The sound of footsteps echoed through the marble corridors of the palace, creating a rhythm of death that accompanied Askaroth's final journey as a noble. Six guards flanked him in perfect formation, their ceremonial spears gleaming in the light of the crystals that lined the walls. But the weapons were not just for show—their sharp edges reminded everyone that this was the procession of a traitor.
Askaroth walked with his head held high, though each step felt like a nail piercing his pride. The golden chains connecting the manacles to his wrists rattled softly, a metallic sound ironic considering the opulence of the material used. Even in this humiliation, they still maintained their appearance—golden chains for a fallen noble.
Along the corridor, servants and minor nobles stood in rows, their faces a mixture of curiosity and hidden satisfaction. None dared to look him in the eye, but whispers followed his steps like ghosts that refused to leave.
"See how the proud fall…"
"They should have been executed long ago…"
"Such treachery cannot be forgiven…"
Each word cut like a small knife, but Askaroth did not give them the satisfaction of seeing him shake. He had learned from Gareth that in politics, perception was everything. Even in ruin, he would retain his last shred of dignity.
They stopped in front of the Insignia Removal Chamber, a special room rarely used except for occasions such as this. The heavy mahogany doors swung open with a groan, revealing a cold, formal interior. In the center of the room stood a marble table with various gleaming tools on it—tools for removing the symbols of nobility.
Duke Aldric was waiting inside, along with an old herald holding a long scroll of parchment. The Duke's wrinkled face showed a mixture of relief and triumph that was hard to hide.
"Bring him in," the Duke ordered in a voice that tried to sound authoritative, though Askaroth could detect a slight tremor in it.
The guards pushed Askaroth into the center of the room, positioning him in front of the marble table. The light pouring in through the tall windows created geometric patterns on the floor, and for some reason, Askaroth was reminded of the first day he received his royal insignia. That day of pride and hope now felt like a dream from a different life.
"Askaroth of House Valdris," the old herald unrolled his scroll with a ceremonial gesture, "you stand before us to be stripped of all rights and privileges as a noble of the Kingdom of Aethermoor."
The herald's voice echoed in the quiet room, each word spoken with a precision that showed years of experience in formal rituals.
"This procedure will be carried out in accordance with the Kingdom's Code of Honor, Article 847: Revocation of Noble Status for High Treason."
Askaroth listened with a blank expression, but inside his chest, something bitter was flowing like poison. They had even used proper procedure to destroy him. A painful irony.
Duke Aldric stepped forward, grabbing a ceremonial knife from the table. The blade was thin and sharp, specially designed to cut with precision without damaging the surrounding material.
"First," Duke held up the blade, "the Signet Ring of House Valdris."
Askaroth stared at the gold ring on his middle finger—a ring that had been passed down through five generations. The wolf emblem carved into its surface had once been a symbol of honor and strength. Now, it would be taken like a toy from a naughty child.
The Duke gripped Askaroth's left hand, and with a brutal movement, he pulled the ring off. The soft gold material rubbed against his skin, leaving a red scratch on Askaroth's finger. It wasn't the physical pain that stung, but the symbolism of the action.
"The Signet Ring of House Valdris has been revoked," the herald announced flatly. "The right to represent the House and to use the family crest has been revoked."
The Duke placed the ring on the table with a loud clink, as if to make sure Askaroth heard the sound of his destruction clearly.
"Second," the Duke picked up a different tool, a pair of small pliers with flat tips, "the Medallion of Strategic Excellence."
The silver medallion that hung from his chest—the highest award for excellence in military strategy.
Askaroth felt it being pulled from his chest, the fine silver chain snapping with a sharp snap. The medallion had once filled him with pride, had been a tangible proof of his contributions to the kingdom.
Now, it was nothing more than a piece of metal tossed onto the table like trash.
"The Medallion of Strategic Excellence has been revoked," the herald continued his verbal ritual.
"The right to command military units and provide strategic counsel has been revoked."
But the most painful thing came next.
"Third," Duke Aldric picked up a larger ceremonial knife, its edge finely serrated, "Cord of Royal Advisor."
The golden silk cord that draped over his shoulder—a symbol of his position as the king's direct advisor. It was no mere accessory, but a representation of the highest trust a king could bestow upon a subject.
The duke did not do this gently. He ripped the cord from Askaroth's shoulder with a violent motion, the fine silk ripping away and a few golden threads scattering across the floor. The precious material now looked like a worthless, worn rag.
"The Cord of Royal Advisory has been revoked," the herald's voice began to sound tired, as if the ritual had drained him of his energy as well. "The right to speak to the king in private and to offer political counsel has been revoked."
One by one, the symbols of his old life were removed. The Ring of Nobility, the Brooch of House Alliance, the Badge of Court Access—all were removed in a manner that was deliberately painful and humiliating.
But the most brutal was the final ritual.
"And finally," Duke Aldric picked up a small branding iron that had been heating up in a brazier in the corner of the room, "the Mark of Treason."
Askaroth felt his blood run cold as he saw the iron glow red hot. On its tip was a symbol he recognized—the broken chain used to mark traitors so they could be recognized wherever they went.
"This will hurt," the Duke said, almost…sympathetic? But then he added with a cruel smile, "As it should."
The red-hot iron was pressed against Askaroth's right shoulder, just above the scar where the cord had been removed. Searing pain spread like lava, and for the first time since the ritual had begun, Askaroth couldn't suppress a sound—a low groan that escaped between clenched teeth.
The smell of burning flesh filled the room, and a thin smoke rose from the seared skin. The duke held the iron in place longer than necessary, ensuring that the mark would be permanent and deep.
When the iron was finally removed, Askaroth could feel the blistered skin throbbing with an excruciating rhythm. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the heartache he felt.
"The Mark of Treason has been given," the herald closed his scroll with a final gesture. "Askaroth of House Valdris—or rather, Askaroth the Exiled—is now stripped of all rights of nobility."
The duke stepped back, gazing at his handiwork with obvious satisfaction. "You are no longer a noble, Askaroth. You are no longer of this world."
Askaroth stood there, his body shaking not from pain, but from a rage so deep it almost morphed into something else. Something colder and more dangerous.
"Do you have any last words as a former lord?" the Duke asked in a mocking tone.
For the first time since the ritual began, Askaroth lifted his head and looked the Duke straight in the eye. His emerald green eyes no longer held defeat or despair. What was there was something that made the Duke take an involuntary step back.
"Yes," Askaroth's voice was hoarse from the pain, but each word came out with terrifying clarity.
"One day, you will kneel and beg me to return. And when that day comes, I will remind you of this day."
The Duke laughed, but it was forced. "The nonsense of an outcast."
"Perhaps," Askaroth smiled—a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "But wait and see."
As the guards began to drag him from the room, Askaroth felt something strange happening in his chest. A different warmth, something that slowly flowed through his veins. At first he thought it was just the adrenaline rush of pain and anger.
But then he realized—the warmth was coming from the branding scar on his shoulder. And even stranger, the pain was beginning to recede, replaced by a sensation that was almost... empowering.
Unbeknownst to Duke Aldric or the old herald, the Mark of Betrayal they had given Askaroth was no curse.
It was a key.
A key to something that had lain dormant in his blood for years. Something that had only recently been awakened by the hot iron that was supposed to destroy it.
Something that would turn exile into transformation, and weakness into unimaginable power.
As the door to the Insignia Release Chamber closed behind him, Askaroth felt his emerald green eyes flash with a light that was no longer entirely human.
The journey to the Shadowlands would begin with the outcast in disgrace.
But what would arrive there was something far different.