NOVEL NEXT Chapter 54: • The Serpent’s Offer
The world was upside down.
Aerion Virell's body hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud, mud splashing across his once-pristine robes.
He choked on the rainwater pooling around his face, tasting iron and grit. Somewhere behind him, the towering silhouette of Castle Darlayne glowed with firelight—his castle—its great spires now belching black smoke into the stormy sky.
The scent of burning oil, timber, and stone clung thick in the air, and the screams had already started to fade, leaving behind only the crackle of flame and the hush of falling rain.
Aerion tried to rise, but a boot pinned him down, grinding his face into the muck.
He growled through clenched teeth, "I don't know who you people think you are, but if you believe the king will stay silent—"
"We're aiming to get his attention, actually."
The voice was smooth, refined.
Aerion twisted his head with effort, blinking away rain and blood. Standing over him was a man he did not recognize, though something about his smile felt intimately offensive.
His deep brown hair was slicked back with meticulous care, emerald eyes gleamed with knowing amusement, and a coiled snake tattoo slithered along the side of his head, disappearing into the collar of an opulent deep blue coat embroidered with golden serpents and vines.
He wore the wealth of ten noble houses: a white vest, a golden pocket watch tucked neatly, silver cufflinks, and so many rings they could each ransom a barony. But it was the gold ring on his right hand, engraved with a waxing gibbous moon, that Aerion found himself staring at the longest.
The stranger crouched beside him, not bothering to wipe the mud from Aerion's face.
"Lord Aerion Virell," the man said warmly, almost as if greeting an old friend. "I must say, the fire looks rather becoming on your estate. Very dramatic."
Aerion snarled. "Who in the seven hells are you?"
The man's smile widened just slightly.
"Dazmar Veyron," he said, tapping the moon-ring with one gloved finger. "Of cult luminous, representing the The Prosperous Hand. I'm a servant to a higher power than your crown. And I'm here to make a generous offer. You might want to listen—while you still have ears."
Aerion spat mud. "You burn my home to the ground, assault me in the street—and you think I'll listen to you?"
Dazmar gave a theatrical sigh, standing upright and brushing invisible dust from his lapel. "You nobles. So prideful. So... short-sighted." He gestured toward the blaze behind them, gold rings flashing in the firelight. "That estate was never yours. Not really. Titles are illusions painted in ink and blood. But I... I can offer you something eternal."
"No thanks, the last thing I'd do is take an offer from a man who looks like he wants me to sell my soul. Cultists and never up to any good."
A flicker of movement passed behind Dazmar. Aerion caught a glimpse—a figure stepping from shadow to shadow, half-silhouetted by the burning light. A cape fluttering, black-and-white hair damp with rain, and a grin far too amused for the carnage around them.
"He's adorable when he's muddy," the woman said sweetly. "Should we let him scream a little more?"
Aerion flinched as she skipped closer, her boots splashing lightly in the puddles, dagger twirling between her fingers as if she were playing a game. She leaned down to his level and winked. "Boo."
Zynara.
He didn't know her by name, but he knew her type. That stance—relaxed, playful, but ready to gut him in half a heartbeat.
"W-who do you work for?" Aerion barked, trying to puff up his voice. It came out more like a whimper.
Dazmar chuckled and offered a handkerchief to Zynara, who wiped her blade theatrically and handed it back. "You are not the one asking the questions, Lord Virell. I am."
Dazmar smiled—the kind of smile that never quite reached his eyes.
"First," he said with theatrical patience, brushing back his coat as if preparing for a stage performance, "let me put you up to speed. Then I present my offer."
He lifted his hand with a flourish, palm upward, gesturing to the darkness behind them.
"I'm sure you recognize our beloved Stripped Reaper here," he said, voice lilting with amusement.
From the shadows stepped a towering figure—muscle-bound, cloaked in ragged fur, and adorned with strips of crimson cloth wrapped around her limbs like bloodied bandages. Rain glistened off her striped fur, and her golden eyes gleamed with cool disinterest as she approached, each step heavy.
Aerion stiffened.
The tigerkin. Rahna.
The same one who had torn through his guards like parchment earlier. Her presence was unmistakable—powerful, predatory, and utterly unbothered by the rain or the burning estate behind her.
Dazmar spread his arms as though unveiling a prized jewel.
"You've met, obviously," he said with a chuckle. "But allow me the honor of a proper introduction."
He turned toward the tigerkin, then back to Aerion with a dramatic sweep of his hand.
"This, dear lordling, is my ever-capable associate, my iron paw, my headache repellent. I give you—Rahna of the Ravaged Vale, the Tigerkin Hero."
Rahna gave a curt nod, crossing her arms over her chest with silent menace. The muscles in her jaw flexed, and the sharp glint of a fang peeked through as she smirked at Aerion's trembling form.
"She makes my job so much easier," Dazmar added, voice dripping with satisfaction. "Imagine trying to negotiate without a seven-foot-tall cat goddess looming behind you. Simply dreadful."
Zynara leaned on Dazmar's shoulder with a grin. "He's trying so hard not to piss himself. It's almost cute."
"Pitiful would be more accurate," Dazmar said, not even trying to suppress his amusement.
"Oh, and this here is my lovely assistant Zynara, careful what you say, she bites."
Aerion, still pinned and soaked in mud, stared up at the three of them—merchant, killer, beast—and understood, far too late, that he was a pawn on a board he'd never seen coming.
Dazmar clapped his hands together once with an exaggerated flair.
"Well, now that I've introduced everyone," he said, spreading his arms like a stage performer, "it's time we get to the point."
He stepped around Aerion, the sound of his boots splashing in the puddles, letting the golden firelight from the burning manor silhouette his grin.
"I'm sure you've heard the rumors. From your dear brother, perhaps?" He raised an eyebrow. "The Stripped Reaper, targeting nobles, sowing chaos, dragging the skeletons out of aristocratic closets…"
Aerion narrowed his eyes, gritting his teeth.
"You're behind it," he spat.
Dazmar stopped mid-step, turned, and beamed like a proud father watching his child speak their first word.
"Ding ding ding!" he chimed, tapping his moon-marked ring against his palm. "You catch up quick. I was worried your skull was stuffed entirely with the screams of all the beast kin you've had your way with."