An Eldritch Legacy: Sin & Sacrilege

Alfonso tried to keep up with the back that had made his heart leap out of his chest, only to realize that at some point, he had been left behind, and only his heavy breathing echoed in the empty halls as he tried to find the cause of his current fear. Gone was the back of the boy—even till now Allffonso saw the young man who had long reached his age of maturity as nothing more than a boy, and his mind refused to call him anything other than that; now he stood alone under the cover of orange light that seemed to mock him more than it illuminated his life.

Things were progressing far too fast for his mind to follow, and he felt like all his hard work was slipping through his fingers like loose sand, all because he had allowed his heart to be filled with hesitancy and fear for the peasant. His mind was a mess, and all the wit and shrewdness that came with his years of experience felt like they had flown out of the window.

As soon as his thoughts caught up, he rushed forward to the best of his abilities, trying not to let the situation eat him up. But by the time he arrived, he found that Romeon was already standing in the attention of the Duke.

He opened his mouth to say something, but a single glance from the Duke's frosty-hued blue eyes that glinted like a cursed blizzard shut him up instantly, making his entire body shiver. His skin tingled with a fine sheen of sweat, and a frosty breath escaped his lips; a subtle icy glaze took hold of his lashes and the finer strands of his black hair, and yet it was so slight that apart from him no one else would even begin to guess what was happening, and certainly Romeon was not yet at the point where he could even if he wanted to.

But Alfonso, experienced as he was, knew when to speak—and more importantly, when not to.

He bowed low and left the hall without uttering a single word, his eyes firmly fixed on the ground beneath him, not once daring to raise his head toward the source of the other glance in the room—the one that had tickled his soul in more ways than he liked.

He could feel the triumph that burned his skin like sulfur and the gloating that should have been there, if not for the fact that it, too, disregarded him like he was only ever an ant.

And once the doors were closed, a few short seconds passed with no change to his expression. Then, as though waiting for a celestial event, a fury took hold of his features, twisting them into something far beyond what should have been possible for a living being.

"Just you wait, peasant. When the Duke is done wringing out all the value you carry in your blood and seed, we shall see then who has the last laugh. And when you finally see the difference between you and the world of nobility, I shall be there to cut you up piece by piece as I watch you descend into madness all my other victims once went through to escape their pitiful lives."

Even though he spoke these words within the realms of his mind, a vibrating snarl escaped his lips. A hint of foam seeped through his lips as he forced his jaw to clench; he did not want to become the rabid dog that he once was.

Taking out a neat black cloth, Alfonso wiped his mouth and the sweat and frost that had formed on his skin. With a few minor adjustments to his appearance, he turned without looking back. His expression had returned to one of polite indifference as he observed the walls and the workers laboring around him. No one could have guessed just how much fury and splitting venom he held within his heart.

The Duke had never once looked at him like that before—and someone was going to pay for putting him in a bad mood. That much was certain.

—

Back in the Duke's office, Romeon stood before the man who sat behind a battered old desk, scarred like an old warhorse. Yet despite its age and roughness, the Duke had never replaced it with something more fitting to his image. And strangely, it still held a charm and an oppressive aura that Romeon hadn't expected from mere furniture. It stood entrenched within the floors of the castle like a fortress of its own. The wood that it was carved from was something he could not even begin to trace. If not for the lack of extensive knowledge, then his lack of interest in many things that, if they did not help him reap more life on the battlefield, he would always ignore.

Sitting behind the desk like a looming mountain was the Duke and this made Romeon wonder just how powerful he truly was.

Now that he stood on the threshold of the elusive world of the Walkers, Romeon couldn't help but feel a deep itch inside him.

Having a power that so many envied—yet not having gotten a chance to really explore it—was perhaps the most torturous sensation he had ever experienced, and it was eating him alive.

He desperately hoped the Duke would tell him more about this world. He hated the feeling of being ignorant, and he hoped he would be getting some answers here today.

The Duke in question was a man whose presence seemed to command the very air, but not with violence or aggression. No—the aura around him was the gentlest Romeon had ever encountered.

On the battlefield, it wasn't uncommon to meet men whose very beings reeked of blood and ichor, whose bloodlust was so woven into their auras that it stung the eyes of those who looked upon them. Back then, Romeon had been a mere mortal, and they had been mere mortals too.

But now, with senses that had been sharpened and magnified by his awakening, Romeon could perceive things on a much deeper level.

And when he tried to sense the Duke's aura… all he could feel was a cool breeze. A gentle, cool breeze that seemed to mirror those blue eyes—eyes that should have been icy cold, filled with a bone-chilling pride that made those under their gaze shiver from nothing but a glance, but they instead looked upon the world with the softness of a father who had given life to it.

There was no biting harshness or sternness of a commander or general, of a man who had seen years of bloodshed, of a man whose sole duty was to protect the city of Astrea from the weight of the darkness beyond. No overwhelming pride of a man who stood above an entire Cardinal, with prestige and majesty that was just below that of the Center of Astrea.

He was not like the nobles he had seen before—those who carried their superiority in their bones and radiated disdain for anything outside their circles.

Even when he was a mortal, Romeon had sensed that the Duke was different, and now, even with his elevated senses, that impression remained unchanged.

The Duke had looked upon him with those very same gentle eyes when he had invited him to join his family—if only in name.

Back then, Romeon hadn't thought too much about it. All he had wanted was a warm meal and a place to sleep. Although part of him had suspected that the Duke's gentleness was just a façade and that he might die the very next day, he had still followed him.

And now, standing here with awakened senses, he realized that nothing about the Duke had changed; he was the same man that he was even back then, a lump of coal within a winter storm.

"How was your night, Little Romeon?"

The Duke's slightly aged but still gentle voice called out, breaking Romeon free from the distractions he had tangled himself in.

The way the Duke looked at him now and the way he had looked at him back then had never changed—and perhaps this was the greatest cause of Romeon's dissatisfaction.

The Duke seemed so kind and gentle—like an aged farmer living quietly in the countryside, tending to his simple fields, cultivating food for a small family of three.

But Romeon had seen the nobility. He had seen how they flaunted their power, how they carried their disdain like a second skin. And because of this, he had a hard time believing that the Duke's kindness was ever real; he had spent every waking day wondering when the conniving and ugly side of the Duke would rear its head, but that day never came...

And if it was real—then why had he never once come to him during the dark days, when servants had tormented him?

Why had he been so distant?

Why promise him a home, only to leave him to rot beneath the overwhelming looks of the servants?

Why had he never really shown him the love of one who had become family?

Even now, under the warm, gentle gaze of the Duke, Romeon remained silent.

Or at least, that was what he thought he would do.

Instead, he found his lips moving on their own, answering the Duke against his will.

"It was wonderful, your Lordship," Romeon watched himself say with a smile on his lips that seemed too content and almost giddy at the attention that Duke had given him, like a puppy that had found its long-lost master once more.

And from the corner of his eyes, among the many silver wares that lay scattered, he caught sight of his face, and he saw the joy within his eyes, and like looking at a stranger, he watched the unfamiliarity.

He felt as though he were only a passenger inside his own body, and something deep within him rattled.

Maybe the Northern Duke was truly the most fearful of them all...