It was a pity. There was something about that boy. Though the Wanderer's Fair worked against recognition, Amheus Dourado had sensed something kindred in the prospect. The Vampir's Heart had stirred at his touch—quivering with delight, eager to be joined, to become so much more.

Greatness had been within his grasp...

Yet he had simply walked away.

Alas, it is not to be, he sighed, as a red smog inhaled the wares from his stall, storing them safely within the Ravenous Chest.

It was not a total loss. There had been others—pitiable souls lured to the cause by the promise of real power. The moment they fastened the Heart to their Spirit Chain, its sluggish thump echoing against their ribs, they were bound to serve.

He could already sense their presence. Like fireflies in the dead of night, they could not conceal their glow from him now. Not when they served the same Master—one destined for Conquest—even if they did not yet know whom they served.

The Ravenous Chest fizzled from sight, and Amheus was on the move. With deft motions, he glided through the throng of merchants and vendees alike, making his way to the grey-stone staircase, his senses sharpening as he crossed the market's threshold.

'Leaving so soon?' the owl-masked wanderer questioned, stepping out from thin air to greet Amheus on the steps.

'I'm afraid so, good sir. There is much to make ready, as I am sure you are aware.'

Pinching the rim of his top hat, he bowed before straightening his back and striding past the attendant.

'You wanderers are a useful sort. Perhaps your master might reconsider her neutrality. There's always room at the table for one as resourceful as she,' he said, holding place at the landing.

'I'll be sure to relay the proposal,' the attendant returned, his tone polite.

'Don't bother yourself,' Amheus chuckled, his soles tapping against polished wood as he made for the exit. 'The ones I serve don't fare well with rejection. I'll let them know she couldn't be reached,' he called, stepping into the street.

Another pity.

Gently shaking his head, he dissolved into the shadows, slipping from the merchant quarter without notice.

He materialised under the shade of a colossal white oak, its branches tilting down under the weight of its forest-green leaves.

He could never understand the Enforcers' fondness for trees. It was all wood and leaves—nothing more. It could not compare to the visceral awe of more fleshly substance. Blood and veins. Hearts and lungs. These were the makings of true beauty. Surely they would know, had they ever held them in hand—felt the squish and slick of life's glory, watched the light fade from an eye.

A sensation to die for…

Those within the Enforcers' barracks would learn just that.

'The blood-red night is upon us once more,' said a man seeping up from the shadows. 'Sorrowful lamentations will pierce the domed expanse. The captured heavens will weep until daybreak—mothers mourning their child, sons and daughters cursing the day they emerged from the womb.'

'All lamentations are sorrowful,' a woman groaned, twirling a dagger between her fingers, as she leaned against the oak. 'It's every time with him—can't we get through one job without this melodrama?'

'Children, please…' Amheus commanded, turning to face the two, the barracks at his back. 'No bickering—not tonight. Not on the eve of our Master's revival.'

He had been just a child when it happened—not a day over thirty. But he remembered the Enforcers sailing the rolling waves toward their Vanguard stronghold, bursting through the gates, slaughtering the only family he had ever known.

He could not deny the pleasure he found in their coming reprisal. Shoving his arm down a white-coat's throat and pulling their bowels from the gut—little brought such satisfaction. Yet this was not a matter of vengeance. No, these deeds were necessary—for his Master.

So long as the symbol of their Lord remained whole, Daylight's Song's might would continue to restrain their own. Like an unholy tumour, she would need to be excised—and then, at last, the rite could begin.

It would take sixty days. The city would be thrown into war, its protectors shattered, its borders sealed by the Sequence of their heritage and the will of their charitable benefactor. Sixty days, and their Master would rise to his full might—the blood of the citizenry forging the path to his further progression.

Then, like shadows, they would scatter in the light. They would descend upon the thirty-fourth Floor, and his liege would claim a Conqueror's Inheritance.

'Come. Let us not delay our purpose,' Amheus pronounced, stepping from the shadows toward the towering steel gates, his acolytes flanking him.

Mountainous white-stone walls encircled the fortress, separating the base from the rest of the noble quarter. Beyond the gates stretched manicured fields of green. Tall trees bearing fruit rose in orderly rows. Rounded targets stood aligned: some peppered with arrows, others scorched, and some untouched, their surroundings scarred from martial drilling.

From the reports, Amheus knew the barracks housed hundreds. Most were mere inductees—castaway youths from noble households they could never hope to accede. Some, too, were of the retainer-class: a cut above peasantry, yet still far removed from noble cloth.

There would be at least a hundred Enforcers, and perhaps a dozen Enforcer Primes. Like leaves upon the wind, they would scatter when the storm broke. Only the Adjunct Warden posed any concern, but even that was fleeting.

Amheus was a Champion Inheritor. It was not fear he felt—it was anticipation. And it would be the unfortunate Warden who would tremble before the night was through.

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

'Halt!' called the voice of a white-coat standing before the castle doors. 'Identify yourself!'

Halberd in hand, the youth marched forward. He levelled the point toward Amheus, the pole quaking in his grip.

'The lamb presents itself before the wolves, knowing not of the slaughter to come. With grim reverie, the dark ones extol—the stench of crimson iron, a succulent aroma.'

'Save it with the poetry, Silas,' Florentia griped, her ebony dagger twirling at her fingertip.

She drew back her arm, blade poised to sink into the white-coat's eye—until Amheus caught her wrist. This was not a moment to relinquish lightly.

The first blood would be his to spill—whether to end a life, or to welcome one into their blameless cause. The child would be offered a choice. One he had once been given. How it was received… that was beyond his mandate.

'Enforcer, how old are you?' Amheus asked, raising his open palm overhead, motioning for his acolytes to remain.

'What—I'm twenty-nine, si—sir,' the white-coat stammered, his pupils darting from face to face.

'Still a child. Even so, you must have considered the fear of decay. Hmm? That primal dread entrenched in every human heart. The ever-ticking clock counting down to your end.'

'Wha—what are you saying?'

'Our path is the only way to life everlasting,' Amheus said. 'Inheritance can stretch the wax on the candle—let it burn a little longer. And there are Remnants that prolong that time even more. But that is all it is—an inevitable delay. Just enough to delay the inevitable.'

He stepped forward, voice low, certain.

'Even the Lords can't live forever. But you can. Join us. That's all it takes.'

Darkness coiled upon his open hand, and from it emerged a grey, beating heart.

'My Master gives this gift freely,' Amheus beckoned. 'Take it.'

'Who's out there?' a voice called from within the castle.

'Sound the alarms! We're under attack!' the white-coat howled.

Truly, a night of little disappointments.

The shadows reclaimed his Master's gift. Then Amheus moved—swift and final. The Enforcer's head slid from his neck as a blood-forged sickle reaped the first life of the night.

Yet the full harvest had only just begun.

The night wailed, bells shrieking through the castle's spine. Boots pounded the stone as an army of Enforcers flooded the hallway—swords drawn, axes raised, bows trained on the intruders.

'Take to the shadows,' Amheus instructed. 'I will handle matters here and draw the Warden from hiding.'

'As you command,' Florentia murmured, Silas echoing in kind. The pair slipped into the gloom and vanished from view.

Among the flood of bodies, Amheus felt it—the surge of Harmony denser than the rest.

Soldiers, he mused. I suppose I'll make my disciples' task a little easier.

There would not be more than a dozen in the castle, and two were about to die. His acolytes would handle the others, dispatching them with ruthless efficiency—just as he had taught them.

'You're outmanned!' one of the doomed cried from the crowd.

'That's true,' Amheus agreed, lifting his top hat and letting it fall. 'Outmanned, for certain. But outmatched? Certainly not.'

From the fallen hat, an arm of inky shadow burst forth. It swept through the nearest line of Enforcers, slamming them into the wall—shattered bones jutting from ruptured meat as the darkness withdrew.

The multitude staggered back, as though a wave of terror had rippled through their ranks. Still, that alone would not be enough to break their spirits. His opening act had been a spectacle of violence, yet he had suppressed his killing aura—he could not allow them to flee. The Enforcer Primes, by contrast, unleashed their Soldier's might without restraint.

One stood at their head: a golden-haired woman wielding a rapier wreathed in azure flame. Young, and truly beautiful. An astonishing talent—wasted.

She came at him with flawless form, her blade darting forward in elegant thrusts. Yet he slipped between each motion as if she moved through mire. The blue flame barely singed his hair—its heat cool to the touch.

When he seized her wrist and cupped her face in his palm, he paused, considering the loss.

Such beauty.

Then his fingers clenched.

Her skull collapsed—blood, bone, and brain-matter painting the hall in red and grey.

Ah, but this is no less pleasing, he relished, inhaling the scent of her life as gore dripped from his hand.

'Monster!' one of them shrieked.

The Enforcer's coat fluttered behind him, its ivory-white now streaked with violet as a full-bodied, regal armour encased his form.

He was fast—so fast he nearly blurred from sight.

But he died all the same. Thin spines of hardened blood burst from the wall, impaling him as he charged past the stain.

'Any who would surrender—now is the time,' Amheus announced.

Before him, the Shadow's Grasp barred escape. Its long reach loomed over the wall, palm splayed wide, casting darkness across the retreat.

The battle held still. The Enforcers eyed one another, weapons trembling in their grasp.

Then one stepped forward. Then another. A third followed, despite her comrades' protests. By the time the clash resumed, a fifth of their number now stood behind Amheus—each cradling a desiccated heart, gently thumping in their hands.

'Traitors!' someone roared—but it was not a lengthy cry.

Even as she held firm, razored blades of blood melted through her form, carving her into gruesome pieces.

These will do.

Amheus marched forward. Arcs of lightning, bolts of flame, and jagged projections crashed against him—shattering on contact with an invisible force.

His cloak was no powerful defence. A Servant could have pierced it with ease… but only in the absence of fear.

And these ones feared him.

All that remained was the slaughter.

When he had finished and retrieved his hat, the vast hall lay painted in viscera. Intestines drooped from chandeliers. Lionised figures had their portraits defiled. Blood dripped from the ceiling, trickling into a scarlet river.

A beautiful setting—serene as the dead. And soon, all of Heureux would share in this wonderment.

As he marched through the castle, culling the drove like sheep, his thoughts drifted to a possibility.

A boy.

Havoc Gray.

A slayer of princesses and dragons alike. The perfect conscript to present to his liege.

He's in the city. It must have been him.

He pushed the thought aside and savoured the rip of entrails torn from the gut—the Adjunct Warden, a worry no longer.

I will spare a few to pursue him.

The ritual would soon commence. The city gates would close. And those touched by the Master would awaken to his call, charged with a single command:

Wreak havoc.

A festival of carnage—one fit for their god.

The Adversary of Life would not find a greater banquet.

Not until their Master ushered Them from the void.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.