An Eldritch Legacy: Sin & Sacrilege

Krael had been observing the peasant girl ever since Adler had mysteriously cleaned her and dressed her in finer clothes. Placed in the carriage, she slept soundly.

And yet while it seemed that she was doing fine, the girl had never stopped dying, for tapping into power she had no business meddling with, her death would be slow and cruel.

Her soul was breaking, down from bearing weight that should have never been hers. And she was going to pay for it with her life.

There was a reason nobles were the only ones able to awaken.

They had old blood, descended from ancestries of great might and power that had transcended generations, either becoming more powerful or withering in the solemn gaze of time.

Only nobles with old blood could awaken; their rites were after all protected by generations of stolen aether, or aether granted unto them.

Which was essential for such rites—something commoners simply lacked. With no lineage, with no bloodlines, with no favor from the divine, with no mercy from the Diearch, and with no fate-defying lack, commoners would and always be commoners, mortals left to frolic in the dust for generations and generations. Such was the woe of the common man.

Well, unless they chose to join the temple. Then, and only then, would they be given a chance. Only the temple was welcoming enough; well, even the noble houses could do so, but it was frowned upon, and some reasons were better left unsaid.

But for many who did not wish to vow their lives away, they had no choice but to remain mundane for the rest of their days.

Yet here was a rare case among them; it seemed that she had defied fate. She had awakened—and yet she was dying because she lacked the aether to sustain it. There was nothing Krael could do for her now, not without the proper setup. So Adler had been driving the horses at full speed to get them back to the estate before death claimed her.

Krael had fully expected her to be struggling for life, even prepared to deal with a corpse upon arrival.

So, when she stirred, it surprised him—not as much as her lack of reaction, though.

He had expected screams, or tears, or at least the trembling of a child who had glimpsed death too early. But she gave him nothing. No awe, no fear, not even contempt. Just silence, and her eyes, like shattered glass, reflected nothing, not even him.

How dull, he thought. Even rats squealed in a trap. Clawing at their gilded cages at the slight chance for freedom, yet the peasant was unbothered.

She didn't seem to register how clean her body had become, her wounds now a thing of the past. How she had become someone new. Her surroundings were unfamiliar, and strange. And yet, she showed nothing—to feed his amusement or his ego. He had hoped to see a peasant's raw reaction to sudden luxury and comfort, but she left him disappointed.

She woke. Her eyes cleared the haze of unconsciousness. She glanced around at her unfamiliar surroundings—but there was no spark, no flicker. At least she made the effort to look; otherwise, he might have believed he was staring into the eyes of a doll.

The girl was tender for her age—perhaps ten, maybe eight—but nothing special. Not like noble scions, whose bloodlines ensured their beauty would never fade, even if they chose to remain mortal.

She was plain by comparison, with long hair tinged with ashen undertones. After her supposed awakening, her eyes—once black—had become cracked with ashy gray, like stained glass. It might have been beautiful if not for the lifeless quality they held.

He watched her disregard him completely, choosing instead to stare out the window at the town beyond. He wasn't sure whether to be offended or amused by her audacity, but it revealed something.

Despite how hollow she seemed, something within her still fought to live. And how that something chose to manifest was peculiar.

Why pride, of all things? Most in her situation, after such trauma, would develop fear, anxiety, self-hate, blame, regret, guilt, even vengefulness.

But this girl? She had developed pride—an innate arrogance that reminded him of himself.

He couldn't even summon the energy to look down on her, though he sorely wanted to.

Had he been his former self—or even his usual self—he would never have allowed a peasant to share his space, let alone breathe the same air. And if it somehow came to that, he wouldn't have spared them a glance. In his mind, he'd already granted her great mercy.

Yet he found himself paying attention to this one. He wanted to know what she thought, what she felt, what she would do now that her last ties to life had been buried with her own hands.

He felt like an owner watching a mouse in a glass cage. But her lack of response made everything feel dull.

Krael leaned back, eyes narrowing with the calm disdain of a man used to being obeyed—feared.

"Why do you seem so empty?" he asked, curiosity lacing his voice.

The girl didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Her gaze remained fixed beyond the glass as if the rolling streets held more worth than the noble sharing her air.

Insulting.

He felt the slow simmer of irritation rise—but it didn't boil. Something else was born, from this irritation—curiosity

"You show no reaction to your surroundings," he continued, his voice smooth like silk over a blade. "You don't ask why I've taken you. You don't tremble, or scream, or beg. You don't weep for those you have lost. You sit there, like an empty vessel. Why?"

That got her.

She turned, and her eyes—those fractured pools of ashen gray—met his. Hollow. Soulless, so empty. Krael felt a rare chill crawl down his spine.

He wondered idly if it would be better to gouge them out. Perhaps then, she'd be more interesting.

He wondered what her peasant face would be like with hollow sockets to complement her empty soul.

He mused darkly—perhaps she would be more interesting as a pet without eyes.

Krael didn't even notice the dark turn his thoughts had taken. He mused as he always did, yet something was wrong. There was an aura about him that didn't conform, and it seemed the girl sensed it, too.

Before he could spiral further into the thought, she spoke.

Her voice was dull, but laced with the barest thread of fear—like a cracked porcelain mask barely hiding the tremor underneath.

"If you wanted me dead," she said flatly, "you wouldn't have let me breathe long enough to be cleaned."

Her eyes returned to the window.

"I find it all tasteless. Not worth the energy."

Krael stared at her.

A peasant, speaking to him as if she understood the worth of life and found it lacking.

Holding contempt for the gift from the divine.

And yet...

There it was again. That flicker beneath her calm—the same flicker he had seen in himself, long ago.

Pride.

The count returned to his thoughts, not knowing the turmoil of the little girl whose name he had yet to know.

For the first time since she woke up, she had truly looked at the count—not from the corner of her gaze, but directly.

She saw his enchanted pewter eyes glint like magic, his skin an alien shade, his hair like ash burying a crimson glow.

His presence grew murkier, more muddled, hard to read. And that feeling only deepened. Something within him was changing—something she could feel.

It was like chaos, but not. It lacked chaos's disorder, though its intent hinted at something equally disturbing.

But none of that was as strange as the warmth she felt while looking at him—a warmth she had only ever felt in her father's presence, before his death.

That shocked her more than the fear trying to root itself within her.