An Eldritch Legacy: Sin & Sacrilege

Just as Romeon was losing himself in his savage glee, a knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. His head slowly turned away from the sight of men dragging corpses off the blackened earth—some even dissecting the corpses of the abnormalities with meticulous care, as though afraid they would lose something valuable if moved rashly, their movements fast and precise, almost with a practiced ease that showed just how awfully familiar they were with the process. Every move of theirs was accompanied by a short laugh, almost broken yet excited.

Those particular people were ones everyone in Astrea detested in unison; they were the people of the West Cardinal, a place where madness was sewn into the very air its people breathed. Yet, they held the highest respect among those not born of royalty. Their knowledge and love for learning was second only to their love for the Diearch. But everyone worth their salt knew to shiver in the presence of those madmen, and yet, as the Cardinal that had the most interaction with the darkness and its children, they had more communication with those of the West than many would have liked.

The knock came again.

Romeon fully pulled his gaze away from the grim scene below. His posture—one that had mirrored a person overseeing the world from a throne above—crumbled as reality reminded him of his situation. The knock, though polite in tone, carried a subtle forcefulness that soured his mood instantly.

This should have been the time he was allowed to be with his wife. They all should have known not to disturb them in their newlywed days—but perhaps that was just wishful thinking on his part.

Still, he went to see who it was, unbothered by his own disheveled state. If they dared to disturb him, even under these circumstances, he would make no effort to spare their discomfort—regardless of who it was. The scent of the days prior still hung over him like a wraith and anyone would be able to tell just what had been taking place, and in a certain light Romeon wore it with pride; how else was he to prove that he had bedded the princess…

With a forceful tug, he opened the large, heavy double doors. A harsh wind slammed into the face of whoever stood on the other side, though he had pulled the doors with such control that they did not crash against the walls. He had learned long ago: in this life, everything was about the actions you allowed others to perceive—for those actions could be used against you in the end, liabilities that should never have been.

The doors, made of a wood that felt more like steel than timber, were a frosty grey, blending seamlessly with the castle walls. Romeon wondered, in the back of his mind, why nobles were so obsessed with such monotone colors. Everything about this castle was dreary and depressing, like a battlefield, and he did not like the way light seemed so timid within the walls of the castle..

Outside stood a man, slightly older than expected, judging by his posture and features. Romeon noted the man's stance: ready to enter at any moment. Had he delayed even a second longer, the man might have let himself in forcefully. This fact didn't go unnoticed by Romeon, as he silently kept it at the back of his mind..

Though age-worn, the man was clearly a walker of some caliber—Romeon could sense it. The subtle pressure emanating from him marked him as someone not quite mortal, and that alone was enough to make Romeon change his approach. Though aging among walkers was something not quite normal, it was within the realm of acceptance since not all walkers were made equal.

The man was a servant of the Duke's House. His hair had long since turned grey, its original color faded with time, making it hard to discern his bloodline—normally identifiable by certain traits. The servant's black, beady eyes didn't quite match the wrinkles and pale skin that spoke of his age. Despite the slight hunch in his back—which he tried, but failed, to correct—Romeon could tell that beneath his uniform was a form still holding quiet strength; his posture spoke of someone adept at handling the sword. he himself was a sword user, so it was not difficult to tell when another stood before him

It was a habit for Romeon, one honed on the battlefield, to observe everything in detail. And so, he also noted the faint scars on the man's exposed wrists—scars that had healed many times over but never fully disappeared. If not for the gloves, he knew there would be more.

The servant's attire was clean and proper, a uniform of grey lined with subtle gold—the same fucking grey. What's wrong with using other colors? Romeon inwardly mused.

The gold lining his uniform spoke of his seniority among the Duke's house servants. That he had come to the princess's chambers, despite knowing she had just married, hinted at something more serious than it seemed.

As for how Romeon knew the man was a servant and not someone of higher standing—that was simple. When Rena's father had brought him back, the only people he was allowed to interact with were the servants. His status back then had been too low to warrant meeting any of the Duke's family, despite being adopted on account of the Duke seeing potential in him. At first, Romeon had thought himself lucky—but over time, he realized how much it grated on him. Though he had never wanted for anything materially, the way he had been kept at arm's length from the Duke's true children planted a bitter resentment within him.

Even after earning his reward—betrothal to the Duke's only daughter—he hadn't been allowed to meet her. He only ever saw her from afar, listening to the whispers that surrounded her. Over the years, he watched her become more beautiful, more alluring. And each time, he felt a strange pride knowing she was his. Many times, he had gotten into fights simply because others dared to speak her name. She had always been the light he could only admire, never to touch.

Only in recent years had he truly interacted with her—on the battlefield. She was placed under his command to gain experience in the war against the darkness. They spoke rarely, but he watched her fight: drenched in blood and torn flesh, ripping enemies apart with her bare hands, losing herself in the bloodlust. It was then he vowed to conquer her—not just marry her, but conquer her spirit. The daughter of the Northflame, a woman who loved carnage as much as he did.

"Who are you?" Romeon asked, his voice laced with barely veiled displeasure. He knew, of course—but asked out of spite, to remind the man of his place. He had never liked these servants. Their pride disgusted him; they carried themselves as though they stood on heaven's shoulders. Yet, when faced with someone of the Duke's blood, they groveled like ants.

The old man bowed his head slightly. His eyes remained impassive, not even glancing at Romeon, despite the stench of sex and chaos still clinging to him. Even his bow felt more for the door than for the man himself—and that kind of disregard only fanned the embers of Romeon's rage into a slow, simmering stream.

Had he had a say in things, he would have had the man decapitated. But the irony of nobility was that, even with his status, without a direct slight to his name, he had no way of faulting the man; after all, everything he did was within protocol, and even if he did have enough room for reason, he doubted the Duke would allow him to do as he pleased.