The Dread of Damned

Beyond the boundaries of the Grand Castle stretched vast grasslands and meticulously maintained gardens. At the edge of the gardens stood a mansion, its white exterior gleaming under the sunlight—a miniature replica of the Grand Castle itself.

Gunnar entered through the main gate, barely sparing a glance at the guards who bowed in greeting before returning to their posts. As he approached the mansion's entrance, a middle-aged butler stepped forward, opening the grand double doors with a deep bow.

"Welcome home, my lord."

Gunnar did not bother acknowledging him. He stepped inside and ascended the spiraling staircase to the upper floor. The mansion was filled with uniformed attendants, each pausing to bow as he passed. He ignored them, his focus unwavering as he strode through the opulent corridor.

Reaching the largest door at the end of the hall, he pushed it open and stepped inside. The room was a display of extravagance—golden chandeliers, velvet drapes, and every imaginable luxury adorning the space. Ornate mirrors reflected the glow of candlelight, enhancing the golden aesthetic that saturated the room.

A woman emerged from the wardrobe, her black hair cascading in soft waves over her shoulders. Her dark eyes locked onto him as she approached, the golden silk of her gown shimmering with every step. The dress clung to her figure, its plunging neckline leaving little to the imagination.

"You're back," she murmured, her voice laced with anticipation. "Is it done?"

"Yes. The work is finished."

"Vic is coming back few days later." She said. 

"I am aware." He replied as he walked towards her. 

He closed the distance between them, claiming her lips in a heated kiss. His hands roamed over her thick curves, groping and squeeing her fat ass possessively, drawing a moan from her throat. Then, without a word, he released her and strode toward the washroom.

She followed.

The door remained ajar as sounds of moaning, groaning, slapping, and muffled cries filled the air.

Gunnar stepped out of the room, where his butler waited patiently. The man bowed slightly before speaking.

"An attendant from the House of Rylan is here to see you, my lord."

Gunnar nodded and descended the grand staircase, his polished boots clicking against the marble floor as he made his way to the guest room.

Inside, a middle-aged man with streaks of white in his black hair stood waiting. As Gunnar entered, the man bowed deeply.

"Hope things are going well, Tristan," Gunnar said casually as he walked to the sofa and sat down.

"Yes, everything is proceeding as planned. We have ensured that no one is aware," Tristan replied, settling into the seat across from him.

"Hah. Good." Gunnar smirked. "That fool. He actually thought he could control us?"

Tristan remained silent as Gunnar leaned back, his arrogance practically oozing from him.

"We moved right under his nose, and he didn't even realize it. That careless bastard," Gunnar added with a chuckle.@@novelbin@@

The butler entered, carrying a silver tray with two glasses filled with fresh blood. He placed them before the men and exited without a word.

Gunnar picked up his glass and took a slow sip, savoring the taste, while Tristan watched him in silence. Then, they resumed their discussion, speaking in low, secretive tones.

Minutes passed.

Then, the butler returned.

Gunnar's expression darkened with annoyance. "What is it?" he snapped.

The butler hesitated before answering. "There is someone waiting for you in the living room, my lord." His voice was hushed, almost anxious.

Gunnar scowled. "Who? Didn't I make it clear that I would not be meeting anyone tonight?"

The butler swallowed. "It's His Highness, the Prince."

A heavy silence filled the room.

Gunnar slowly lowered his glass, his grip tightening. "What?"

The butler bowed slightly, his head still lowered. "Prince Caelan is here."

Gunnar exhaled sharply. What is he doing here now?

There was no avoiding this. He pushed himself up from the sofa, straightened his attire, and strode out of the guest room.

The living room was bathed in soft golden light.

Seated comfortably on the plush sofa was Prince Caelan, his silver eyes calm yet unreadable. Beside him stood Lucian, his presence as imposing as ever.

Gunnar approached with a forced smile. "Your Highness," he greeted, inclining his head. "What a surprise. If you had informed me beforehand, I would have made proper arrangements for your welcome."

Caelan waved a hand dismissively. "No need. I simply came to have a drink with the man who helped me complete my first official duty for the council."

Something about his tone unsettled Gunnar. He pushed the thought to the back of his mind and sat down across from him. With a snap of his fingers, he ordered the butler, "Bring my finest liquor and blood."

The butler obeyed, returning shortly with a golden bottle adorned with moonshine patterns and a sleek, curved vase. The red liquid inside gleamed through slitted gold, the colors forming a striking contrast—red and gold, separate yet harmonious.

"You've truly impressed me this time, Gunnar," Caelan said as he studied him, silver eyes gleaming.

"I don't deserve such praise, Your Highness," Gunnar said smoothly, though his chest swelled with pride and arrogance filled his eyes.

Caelan smiled faintly as he picked up his glass. He swirled the liquid inside, watching how the red and gold refused to mix yet complemented each other. "For my first official duty, I had the privilege of watching you work. You've set quite a standard."

Gunnar lifted his own glass, taking a deep drink.

Then Caelan continued.

"And you've taught me something valuable." He traced a finger along the rim of his glass. "How to get the job done… even in times of crisis."

Gunnar smirked. "That is the way of things."

Caelan leaned forward slightly, his expression sharpening. "You also taught me something else."

Gunnar paused.

"How not to be arrogant," Caelan said softly.

A chill ran down Gunnar's spine.

"How not to be foolish," Caelan continued, his silver eyes locking onto Gunnar's.

"How not to be careless enough to exchange a properly funded, state-prepared army under the veil of night… thinking you are untouchable."

A thud echoed through the room as Caelan placed his glass on the table. The sound rang in the silence like a final verdict.

Gunnar slowly lowered his own drink. He forced a smile, though tension coiled in his gut. "I don't understand what you mean, Your Highness."

Caelan didn't answer.

Instead, the main doors creaked open.

Arion walked in.

In his grasp, entangled in dark silver chains that glowed with silver runic power, was a man. His body was a ruin of torn flesh and shattered bone, his once-proud robes now nothing more than bloodied rags clinging to his skin. A trail of crimson smeared the pristine white marble floor behind him, stark against the opulent surroundings. The man twitched, barely conscious, his breaths coming in ragged, gurgling gasps.

With a cruel flick of his wrist, Arion flung the broken man forward. He crashed onto the floor before Caelan with a sickening thud.

Gunnar's stomach twisted. He looked at the silver chains, Alter chains. The man could not use his abilities.

He knew this man.

The guest from earlier. The man who had been sitting with him just minutes ago. The one who had assured him that no one would ever find out.

Gunnar's blood ran cold.

Arion's masked face turned toward him, those empty black eyeholes staring deep into his soul. Then—without a trace of movement—the figure dissolved into nothingness.

Gunnar's fingers twitched.

Astral Knights.

The ultimate enforcers of House Aestherisin. A force so feared, so secretive, that even someone of his rank had never seen one in person. And now, he could not be sure how many of them were in his house at that very moment.

Caelan placed a foot on the man's chest, pressing down slowly. The man let out a weak, wet groan, his ribs shifting under the pressure. The silver chains rattled as he struggled feebly, the metal burning into his flesh.

Gunnar swallowed. He was just about to speak when—

"You won't claim you don't know who this is, will you?" Caelan asked, his smile sharp.

His silver fangs gleamed under the light.

Gunnar's composure cracked.

Caelan ground his heel deeper, and the bound man howled in agony, his voice raw and broken.

"He was the one who ensured that the wagons leaving here were replaced with fakes at the forest boundary," Caelan mused, watching the man's suffering with detached curiosity. "I was almost worried I'd have to waste time hunting him down. But he saved me the trouble by coming here himself."

Caelan's smile widened.

"Not the first time, either." He tilted his head, watching as Gunnar's expression slowly twisted into horror.

"Five thousand in the first exchange."

"Twenty thousand the second time."

"Thirty thousand on the third."

"And this time, you were bold—fifty thousand altogether."

Gunnar's resolve shattered. His breath came unevenly as he tried to form words, but nothing came.

Caelan leaned back, his silver eyes glinting in the dim candlelight. His fangs gleamed in a wicked smile.

"Now then," he said smoothly, "shall we begin?"