Realm of the Sanguimancer

Part II: Watchman Urm

Warm sunlight spreads across the land, painting the rooftops in vibrant shades of gold and orange. The stark edge of light sweeps across the village of Rothlin like a curtain being drawn open, dispersing the stubborn darkness of the night.

Edmin, tired and nauseous from his unexpected flight, stumbles into the village from the east; the rising sun warming his chilled and aching back. From this side of town, Rothlin lies unprotected. The marsh has been creeping steadily forward for years, and the once-sturdy wall, and half the town with it, has been consumed by the advancing swamp. He didn’t think the village would be so run down, though it has been a decade since he was last here, on the eve of his seventh birthday. Back then, Rothlin seemed so grand to a young boy’s eyes.

Wearily stepping from the cold marsh into the confined main street, Edmin finds a desolate town. Its silence is deafening, and despite the awakening birdsong, his senses caution him to be on guard. At this early hour, people should be starting their busy day. Men should be readying themselves to be brought to the nearby mine. Women and children should be out tending the fields. But looking down the main thoroughfare, it is clear the village has been abandoned. Here and there, slumped-over forms, too weary to stand, rest against buildings and lay immobile in the filthy street. Are they drunk? Are they sleeping? Are they…?

Edmin curses into the air, his sudden outburst forcing a nearby owl into flight.

“They can’t all have died,” he mutters under his breath, then loudly proclaims, “Villagers of Rothlin, your lord requires assistance!”

A silent breath of stale air is all that responds. The young lord growls in frustration then continues further into town. Taking only a moment to check one of the slumping bodies, Edmin finds no signs of life, and it is evident he cares little for these broken people. They’ve rebelled against his father these past few years, and Edmin cannot but think they’ve earned their fate. Passing by the town’s stables, he finds a threadbare mare, tethered to her stall. The horse barely shows the strength to look up toward the interloper. Suddenly, an old man calls out from a darkened corner, his voice feeble and strained, “Hark. Who’s there?”

Edmin follows the sound to find an ancient man lying against a battered shed, his stained and tattered clothes blending into the decomposing walls. “Was he here in hiding?” Edmin wonders. The old man’s legs appear broken; russet-colored blood coats his cheeks and chest. In place of eyes, Edmin finds gouged-out sockets that were recently carved. The nobleman winces in disgust, clearly unaccustomed to such gruesome sights.

“I am Lord Edmin Lorgrin; what happened here, old man?” He spits the words as if they were an accusation. The sightless man searches the empty air for signs of the encroaching voice. He shakes his head in despair and replies, “I am night Watchman Urm. I was patrolling the city last night when a host of imps attacked. They appeared out of nowhere! They killed many, my son is missing and my legs… they’re broken,” he winces in pain as he recollects the attack. “They came from the east, went house by house, starting with Ganji’s Tavern. I sounded the alarm, but, alas, it was too late.” The old man’s chin sinks to his bloody chest. Edmin lowers down to get a better look at the Watchman of Rothlin. He sees not a strong and capable guardian, but instead inspects with disgust the weak and stubbled chin of a spent man, trembling at the memory of a battle lost.

Cursing in frustration, Edmin stands erect and slowly responds to the wretched old man, “Urm, where are all the people of this town? Tell me true; are you lying to me? Rothlin is a village of at least three hundred. I see only a dozen bodies in the street, at most.”

The watchman waves a dismissive hand. “No, no, young lord, our population is a little over a hundred souls. The imps attacked, but they only killed those who fought back. I fell unconscious after they took my eyes, but before then, the people were readying to leave. It was our plan, should something happen. Ever since Tamorel fell last fall, we’ve had an evacuation plan in the ready.”

“This is ludicrous! My father protects these lands, where could they go?” Edmin’s annoyed tone must have prickled a nerve in the old man, who suddenly lunges out and grabs the young lord’s arm.

“Protect!? You talk of protection?” he spits. “We needed your protection last night! We needed your protection two weeks ago when the horseman came! Your father and his men were nowhere to be found! Where were you then? Now the people need help – and I need help. Pray, fetch a horse and wagon, and come back for me. I’ll take you to the townsfolk, I know where they went. Please, we can find them together, you and I.”

Edmin disentangles himself from Urm’s grasp. “Yes, yes … fine,” he relents. “I shall return. But first, I need to gather supplies.”

The nobleman strides away from the watchman, shaking his head in disbelief. He crosses the street toward Ganji’s Tavern and finds a score of men and women who have fallen outside the roadhouse’s door. “So, your story seems plausible, old man,” Edmin whispers aloud.

Pushing the door open, Edmin enters to find the main room in disarray. Food rests uneaten on wooden platters at the small bar; clouds of flies are suspended over the remains like steam rising from a freshly baked meal. The soup is now cold, and the bread is as hard as the cobblestones of the outlying street. Despite its sad state, Edmin gorges himself on the food and then begins to gather as much as he can for the coming trip. He had not eaten since he entered the putrid marsh two nights past and had forgotten how hungry he was.

The young lord mutters to himself, “There’s no way I’m taking that old man. He’ll only slow me down. There is only one place those rebellious wretches could have gone, and that is to the Gesk Monastery… Who do they think they are? I’ll teach them for abandoning my father’s town!” He glances outside to find the old man no longer in his previous position against the dilapidated shed.

“Odd. Where did you go, old man?” Edmin steps toward the window to get a better look, failing to notice the gangling creature approaching him from behind.

At once, what is left of the old man grabs Edmin’s throat with surprising strength. A creature with red scaly skin tears itself free of the old man’s wrinkled flesh, and with a series of lightning-quick stabs, the small demon pierces Edmin’s torso half a dozen times. The surprised noble, eyes wide open in terror, begins to choke and gargle on his own lifeblood.

As quickly as the line of sunlight that slid over the tops of the village this morning brought life to a sleepy town, a line of darkness begins to close over Lord Edmin’s mind, bringing – instead – the stench of death.

Part III: Kanthis Hallowshade

With the morning’s fast now broken, the hunter wipes off the night-dew from his gear; a habit he meticulously completes each morning. The man checks each item to ensure it is moisture-free, lest it spoil in the darkness of his pack. He pulls out a strip of fabric and uses it to polish a skinning knife until it sparkles in the morning sun, stowing it securely away afterward.

Each piece has its own spot in his worn pack, arranged with a precision of economy. More times than he could ever recall, precious moments were saved in a tight spot – reaching for a weapon or item needed at a moment’s notice. Without thinking, he finishes the tune he’s hummed each morning since he left the burned shell of his family’s homestead. It was the tune his mother sang to his sister before bedtime. If only he could remember the words…

The gaps in his past haunt him as he finishes his morning packing. Memories of his distant youth are veiled in a thick fog, but he treasures even those few scraps that remain. He recalls a younger sister, but her face is lost in murky darkness, and for his parents, even fewer details remain. They were rona – mortal humans. He laughs to himself, if only I remained that way.

He’s roamed this earth for almost a century, yet his physique is that of a man in his prime. He’d trade all the time yet to be – if only he could. But I can’t erase this… this curse, he muses. Since that fateful day when the demon lord slew his family – only one tragic memory remains fully intact.

He is now a tall, full-grown man. He has pale gray skin, raven black hair and hazel eyes that seem to shine orange in the dim morning light. Oddly, this trait has left many passersby wary of his heritage. He is fully equipped, with weapons strapped to every part of his body – daggers, a long sword, a few javelins, and a wicked-looking crossbow that could stop a bull in its tracks. A side quiver holds a solitary silver bolt.

The hunter straps into his pack, effortlessly shifting its balance point until he feels the weight melt away. The backpack he carries easily weighs half again his own weight, but despite the heavy load, he seems unencumbered by it. The mindless tune returns unbidden to his mind as he begins the day’s journey down the forested mountain trail.

A short time later he approaches a blind bend on the mountain trail, leading into a darkened patch of dense forest growth. He draws in a deep breath and pauses as his hunter’s sense takes hold.

Alerted to a leathery wing beating upon the wind, he unsheathes the crossbow and silently sets the half-moon nock. The bolt shines a faint white glow as soon as it touches the weapon’s string, sending a slight whiff of magic into the air. He mumbles to himself, “It isn’t a wonder, so close to Gesk, that monsters would be about. But travelers – and a group of them…”

A rona, fallen to her knees in terror and exhaustion, turns to her fellow travelers. “Help us! Look out!” The woman’s desperate scream cuts through the otherwise silent, brisk air. A man’s voice, a scant few paces ahead, moves to help her, shouting, “Get back you devils!” The mountain pass ahead springs to life with the sounds of battle, and by the sound of it, the people will lose.

Groaning in irritation, the hunter rushes toward the sound of the scuffle to find seven grotesque-looking myskia – half-breed bats roughly the size and shape of a man. They are assaulting a large crowd of villagers.

The men and women look fatigued and most of these people can hardly defend themselves. Two of the myskia lifts one of the poor sods from the ground and moves toward the edge of the cliff – a tactic the foul creatures use to break the bones of their quarry to the marrow.

The hunter acts with swift aggression, the crossbow bolt zips through the air, nothing more than a brief silver streak. The bolt hits its target in the shoulder, just under the wing. The myskia howls an inhuman sound and black ichor sizzles from the wound. He pulls back on the crossbow’s spring, and the bolt magically returns to it, materializing already notched.

Several tense moments follow while he single-handedly drives away the half-bats, who flee into the dark woods to the north. The men and women, afraid and hungry, turn to the stranger and look on with raw hope filling their eyes.

“That’s… that’s Kanthis Hallowshade!” one traveler mutters quietly. Another whispers, “A monster hunter…” A big man, likely a teamster, steps forward. “We’d have been lost but for you.”

Kanthis groans in blatant annoyance. People. The worst monsters of all. “You’re all fine now. The myskia will return, but not until sundown. That gives you enough time to reach Gesk. But you’ll need to press on… I assume that’s where you’re headed?”

Another villager steps forward and nods repeatedly. “Sir, we’ve come from Rothlin, demons assaulted the village last night! We had nowhere else to turn…”

Kanthis Hallowshade is no stranger to demons, but he shakes his head in silent disbelief. The man probably meant imps. Daesedrine was the last demon I’ve tracked, and that was a year ago. He pulls in a deep breath, looks at the assemblage of townsfolk, and addresses them all in a commanding voice.

“Villagers of Rothlin. This land isn’t safe. Noctis deals in death and bloodshed, and he’s preparing for something. His wives and minions now actively walk this land, harvesting your lifeblood. Rothlin wasn’t the first – Halifast and Oakhurst have already fallen to them.” He pauses for a moment to let them absorb the information. Both were bustling places, looked upon as bastions of strength bordering the dangerous edges of this region. Many of the people react as though all hope is lost and some even appear to get ill.

“You have no idea how much worth your blood has to them. You were right to leave for the Monastery, but you won’t be safe there. Not with everyone cowering in fear like scattered children. But you can survive – IF you work together…” Kanthis scarcely believes they can, but continues, trying to give them a small spark of hope, “… if you fight together.”

With that, Kanthis Hallowshade forces himself through the crowd of people, many of whom now actively clutch at his clothes and weep at the unthinkable task of defending themselves. Disgusted, and feeling uneasy in this crowd of weaklings, Kanthis pushes through them and continues on his journey. They will either live or die; it’s up to them now.

It’s been a year since he’s passed through Rothlin, ironically about the same since he’s fought a demon… With a little luck, if that man was correct, he’ll be able to hunt down another.

Kanthis moves along the worn and ragged trail, pondering if he’ll ever destroy the final demon on his list.

Part IV: Meat-Hook

Kanthis pauses outside the ruined village of Rothlin. It is true what the villagers claimed, this place is devastated.

The sun is setting low, its weakening rays now casting a dark salmon curtain over the highest peak north of town. There is an eerie setting about this place, and the hunter knows better than to take anything for granted. He trains his eyes and ears on every shadow, searching for where an ambush might lie.

After a short time, and confident that this area still poses great danger, he approaches the village inn – Ganji’s Tavern. The wooden structure, not unlike the rest of town, has recently endured an attack by imps. He’s seen their signs before. The people headed to Gesk Monastery filled him in on the attack earlier this morning.

All the signs are here. They came up from the village’s well, like a gush of foul gore spreading onto the land. At least a twoscore of imps – small, winged demons the color of night – made their way through this town. It doesn’t take the monster hunter long to confirm his estimation as accurate. Scratch marks are evident on nearly every home, and the inn is covered by torn and shredded planks. The place must have been crawling with them. Blood and viscera have been spilled throughout the streets, but the bodies… are no longer present.

“Interesting…” he mutters to himself. Imps rarely feast like this. They were harvesting.

He pushes the door to the tavern aside, its shattered frame catching on broken hinges as he forces it in and enters to find a gruesome sight. A young man, draped in lordly garb that once upon a better time was clean and fine-spun, is slumped under a shattered window. He appears frozen in thought. Stab marks puncture his torso in a score of places. Kanthis pulls forth a white cloth from his utility pack and kneels to get a closer look at the poor soul.

“Ahh, Lord Edmin Lorgrin. We meet again.” It is evident he recognizes the youth. What brought you way out here? Trouble with your estate? Where’s your father I wonder?

Without saying another word, Kanthis uses the cloth to absorb some of the blood covering the young man. He frowns when he realizes there isn’t much left. “Now that’s odd,” the hunter reflects. Your blood has been taken. Yet your veins should be full of it – or at least, it should have drained here to the floor where you sit.

A brisk wind blows down from the mountain and through the broken door into the inn, chilling the fetid inside air. Kanthis regains his feet and looks out to the mountain, the light of the day has now fully fallen.

~ ~ ~

Edmin finds himself lost in a world obscured by mist. The young lord is no longer bound to his body or mind. Instead, what is left of his soul drifts effortlessly in this strange, disconnected place. The movements caressing his soul are like being caught in an uncontrollable current, unable to do naught but follow in its fervent wake. His universe is now composed of muted grays, indigos, and off-white, as if the world he was now stuck within is a cloudy, broken house of mirrors, reflecting the world poorly, revealing an ever-changing aspect to those who care to look upon it.

Divorced from his mind, he is forced to simply observe what is and has and is yet to be. He watches the imp that killed him gather his blood into an ornate black flask, then leaps out of the window and into the crisp air. With most of his blood stolen, he is robbed of his waning awareness. As the imp takes flight, his world slowly transforms, lost in the fog of echoing stillness.

For what seems a millennium, the living world passes by without him, and then his spirit wakes anew. He is sluggishly brought back to a kind of awareness, but pieces of himself, once most familiar, are missing. When his perception returns, he sees only a white cloth stained red with traces of blood. His blood. The moment he sees it, his mind’s eye snaps fully into focus. The world of indigo and off-white returns and he sees a strong and virile man standing over his empty corpse. How long ago was this? It seems millennia to the spirit. Melancholy fills the once-young lord.

~ ~ ~

Kanthis, now resting at one of the tables of the inn, peers outside at the empty street. He swallows a stale morsel and watches the night cast its spell of darkness over the dying land. For a time, the big man seems to sleep with his eyes open, but he stirs with a start as a distant rumbling is born, growing stronger and shaking the rafters of Ganji’s Tavern. The sound comes from the west, from the forlorn land and the Dreadmire Bog.

The hunter cautiously stands, steps away from the table, and then pulls out his crossbow. It occurs again, the approaching rumble, and then he perceives a voice floating on the air. It is guttural and muffled. “We do dis for mashter,” it echoes. The rumbling continues for a time as the footsteps bring the creature closer to the tavern. “We do this for Meat-Hook,” another voice replies, this one clear as a bell. Whoever it is, it issues from the throat of a giant.

Kanthis steps out into the street in the cold night air and comes face to face with a two-headed monster. Meat-Hook stands as tall as the nearby stables. He is a stitched-together creature – a hodgepodge built by some insane chemist bent on reanimating life using the discarded pieces from the dead. A filthy hood covers one head and is tied securely around a thick neck. A gigantic yellowed eye gazes through a hole torn in the shroud. The other head is bulbous, bald, and grotesquely ugly. His body appears to be strong – an unholy thing built to end life.

This isn’t the first time Kanthis has seen his type, but his size takes him by surprise. Meat-Hook regards the monster hunter with an insane glee and then the uncovered head barks loudly, “HAH! Look at our prize. We dine fine tonight, Hook!”

Kanthis wastes no time battling the monstrosity. He is a blur of movement, but Meat-Hook proves to be adept in combat as well. The two-headed giant lashes out with a series of chains, each hooked and barbed to capture and tear its quarry. If even one of the chained hooks lands their mark, Kanthis will be in serious trouble. The hunter dodges each forceful swing by the breadth of a hair.

In a matter of moments, each foe has traded blows, and each has been bloodied by the other, the grim result hanging in the balance.

~~~

Lord Edmin’s spirit was called back to this cruel world the moment his remaining blood was collected by the hunter. He has since watched the scene unfold around him, trying desperately to contact the huntsman. It is infuriating, trying to be heard with no voice when no one can hear him! The nobleman’s spirit wails in frustration, his anger adding to its force. The amplitude continues to grow as he tries to tear through into the world beyond.

~~~

Kanthis ducks under a massive chain, the blade attached to the end of it passing closely over his head. He stands erect and aims his crossbow for Meat-Hook’s heart and in the same moment he steadies the bolt, a terrifying wail rips into this realm, right next to the hunter’s head. The wail did not come from his opponent – its sudden appearance sends Kanthis off balance. A wasted shot. For the briefest of time, a blue-white spirit appears right next to him.

It was a poor moment to make contact. Kanthis reacts without thought, side-stepping the newly arrived spirit, which places him off balance and in precisely the wrong spot during the furious battle. Meat-Hook’s massive fist crashes down squarely on top of the hunter’s skull. A crack issues out loudly as bone strikes bone and the hunter slumps down, unconscious (or possibly worse) onto the street.

The hideous monstrosity laughs, both heads reveling in unbridled glee. “Now we bring to master, he wanted blood, he gets blood.” The giant sniffs the air, “And strong blood, too.”

The second head adds, “Then we eat?” The lumbering giant binds his prey and begins dragging him by one leg toward the mountain like a slain royal elk. The unsheathed head replies, “Yes. Then we eat.”

A frightened owl takes silent flight from a nearby tree as an uneasy silence once again blankets the desolated village of Rothlin.

Part V: Unexpected Ally

The two-headed goliath continues to bicker with itself as it moves out of the highland forest and into the depths of a worn, shadowed crypt. The place is desolate and bears the look of an age long since passed. An entire day has come and gone and the broken monster hunter the creature has been dragging hasn’t budged in all that time.

“Are we there yet? I can’t see nothing- and I’m hungry!” The shrouded head whines in a pitiful voice.

“Shut your hole, we ate yesterday,” the larger head replies in irritation as if he’s heard it a thousand times.

The little one grimaces in frustration, “YOU ate. Remember? You said it would hit our stomach soon, but I ain’t felt nothing yet. Let me eat the human. He smells tas…”

Suddenly, the gigantic creature stops and turns his part of their shared body toward the second head, who instinctively shrinks away from his own extended twin. The larger head screams so loud the words could wake the dead. “I TOLD YOU, he’s not human. Blood man needs this one. It’s ‘portant.” The two-headed monster slowly ambles away into the darkness, but the bickering continues.

~~~

Since his brief battle with the giant, Kanthis Hallowshade has been silently waging another war of his own. The nobleman who manifested in front of the hunter has also discovered that he can possess the living. Kanthis took a portion of his blood from the inn earlier, and that inadvertently gave Lord Edmin a bit of power over the hunter. Since then, the two have been will-locked, unable to exert supremacy over the other, but also unable to interact with their respective worlds.

The whole episode is not unlike a waking dream, fluid in its ever-changing nature. Symbols flood the dual-world, and each combatant has risen their defenses and called into being weapons to tear down the other.

In a stupendous effort of will, the monster hunter finally pushes Lord Edmin’s spirit from his mind and he very slowly regains a grasp on his reality. Opening his eyes, Kanthis finds himself in a new place. A castle perhaps. He is in a long hallway, a stone wall on his left side revealing a row of arched windows holding back murky outer darkness. On his right is a wall laced with spider webs. Tapestries and framed portraits pierce the distance down as far as the eye can see. The castle keep is faintly illuminated with auburn and umber hues merging with the shadowed darkness. Groggily, he lifts his head to get a better look. The two-headed brute is nowhere to be seen, but Kanthis can smell the brutish monster’s scent in the air.

~~~

Lord Edmin’s spirit, unable or unwilling to surrender from the silent battle, watches from the same hallway, only in his version the world is devoid of light, save a thick permeating gray mist. The toll his spirit has endured attempting to possess the demon hunter has taken a measurable effect. Lord Edmin’s form seems more ephemeral in nature as if he has lost a significant piece of himself, like this world of gray has consumed all but the final fragment of his being. He screams his frustration into the ethereal air, and then when those echoes fade, the young lord decides to do something he's never had to - focus his remaining will.

~~~

Kanthis, left to his own devices, searches the vicinity for his belongings but comes up empty. He finds a ceremonial sword and axe, fitted to a suit of immobile, tarnished armor. Though the blades need sharpening, they are the only thing he’s found of potential use. He gingerly pries them from their place, exercising the metal weapons as silent as the grave. He peers down another hall and discovers a door at the far end, barely ajar.

This is a dangerous place. Noctis is here and I am unprepared. He glances back behind him and then peers out an adjacent window. This place is high in the mountains, the stone walls of the fortification precariously rising even higher above the peak it rests upon. A river below snakes it's way around a closed valley. A jarring chill pierces the night air, and Kanthis silently wonders if he’ll survive the threatening night.

 From within his mind, a familiar and unwelcomed voice breaks the stillness. “So, let me help, dolt. Whether we like it or not, we are bound together, you and I… The nobleman and his... filthy warrior.” Lord Edmin’s ghost mutters the words that only Kanthis can hear.

Ignoring the pestilent spirit, Kanthis growls in anger and slowly approaches the door at the end of the hall. If I must fight and die here, then so be it. I will bring honor to my ancestors.

“Wonderful idea. You'll bring your precious blood to Noctis. Honorable indeed,” the young spirit accuses.

Quiet, brat! I must concentrate. The hall seems to lengthen as he stalks down the enclosure, and then he hears a new voice issue from the distance. A melodic, youthful voice calling from all directions. A man’s voice, full of charisma and sounding like honey might taste on the tongue. Sweet and thick and enticing to some. Unbridled power seeps from that haunting voice as if the owner was a being of heavier caliber.

“Do come in. I’ve been expecting you, Kanthis Hallowshade.”

The hunter pushes the door open to find a sprawling gallery; a fireplace set at the far end consumes the entire wall. Two high-backed chairs are set at its warm front, facing one another. A black-haired youth is seated in one. Upon entry, he stands, his posture ending in a regal bow.

He is tall and skinnier than the hunter would have thought. But the power he exudes is palpable. Kanthis can feel the patterns that have been woven about this man. He is a warlock, a sorcerer, and a sanguinmancer – able to manipulate blood, even while it pumps through the living body of another soul.

Mirza Noctis smiles devilishly and offers the second chair to his reluctant visitor, then speaks again with a faint smile breaking his face. “Sit. We have much to discuss. We need not be enemies… just yet.”

A long moment of silence passes between the two men. When Kanthis doesn't move, Noctis continues, "Do you know how hard it was to arrange this little soiree?”

The hunter breathes deeply and glares at the young man – no, likely a man far older than me. Kanthis has learned to not assume things of his enemies.

“Why should I do anything for you. The butcher of Krasvetelia. You’ve slain the last king and the place has fallen into madness. I aught to slay you here and now and hope the land returns to a former visage of itself.”

The imposing warrior crosses the room like a lion stalking its prey. All the while Mirza Noctis wears his smile as if it were a veil concealing more sinister thoughts.

“Pish. You and I both know that is not how tonight will end. You cannot harm me, in my own home… armed with my own weapons.” With the slight flick of his wrist, both the axe and the sword in the warrior’s hands turn blood-red in color and then explode downward to the floor in a gush of liquid blood.

Noctis continues, as if lecturing an eager audience, “You seek information, I think. About a life… long… since… passed.” The sanguinmancer hangs on each word as the newly formed blood floats up into spirals, braiding itself into rope-like strands.

Kanthis draws breath as an obscure memory of his past flashes in his mind's eye. I've seen this rope... a hangman's noose.

Noctis inhales a deep breath, savoring the exercise. “I can give you that knowledge. And more.”

Kanthis, unarmed but still very dangerous in his own right, stands tall and advances another step closer to the night lord. “I don’t want anything that you can give. Your words are poison. You’ve killed hundreds… for noth...”

“No,” Noctis interrupts, a somber look spilling across his features. “It was not for nothing. Everything I do has its… reason. Now then, are we going to do this the civilized way, or must we resort to senseless violence?”

Together, the two fated companions stand, side-by-side in front of the master of this castle. Lord Edmin says to Kanthis, “I don’t like it. He’s killed everyone in my home.”

Not just your home, nobleman… But I must hear his words.

The door to the chamber slowly closes on its own, blood from Noctis’s spell now staining its handle, as the large warrior moves to accept the offered chair.