilted his head slightly, observing them. When they made no move, he took a single step forward.
That one step was all it took.
An arrow flew toward him, which he easily sidestepped. Another step, and three arrows came at once. He dodged all, catching the last one mid-air. A slow smirk curled on his lips, soon breaking into soft laughter.
More arrows came fast, relentless but his movements were a blur. He twisted, turned, his cloak flowing like liquid night. Not a single arrow grazed him.
Then he was gone from where he stood.
In the next heartbeat, he appeared behind one of the masked men, his nails elongating, turning pitch black. Before the man could react, Dorian plunged his nails into his eye and dragged it sideways, ripping out a wide mass of flesh. Blood sprayed across the dirt, making the man screamed, shrill and raw, echoing across the empty market.
Dorian's smile widened as the sound cut through the night air.
The others drew their swords, glinting silver under the moon.
"First arrows, now blades," Dorian murmured, amusement dripping from his voice.
They attacked as one swords clashing, air slicing but he was too fast. Each swing missed its mark, each blow deflected by fluid, effortless movement. He didn't retaliate at least, not immediately. He wanted to watch them panic first.
When he finally struck, it was sudden and brutal. He grabbed one by the wrist, twisting until the bone cracked, then tore the arm straight from the shoulder. Blood splattered, hot and vivid against his clothes. The scream that followed was almost musical.
Dorian caught the man's sword before it hit the ground and drove it straight through his skull. The body slumped, lifeless, as Dorian moved to the next.
The night was alive with the sounds of steel, screams, and wet flesh being torn apart. The number of masked men dwindled one after another until only a few remained.
Then one of them slashed at his back a shallow cut but Dorian didn't even flinch. He turned slowly, caught the attacker's wrist, and twisted it until the man screamed.
"You shouldn't have done that," Dorian whispered, almost playfully.
He broke the man's wrist clean off, the crunch of bone echoing in the air. Leaving him to writhe on the ground, I would love to kill you now, but yours would be special Dorian said his tone promising before he moved with eerie calm, finishing the rest of them one by one.
When it was finally over, only the man who had slashed him was left, writhing in pain on the muddy ground. Dorian crouched beside him, his face colored red with blood, his breathing even but heavy. His black hair stuck to his blood-drenched face and sweat, making him look almost unrecognizable.
"Who sent you?" he asked softly, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile.
The man groaned, refusing to answer. Dorian sighed and ripped the mask off his face, revealing fear-filled eyes.
"I know it was Duke Evernight," Dorian said casually.
The man's eyes widened in shock, his trembling giving him away.
"Y-you knew…" he managed to stammer.
Dorian's smirk deepened. "I do. I was only asking. If you'd answered, I might've spared you or at least sent your soul to hell in a less painful way." he said in an almost serious tone.
"P-please… spare me," the man whimpered, voice shaking.
Dorian chuckled, the sound low and cold. "I would have considered it… but you committed another offense."
The man looked up, confused.
"You slashed me," Dorian said simply.
Before the man could react, Dorian grabbed him by the collar and yanked him upright. His eyes gleamed like those of a predator toying with prey.
"Fear," he whispered, "is a slow death."
His nails darkened once more as he pierced the man's stomach not deep enough to kill, just enough to make him feel it. Blood spilled from the man's mouth as he convulsed, still trying to plead.
"should I spare you?" he asked, his voice coming out deceivingly smooth and sweet.
"P-please…"
The word broke into sobs, but Dorian only tilted his head, pretending to consider.
"You want to live? Even without your right wrist? That's unfair to your family and burdensome if you have one, don't you think?" He clicked his tongue, mock pity in his tone. "No worry. I'll relieve you of it all."
He pushed his nails deeper, slowly, savoring every tremor of pain, until the man's body shook violently. Then, with one cruel movement, Dorian tore through flesh and muscle, dragging the man's intestines out in one horrifying motion.
The man's scream tore through the night.
Dorian let him fall to the muddy ground, gasping and twitching, not yet dead left to drown in his own agony.
Without a glance back, Dorian turned and walked away.
His steps were steady, his expression calm, the soft echo of his boots fading into the distance. Behind him, the market was silent save for the dying man's final gurgled breaths.
His clothes were soaked with blood, his face painted in red streaks that caught the moonlight. Yet beneath it all, his mind was eerily quiet. The chaos, the death, the blood they only made him feel alive.
And as he walked farther into the darkness, his neutral expression didn't change. Only in his head, hidden behind those empty eyes, was a faint, twisted smile.