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MEANWHILE, in the faraway land of Normaine, a man with blonde hair rushed down a hall towards his private study, his footsteps reverberating off the hard, wooden floor and creating a cacophonous echo.
The blonde-haired man, his face twisted with anger and frustration, marched forward with a quick pace, his companion—a man of gray hair and spectacles—struggling to keep up. The younger man's voice, laced with distress, broke the tense silence. "What in the world is going on?" His words were sharp, his jaw clenched in fury.
In a state of profound exasperation, the older man, his brow furrowed with anguish, threw a wig carelessly onto a couch, muttering an exasperated cry. "Things are spiraling out of control," he sighed, his breath heavy with the weight of mounting disappointment and vexation.
His companion, ever the calm presence amidst chaos, sought to soothe him. "Master, someone must be behind all this," the man said, his voice neutral, though the palpable tension in the room was thick enough to cut through.
But the younger man, consumed by frustration, collapsed into a chair, raking his fingers through his disheveled hair. "I still haven't found his body," he muttered, his voice rising despite his best efforts to remain composed. "And now, she's slipping away from my grasp. How am I supposed to claim what's mine?" His anger seemed to burn with every word, and his fury was a storm contained only by the frail confines of the chair beneath him.
Zephyrl, standing with impeccable decorum beside his agitated master, spoke in measured tones, his formality a contrast to the tempest within the room. "Master Desmond, we shall surely find a resolution to this matter," he offered, though his voice was not without the subtle hint of an understanding that it would take time.
Desmond inhaled deeply, his expression heavy with both concern and frustration. He exhaled slowly, then addressed Zephyrl again. "What of my father?" His voice betrayed a hint of anxious anticipation.
Zephyrl, standing tall with his hands clasped before him, responded with a composed manner befitting his rank. "Your father remains bedridden, my lord," he stated plainly, his hand resting solemnly upon his chest as if to underscore the gravity of his words.
Desmond, still seated behind his desk, lit a cigarette as he awaited further answers, his mind racing with thoughts of unfinished business. "And the servant in the basement?" he asked, his tone suggesting impatience with the drawn-out silence.
"He remains in custody, bearing several bruises," Zephyrl replied, his voice level and detached. Desmond nodded once, satisfied with the report, but his gaze turned cold and calculated as he muttered, "He never spoke of his master's whereabouts. That man knew this would happen. But he won't live to see another day."
Zephyrl remained unmoved, ever the picture of restraint. "Yes, Master. There is also no new information regarding the woman in the cloak who decimated our men and abducted Lady Charlotte," he reported, his tone swift, the matter still fresh but as yet unresolved.
His gaze softened slightly as he offered further explanation. "The family of Chief Servalez, to whom the Chief had previously pledged his loyalty, has been steeped in mourning. That is why no new developments have come forth," Zephyrl added, a note of respect for the grieving family seeping through.
Desmond sat still for a moment, pondering the events of the past week. His mind worked through the puzzle as he straightened in his chair and looked up, his eyes hardening with resolve. "It's been a week since the incident. I will attend the funeral of Chief Servalez personally. Perhaps I can glean something more there," he declared, his voice firm and unwavering, a man resolute in his pursuit of both answers and justice.
"Yes Mas—" A loud knock erupted from the front door, interrupting Zephyrl, who was on the verge of providing a response to Desmond's previous statement. I'll go get it," he stated, he then opened the door and was met with a face of three men.
The man hurried towards the entrance and shoved Zephyrl away, his face displaying a smirk as his eyes locked with Desmond's. "Your Majesty," he greeted, his tone dripping with sarcasm. Desmond, however, maintained a stern expression, and simply addressed the man by his name, "Montallé." He kept his words concise and to the point, showing no sign of friendliness towards the man. Instead, he simply allowed the man's greeting to hang in the air for a moment, as his eyes held a subtle hint of warning and caution towards Montallé.
Montallé, with a self-satisfied expression painted upon his face, inquired about the recompense he was expecting from Desmond. "It has been two weeks without a sign of the reward," he stated smugly, as if the reward was something that was owed to him.
Desmond, on the other hand, remained unfazed by Montallé's apparent sense of entitlement. He responded with a hint of exasperation in his voice, as if he had already made himself clear on the matter. "Your reward? What reward?" Desmond questioned curtly, as if the notion of a reward was something he knew nothing about.
Montallé, maintaining his smug demeanor, made a remark to Desmond, seemingly frustrated at the king's apparent ignorance about the agreed-upon reward. "Why must you turn a blind eye, Your Majesty?" he asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm. Desmond, despite his apparent irritation at Montallé, remained calm and collected.
"Did you only come here in order to retrieve a reward? For what purpose, so that you can go back to Ivalor?" he inquired, his words laced with an overtone of hostility and contempt as he utters it with smugness in his face. Montallé, who had seemingly been pushed to his limit, responded with an aggressive maneuver, grabbing Desmond's collar, and glaring at him with hatred in his eyes.
Yet, he remained unperturbed by Montallé's act of aggression, responding with a daring statement that fueled the tense atmosphere of the scene.
"Proceed to fulfill your desires, and I shall watch with great interest," he commanded, his words overflowing with confidence and a sense of boldness.
Montallé's fingers dug into Desmond's collar with an iron grip, his hand trembling with barely contained fury. But Desmond's gaze remained cold, unwavering, as though he was unbothered by the seething rage bubbling so close to the surface. His expression betrayed no fear, no hint of anxiety—only a quiet resolve, as if he had been anticipating this exact moment.
The tension in the room was suffocating. It hung in the air like a storm on the verge of breaking. Montallé, as if realizing his own fury was unraveling, released his grip and turned away. But Desmond was not about to let it go so easily. In an instant, his hands shot out, grabbing Montallé's arms with brutal force, twisting them behind his back until Montallé's screams filled the room, the sound raw and desperate.
Desmond's grin twisted into something grotesque, a smile that did not belong on a human face. His eyes gleamed with madness as he continued to twist, each movement a deliberate act of cruelty, his voice slipping out like poison. "This is your reward," he hissed, his words dripping with a venomous delight. The two men who had been lurking on the edges of the scene, eyes wide with fear, turned and bolted from the room, terror written across their faces.
Montallé's screams only grew louder, but Desmond's focus was unwavering. The pain, the suffering, seemed to feed something dark within him, something insatiable. As he continued to twist Montallé's arms, blood began to seep from the punctured flesh, but still, Desmond remained unfazed, a terrifying calmness in his demeanor.
Then, the room was shattered by a new sound—the sickening crack of bone, followed by the strangled cries of two men who had been standing in front of the doorway. Their bodies collapsed to the ground, convulsing in agony as their flesh and joints were torn apart. Their screams were abruptly silenced, leaving only the faintest whimpers of despair in the air.
Zephyrl, standing by the door with a chilling detachment, glanced over the scene without so much as a flicker of emotion. His voice, calm and methodical, cut through the chaos like a blade. "These men are but pests to you, Master," he remarked flatly, the sword in his hand glistening with fresh blood.
Desmond, his eyes never leaving Montallé's writhing form, stepped back, his fingers wrapping around the man's hair, yanking his head back with a savage force. He forced Montallé to look into his eyes, his gaze like ice. "Is this what you consider a suitable reward, Montallé?" Desmond spat, his voice thick with venom. "This is the price you pay for the lies, for the betrayal. You and your men deserve far worse, especially after what I heard about Dominique's body—vanished, not found in decay and death, but stolen."
Montallé's whimpers were drowned in Desmond's fury, his anger so palpable it seemed to fill every corner of the room. Finally, Desmond released his grip, tossing Montallé aside like a ragdoll. His eyes flicked toward Zephyrl, standing silently at attention, awaiting further orders. "Zephyrl," Desmond snapped, his voice low, but commanding.
Zephyrl, ever composed, responded with a quiet, respectful tone, his face betraying no hint of emotion. "Yes, Master?"
Desmond's cold gaze lingered on him for a moment before he spoke again, his voice dark with intent. "Handle this. We're far from finished."
"Clean up this mess immediately, and make sure to leave no spot." he stated emphatically, his tone reflecting his desire for a prompt and efficient resolution to the situation.
A quiet voice, filled with a mixture of apprehension and respect, echoed through the air when Zephyrl bowed before his master, his right hand placed on his left chest. The closing of the door in front of him marked his departure, but the faint sound of a slash and subsequent scream came from behind the closed door, immediately filling the study room with its ominous presence.
The dreadful sound of blood and flesh, splattered across the walls, and floor of the room, lingered in the air, creating a haunting atmosphere that cast a dark shadow over the otherwise tranquil study room.
It took only a moment after the bloodshed had been completed before Zephyrl proceeded to wash his hands thoroughly, presumably to rid them of the gruesome remnants of the previous events. With the oil lamp now in his grasp, he proceeded to journey downwards to the basement.
Upon entering the basement, which turned out to be a prison, he stopped in front of a cell and raised his oil lamp, allowing the light to shine brightly on the man who was behind the bars. The man, who was covered in bruises on his face, looked up at Zephyrl, who greeted him in an emotionless manner. He stated plainly to the man,
"It's been a while... Leonard."