An Eldritch Legacy: Sin & Sacrilege

"Good day to you too, Master Romeon Duvel."

The way he said his full name hinted at something Romeon couldn't quite place. It lingered there—silent, elusive. His name wasn't a mystery to most, but it was rare for anyone to use it fully. Romeon mused, as he fully ignored the jab at the greeting entirely.

"My name is Alfonso. No last name—for I have long forsaken it, and I no longer remember what it might have been. I am the Lady's butler."

His tone was measured. To others, it might have sounded neutral. But Romeon, with his honed senses, could detect a thin veil of condescension laced between the syllables. It was flat, absent of respect—spoken as though he addressed the air, not the husband of his mistress. Romeon bit the inside of his cheek.

The look in the butler's eyes infuriated him—not because of what he saw, but because there was nothing at all to see. That emptiness was the insult. There was no reverence, no awe, no deference for the man married to his mistress. It was as if Alfonso regarded him as an equal, only acknowledging rank due to obligation. Even his bow felt more like an illusion than action.

Romeon opened his mouth to speak, but Alfonso cut in with the same flat voice—now feeling more mocking by the second. Romeon wasn't sure if it was an illusion or reality, but he thought he saw the ghost of a sneer stretch the man's wrinkles. His humbled demeanor was nothing more than a mask the old butler chose to wear to tick him off.

"The Duke has asked for your presence. There are matters he wishes to discuss.

You were to be there yesterday—but due to… unsavory circumstances, I could not inform you sooner."

Romeon heard nothing after that. His mind had shut down the moment Alfonso spoke those words. Simple as they were, they painted his situation far more vividly than days of cold treatment ever could.

He had thought—after everything, even if just within the Duke's castle—he would at least be acknowledged for what he had done for this family. The honor he had earned on the battlefield should have commanded true respect. But now, he knew the truth.

Even that wasn't enough.

Even being married to their Lady was not enough.

And from that moment on, everything passed in a blur.

Alfonso entered their chambers with not even a hint of respect. He didn't care that the Lady lay naked in bed. He opened the curtains, clapped his hands, and summoned a train of maids. They dragged Romeon to the bath, disregarded his privacy, scrubbed him down like the dog that he was, and dressed him as if he were a doll.

And even while they tried to hide, with his sharp senses he could see the disgust they had while they scrubbed him down, even his masculine beauty was not enough for proper treatment, and he seemed to remember a saying he picked up while he was still on the streets during a certain escapade that nearly had him wiped off the face of the earth, and it was one of the many moments he could never forget.

In front of true power and status... only the mercy of the divine, can protect your life and the maids seemed to remind him of that same feeling he had back then, the saying might not have fit the narrative, but he felt it fit just right for the situation.

All the while, he stood in a daze—lost in thought.

They adorned him in a solid gray ensemble, embroidered with gold and crimson accents. The same color, once again, now all it did was fill him with distaste, he had a feeling that soon he would be hating the very color itself- he seemed to forget his wife's skin was the very color he was growing to dislike.

Though the garments flattered his deep brown skin, golden eyes, and ash-gray locs, it all felt like mockery. His hair, unusual in its nature, long locs of grey hair that seemed to shine with a sheen of metal and a silent radiance, was arranged neatly—presentable, but not proud. His teeth now mysteriously white were scrubbed until they gleamed, every detail cut to clean perfection, even the the short beard he had had was shaven clean, making his skin appear flawless.

And yet, he felt stripped. Violated. Disrespected and toyed with.

He could only watch, numb, as they carried his wife to the bath with reverence. Their hands were soft, and cautious, treating her like sacred glass. It was so stark a contrast, that it burned, the shame and indignation with a hint of helplessness ate at his insides.

He had thought he would be the one to wash her—tenderly, reverently, admiring the marks they had left on each other. But now, those moments were stolen.

Among the maids, one could heal. And she did. Every bite, every grip, every bruise he had left as signs of their passion and his dominance—erased. Her skin was restored to untouched perfection. His seed washed away as though it were the worst kind of filth seen since the descent of darkness.

They had no right.

Those were his.

There was no proof left of the night before.

If their prior treatment was an insult, this was a spit in the face. A boot to the neck, a knife plunged into his gut and then twisted slowly to prove a point.

He felt fury rise—but it was not fire. No, this fury was cold. Calculated. Like spring water coiling through a dark forest. His face stilled. His eyes became placid. His aura muted.

He changed at that moment.

From then on, he merely watched. Detached. Observing. A spectator, unbothered.

The change was so stark, that even the butler—watching from the corner of his eye—felt a chill slither through his aged heart and bones.

For the first time, he doubted his choices.

He had done all of this intentionally—but now, a whisper in the back of his mind asked: Did I go too far?

But like many foolish characters in forgotten tales, he scoffed it off. He refused to see the truth.

Yet even useless characters have a purpose—to push the story forward. And this one was doing so brilliantly.

Alfonso ordered the stained sheets removed. The clothes marked with what he called "the commoner's filthy seed" were to be burned and the ashes purified. One of the maids gathered them disappearing out the chamber doors, never to be seen again, and even then she held them with a barely concealed disgust for them, she muttered under her breath but with the growing power within him, Romeon could hear what she said as clear as daylight.

'I should get cleansed after this'

Romeon's eyes twitched. His mask nearly cracked. His fists clenched, his veins glowing a rising gold that was so subtle that the butler failed to see.

Alfonso felt a strange sense of satisfaction.

Had Romeon remained cold, he might have been terrified. But this slight reaction gave him reassurance.

'You are still too young for these games, peasant,' the butler thought, 'You should have known your place, maybe you would have lived out your life in relative peace. Now, you will suffer the consequences.'

There was a glint in the butler's eyes, a coldness bleeding into his aura.

He still didn't understand why his master allowed the princess to be touched—stained—by someone like Romeon, scum of the earth like him had no right touching the toes, of gods like them. But there was nothing he could do.

He might have had no say in the decisions of the Northern Duke but it did not mean he could let the peasant breathe so freely, while he was watching, and so he came up with all this, just out of the spite he felt.

He also didn't notice the faint shadow creeping into Romeon's golden eyes—a hint of black crept into the rings of gold that had grown within his irises that disappeared just as quickly as it came, a subtle corrosive glow to his nearly metallic hair that also faded just as fast.

The bed was remade.

The Lady was redressed in a soft red silk gown—the only other color Romeon had seen in this otherwise bleak castle. They laid her back in bed, unaware.

She never stirred.

The maids had ensured she wouldn't.

Among them was one who stood out—not in status, but in presence. Unlike the others, who carried superiority in their gazes, this one had innocence in her eyes.

Even in his cold fury, Romeon noticed her. She stood out like a beacon in the condescension that he had seen his first time stepping foot into the Duke's Domain.

And when he saw the pity in her eyes—pity—it ignited something dangerous within him.

A memory he had buried clawed its way back to the surface.

How dare a maid look upon him with pity?