NOVEL NEXT Chapter 55: • Molten Eyes in the Snow
Aerion tried to speak, but Dazmar held up a finger with a sharp tsk.
"Ah, ah, ah. What did I say earlier?" He leaned in, finger wagging. "I ask the questions, you provide the terrified expressions and maybe some useful information, if we're lucky."
He stepped back and exhaled with mock exhaustion, as if the entire affair were a burdensome errand.
"Now, where was I? Ah—yes!" he snapped his fingers. "So after spending a small fortune on very persuasive rumors about our big cat hero here…"
He gestured at Rahna, who crossed her arms without a word, the golden aura around her pulsing faintly like a heartbeat.
"…I expected a reaction. Panic. Frantic sales. Drastic price drops. Maybe even an imperial decree to finally release the beastkin from their shackles. You know—progress."
He sighed, placing a hand over his chest.
"But imagine my heartbreak when I discovered that most nobles still had the gall—the sheer audacity—to keep beastkin as slaves. As if nothing had changed. Can you believe that, Rahna?"
Rahna's claws flexed slightly. But… she didn't speak, eyeing Dazmar a bit sharply with not rage but a bit of disappointment.
Dazmar tilted his head at Aerion. "And then, you. Little Lord Virell. Happily enjoying enslaved beastkin on your lands. Breeding with them, if the rumors are to be believed. You also do some other... really disgusting activities. So you see why I might be… upset. These are supposed to be the precious children of my lord. How am I to present myself to him knowing some have traces of your filth inside of their vessels?"
Aerion could only stare up at him, silent and stunned.
As Dazmar resumed his theatrical pacing, Aerion found himself thinking,
Is this guy's head on straight?
Because right now, it didn't feel like he was being threatened by a man.
No, it felt like he was being interrogated by a sociopath dressed in silk and lunacy—with a divine executioner standing just behind him, waiting for the signal to strike.
Zynara clicked her tongue and leaned in with a casual flick of her dagger.
"Boss," she said, her voice lilting with amusement, "I think you're getting sidetracked. We came here to ask why the plan ain't working like it's supposed to."
Dazmar paused mid-step, one eyebrow arching as if the thought had only just occurred to him. He glanced down at Aerion, then gave a slow, deliberate nod.
"Ah. Right you are, my delightful menace," he said, offering Zynara a half-bow. "Apologies, Lord Virell. I do get dramatic when my feelings are hurt."
He sighed, smile thinning. "So let's try this again—like civilized people."
He used his right foot to kick Aerion's face into the mud again, crouching beside him with a smile as he spoke.
"Why hasn't the panic taken hold yet? Why haven't your fellow nobles started tearing each other apart like rats in a burning ship?"
His eyes gleamed. "Is there something you feel might be of need for us to know?"
Aerion spat out a mouthful of mud, coughing as he struggled to push himself up on shaking arms.
"There's… been word going around," he rasped, voice hoarse and broken. "Strange monsters. Not in any guild records. They show up and vanish whenever they damn well please. But not before leaving behind a trail of destruction and… carnage. Rumor has it for some reason they seem to be targeting local lords, but no one knows why."
He chuckled weakly, the sound bitter.
"It's well known beastkin are far stronger than humans—physically, I mean. Even your average one can match an apprentice knight. So imagine if one was trained properly…"
He looked up at Dazmar with dirt-smeared eyes. "That's what most nobles did. They bought beastkin for protection. Guard duty, enforcement, even blood sport. Whatever helped them sleep at night."
He coughed again, a streak of red trailing from his lip. "Now those same guards are turning up gutted in their own halls. That's why the panic never caught—because something worse is out there, and everyone's too busy shitting themselves to care about rumors."
Dazmar hummed thoughtfully, fingers steepled beneath his chin as he regarded Aerion with unsettling calm.
THROOM
The sound of thunder echoed in the night sky, as lightning visibly streaked through the clouds.
"Monsters with no guild classification… appearing and disappearing at will… tearing apart trained beastkin like paper dolls…" He glanced sidelong at Zynara. "You hearing what I'm hearing?"
Zynara leaned her weight onto one leg, flipping her dagger lazily between her fingers. "Sounds like something's stirring up chaos that isn't us. Or rather…" She smirked. "Someone beating us to the punch."
Rahna's ears twitched subtly, her golden aura pulsing a bit brighter now. "They're not just monsters," she murmured. "I've heard whispers too. Beastkin who died long ago—taken, killed, or died of hunger. But now… now they're back."
Dazmar's smile sharpened.
"Oh? A rogue faction of the forgotten? Could this be the work of a necromancer? I thought the undead arts were lost in the war 500 years ago."
He crouched lower, eye to eye with Aerion. "Tell me, little lord… Have you seen them yourself? Or are you just parroting what your terrified court whispers after dark?"
Aerion swallowed hard, unsure whether the fear in his gut was from Dazmar, or the memories clawing at his spine.
"I… I saw one," he admitted. "Only once, during a visit to a lord in the north. A shadow in the snow. Walked through arrows like they were raindrops. Snapped a man's spine in half with one hand. Then… it looked at me. Eyes like molten gold."
He shivered.
"And then it was gone."
Dazmar exhaled a long, slow breath.
"Well," he said cheerfully, rising to his feet and dusting off his sleeves, "this just got interesting."
He turned to Rahna and Zynara.
"Looks like we'll need to accelerate things. Wouldn't want someone else writing the final act of our little show, now would we?"
Rahna's claws clicked softly as she flexed them.
Zynara grinned. "About time things got fun."
Aerion coughed again, wiping blood and mud from his chin as he struggled to sit up straighter.
"I've told you what I know," he said, voice raw but steady. "So… what's the deal you wanted to make?"
Dazmar tilted his head, the smile that spread across his face disturbingly warm.
"Ah, yes. The deal. I'm glad you asked, Little Lord."
He paced slowly, theatrically brushing imaginary dust from his cuffs... yes, despite all the rain. "You see, for all your filth and failure, you still possess something of value: access. Name. Connections. A noble's voice still carries weight in this twisted little kingdom—even if it's cracked and drowning in scandal."
He stopped behind Aerion, placing a hand on his shoulder like a dear friend.
"I want you to be our voice, Aerion. Our whisper behind closed doors. Spread fear where it needs to be sown. Fan the flames of paranoia. Feed the nobles just enough truth to make them twitch. Make them desperate."
His grip on Aerion's shoulder tightened, the friendly tone bleeding away.
"And if you refuse…" His voice dropped to a chilling whisper. "Well, Rahna's claws are sharp, and Zynara's blades are quicker than mercy."
Zynara twirled her dagger with a wink. "And a lot more fun."
Rahna said nothing, but the golden glow around her flared brighter, casting long shadows across the mud-soaked ground.
Aerion grimaced, trembling beneath Dazmar's touch. "And if I say yes?"
Dazmar leaned in, voice silk-smooth. "Then you live. For now. You'll keep your lands. Your titles. Your breath."
He stepped back and smiled wide.
"Make no mistake, this isn't a partnership. You're a tool, Lord Virell. But useful tools are kept oiled and sharp—until they aren't."
He extended a gloved hand mockingly. "So. Do we have an understanding?"
He hesitated for a moment, then—
"Yes... So what exactly is it you want me to do?"
Dazmar's expression sharpened like a knife finally pulled from its sheath.
"Straight to business now, are we?" he said. "Good. Then let me be clear."
He crouched in front of Aerion, his tone losing all pretense of theater.
"I want you to forge a letter. One that claims a coalition of minor lords has discovered a plot to overthrow the capital using reawakened beastkin relics—old weapons, forbidden techniques, ancestral rites, anything that sounds ancient and terrifying."
He held up a finger. "You will claim you stumbled onto it first. You'll say it's spreading. That rogue beastkin, trained in lost arts, have infiltrated noble houses under the guise of guard retinues and consort slaves."
Aerion's brow furrowed. "That's absurd. Who would believe—"
"Oh, don't insult me," Dazmar snapped. "The court doesn't need truth. It needs plausibility. The nobles are paranoid, desperate to survive whatever nightmare is brewing. One whiff of betrayal among their peers, and they'll start pointing fingers and sharpening daggers."