Chaosbound: Elarith Chronicles

The Wolves' Den: The Shadow of Vengeance

The air in the room thickened, each breath a struggle against the encroaching tension. Rupert, who moments ago exuded guarded confidence, now visibly crumbled, his unease a palpable entity in the room. His eyes, frantic and wide, ricocheted between Ron, the incriminating documents splayed on the table, and the ominous, silent figures of Faelyn and Markus lurking behind him. But it wasn't just the present company that rattled him; a name, uttered or simply implied, had struck him to his core.

Slowly, Rupert leaned forward, his voice a strained, wary murmur, his eyes narrowed to slits. "So... you're working with him, then? Did he give you these documents? I can't believe he's already got a hold of this information."

Ron offered no immediate reply. Instead, his grin widened, a slow, deliberate movement that deepened Rupert's discomfort. He allowed the silence to stretch, a taut wire humming with unspoken threats, watching as Rupert squirmed, his mind visibly racing, desperate to piece together the unfolding nightmare.

Rupert's gaze darted back to the papers, a desperate whisper escaping his lips. "Did he set this up? The man everyone calls Vengeance... Always meddling. Always disrupting my business." His hands clenched into tight fists, the frustration a bitter taste in the air. "This—this reeks of him."

Faelyn's eyes flickered to Ron, her expression unreadable, though a flicker of curiosity danced within them. Ron, in turn, merely raised an eyebrow, leaning back slightly as Rupert continued his unraveling.

"You think I don't know what he's been doing?" Rupert snapped, a tremor in his voice. "That man has been a thorn in my side for months. Every single one of my operations—a warehouse, a trade route, even a backroom deal—every single one gets hit, and he leaves a little card behind. A card with that damned sun wreathed in shadows. It's his message, his way of saying, 'I was here, and there's nothing you can do to stop me!'"

Rupert's voice escalated, desperation clawing at its edges. "You don't understand. He doesn't just disrupt my business—he dismantles it, piece by piece! He's a ghost in the shadows, striking without warning. And now, now you show up with information that shouldn't even exist!"

Ron tilted his head, finally breaking his silence. "Oh, Rupert, you sound terribly paranoid. You mean to say this Vengeance has been giving you trouble?" His tone was mocking, almost playful, yet the steel in his gaze never wavered. "Could it be he knows something you're not telling me?"

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Rupert slammed his hand on the table, his voice a ragged shout. "Trouble? He's been hunting me like I'm some rat scurrying through the shadows! Every time I try to rebuild my networks, he shows up—my warehouses raided, my shipments lost, my men scattered. He's a ghost in the dark, moving faster than I can. And now, now you show up with information that shouldn't even exist!"

Ron leaned forward again, his predatory grin sharpening. "Well, Rupert, it seems we've both met interesting players in the game. But let's keep this simple. You've got answers I need, and I'm not interested in wasting my time."

Rupert stared at Ron for a long, agonizing moment, his fear slowly ceding to a reluctant, desperate calculation. "If you're not working with him, you're stepping into the same mess. That man—he doesn't stop. And if I even hint at where the black stuff ties into this..." He swallowed hard, his gaze flicking nervously between Ron and the stoic figures behind him. "You'll be next on his list."

Before Ron could utter a response, the room began to writhe. The flickering lamps, as if drawing their last breath, dimmed, their light shrinking into faint, struggling embers. An icy chill swept through the air, raising goosebumps on skin. Then, the shadows in the corners of the room began to stretch, to crawl, creeping toward Rupert like living tendrils of inky blackness. The guards, their faces pale with unease, exchanged anxious glances, their hands instinctively dropping to their weapons, yet none dared to move, paralyzed by the encroaching dread.

Rupert's breath hitched, a strangled gasp escaping him as the shadows enveloped him entirely, their oppressive blackness swallowing the last vestiges of light. The room plunged into pitch darkness, and for a heart-stopping moment, there was nothing but a chilling, absolute silence.

Then, a faint, almost imperceptible sound—a whisper of movement, the softest hiss of a blade slicing through the air.

When the light, as if by a sudden, unseen command, returned, Rupert sat slumped in his chair. His eyes, wide with unspeakable terror, stared blankly ahead, his throat slit cleanly, a stark, crimson line across his neck. Blood, a grotesque dark river, trickled down his chest, pooling beneath him. The documents and evidence that had been spread across the table were gone, vanished as if they had never existed. But something else remained, a chilling signature left behind.

On the table, pristine and untouched by the spreading horror, lay a single card. On it, an unmistakable sigil—a sun wreathed in shadows, a silent, ominous message left behind as a warning.

Ron leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable, as he surveyed the gruesome scene. Faelyn and Markus stood frozen, their eyes darting frantically around the room, searching for any sign of the shadowy figure that had emerged and vanished in an instant, leaving only death in its wake.

"Well," Ron muttered, finally breaking the heavy silence. "That's one way to end a conversation."