Blackthorn Keep was alive with the sounds of night—guards shouting, servants carrying torches, armor clinking as soldiers prepared for bed. Baron Aldric Vantor stood on a high balcony overlooking it all, swirling wine in his goblet with a faint look of boredom.
He didn't know what was coming.
Not until the front gates burst open and pure chaos spilled inside
"MAKE WAY!"
"HEALER, NOW!"
"SOMEONE HELP HIM—GODS ABOVE—!"
Vantor lowered his cup slowly, brows tightening.
Three soldiers staggered through the courtyard, covered in dirt and blood. Behind them came two more carrying a stretcher—its cloth drenched so thoroughly that crimson dripped onto the cobblestones.
"Stop there," Vantor ordered, descending the steps. "Where is Lieutenant Harven? Your unit should not return in disgrace."
The men parted as two soldiers dragged Harven himself forward.
He wasn't walking.
He wasn't conscious either.
He was screaming, thrashing wildly, eyes rolled white, babbling incoherently.
"KEEP HIM STILL!"
"He's biting down—PRY HIS JAW OPEN!"
Vantor's eyes narrowed. "Lieutenant Harven."
Harven froze for a moment, eyes snapping toward the voice.
Then he shrieked—raw, animalistic—trying to crawl backward despite being held down.
"HE'S NOT HUMAN, MILORD! HE'S NOT—HE'S NOT—!"
Vantor snapped, "Compose yourself!"
Harven's entire body shook. "A man—pale as bone—his eyes—he—he IMPALED THEM ALIVE!"
Vantor scoffed. "Impalement is brutal, but not unknown. That should not break trained—"
"LOOK!" Harven screamed. "LOOK AT WHAT HE DID!"
The stretcher-bearers stepped forward.
Vantor turned—and froze.
A sharpened wooden stake jutted upward through the man's anus, entering with ghastly precision.
The wood traveled through the lower intestines, stomach, chest, throat—
And exited through his open mouth.
The man was still alive.
Barely.
He twitched violently, gagging on the stake, eyes bulging with agony. Blood dripped steadily down the wood, making dark puddles on the stone.
The courtyard fell into horrified silence.
Even the torches seemed to pull back from the sight.
Vantor stepped closer, his voice lower. "…Who did this?"
Harven trembled uncontrollably. "He lifted him—and lowered him onto the stake piece by piece. Slow. Careful. Like he'd done it a hundred times. He made us WATCH."
One soldier vomited beside the stretcher.
Another whispered, "Milord… he left him alive deliberately."
"Why?" Vantor demanded.
"To break us," the soldier whispered. "To send a message."
Vantor clenched his jaw, veins standing out in his neck.
Harven sobbed, "Milord, he didn't even run. He just APPEARED. He isn't Rank 2—not Rank 3—not anything normal."
"Then what is he?" Vantor hissed.
Harven's voice cracked. "Something that ENJOYS this."
Vantor turned to the impaled man again, just as the dying soldier's body twitched in a final spasm, gurgling blood through the stake.
He was still alive.
Barely.
Vantor felt a coldness he had not felt in years.
He masked it with anger.
"Cut him down," Vantor ordered sharply.
"Milord… pulling him down will—"
"I said CUT HIM DOWN!"
The officers obeyed reluctantly. The man's body slid, tearing further, splitting the wound wider. With a horrifying wet sound, it collapsed onto the stretcher.
He died seconds later.
Vantor exhaled once, through clenched teeth.
"Harven," he said. "Why did your unit retreat? Why not regroup and counterattack?"
Harven stared at him with hollow eyes. "Because, milord… he wasn't fighting us."
A pause.
"…He was DISPLAYING us."
A chill rippled through the courtyard.
Vantor straightened, cold fury hardening his face. "Assemble every Warguard unit. Call for the Rank 3 warriors. Prepare the siege equipment. And send a messenger to the capital."
"Milord?" an officer asked weakly.
Vantor pointed at the corpse.
"This insult," he said, voice like iron, "will be answered."
He turned toward the keep.
"And bring me the chief of Ridgebrook alive. I want him to tell me why he thinks he can command a monster."