Bon Appetit

Erebus smirked. "It seems to me that I'm more invited than anyone else."

A low chuckle drifted from within the black mist. "Hoh? Then enter."

Erebus hesitated. Is this another trap?

The voice hummed in amusement. "It seems you don't trust me enough to step inside."

The thick haze slowly receded, revealing the chamber beyond. A young man with deathly pale skin and jet-black hair lounged on a couch, a book resting in his gloved hands. He didn't look up, nor did he acknowledge Erebus beyond his initial invitation. His black robes, while somber, lacked the grandeur befitting a lord.

Then Erebus saw him—the true lord of Alaksad.

A withered old man stood lifeless behind the youth, his gray hair thin and unkempt. But it was his face—or what remained of it—that commanded attention. His lower jaw was completely absent, leaving a gaping void where muscle and flesh should have been. Yet, impossibly, his voice carried with perfect clarity, as if the missing jaw were nothing more than an illusion.

Erebus's expression darkened. "Where is Bacia Alaksad?"

The youth scoffed, finally setting his book aside on the rosewood table. "That old wretch?" He waved a dismissive hand. "He's no more. Before his demise, he named me his only son and heir—Hel, rightful master of Alaksad."

Erebus's jaw tightened. A lie. He knew for a fact that Bacia Alaksad had never fathered any children. The monster had sired no legitimate heirs—only victims. Women abducted, defiled, and beheaded, their preserved heads displayed along the halls of his accursed mansion like grotesque trophies.

The faint scent of rot still clung to the air.

Hel leaned forward, his lips curling into a grin. "Oh, I won't deny it—I'm a bastard born." His voice was laced with something between amusement and bitterness. Then, his grin widened. "Just like you."

Erebus's eyes narrowed. "So you're as rotten as the old reaper after all."

"Think what you must," Hel mused, unbothered by the insult.

Erebus folded his arms. "Then it was you who sent the request to exterminate the wildlings."

Hel chuckled, the sound devoid of warmth. "Oh no, that was merely a jest." His voice dropped to a whisper, yet it carried through the room with chilling weight. "The real reason was to lure you here—to claim your head."

The air grew frigid.

The black mist surged once more, spilling from Hel's hollow eye sockets like living smoke. His book fell forgotten as he rose from the couch. A massive scythe materialized in his grasp, its blade fused to the grotesque shape of a skull. The weapon's crimson handle gleamed as though bathed in blood.

He's serious. He truly means to take my head.

Erebus barely had time to react. The scythe descended in a deadly arc. He raised his war axe just in time, the metal shrieking as it caught the blow. The force sent vibrations up his arms, rattling his bones.

Hel spun, striking again. Erebus blocked with his trench blades, twisting away from the third attack by the breadth of a hair.

He exhaled sharply. He's fast. Faster than I expected.

"What's the reward for this head you mean to hack off?" Erebus called out, shifting from defense to offense.

"Title," Hel replied without hesitation.

Erebus's brow furrowed as he pivoted, scanning the mist for his enemy. Hel had disappeared into the swirling darkness.

"A title?" Erebus scoffed. "You already bathe in riches. What use is a title?"

A cold chuckle echoed through the chamber. "A beggar like you wouldn't understand."

Erebus barely turned in time as Hel lunged at him, scythe flashing through the air. He's getting faster. Each attack came swifter than the last, forcing Erebus backward. He needed open ground—needed space to maneuver. If this kept up, he was finished.

The mist was thinner near the doorway.

I just need to find it.

Erebus flicked his wrist, releasing a flurry of throwing knives in all directions. The blades clattered against stone, their echoes guiding him toward the exit.

"I've got you now," Hel sneered.

Erebus broke into a sprint. At the last moment, he crashed through the doors, rolling into the hallway just as Hel's scythe came down in a vicious arc. The tip scraped against the stone floor, throwing up sparks as the thick black mist spilled after him.

The chandeliers above trembled, swaying violently as an eerie vibration pulsed through the mansion's red-painted halls. Erebus gritted his teeth as pain flared in his shoulder. Blood seeped from a fresh wound.

"Almost had my reward," Hel murmured, stepping into the light. The empty sockets where his eyes should have been made his expressions unreadable, save for the twisted grin stretching across his face.

Erebus turned sharply, shattering a nearby window. Without hesitation, he vaulted through it, landing in the sprawling gardens below.

Hel followed at a leisurely pace. "Running away already?"

Erebus smirked. Too early to feign cowardice.

He landed near the Orchard of Silence, its dark, towering trees casting long shadows in the waning light. The servants never ventured here, too afraid of the old rumors. But Erebus knew better—this was no ordinary orchard.

He moved quickly, crouching behind the venom bushes. The seemingly harmless shrubs bore flowers that glowed crimson at night and spit venom when sensing a predator. Staying too long was a gamble—one he could not afford to lose.

A sudden silence fell.

The screeching of Hel's scythe dragging across the cobblestone had ceased.

Erebus swallowed hard and turned.

The massive blade was already descending upon him.

A surge of energy burst to life at his back, purple patterns forming in the air like a sigil. A sharp tug yanked him backward just in time—the scythe's edge missed him by inches, striking the ground with a deafening clang.

"Glad I made it in time," a familiar voice said, strained but steady.

Erebus glanced up, finding his aide, Jafar, standing beside him, hands raised as he maintained the protective barrier.

Hel scoffed. "A fruitless attempt. This barrier will drain the life from your sorcery."

Jafar only grinned. "You think you're the only one with tricks?" He raised his fingers, and flames curled into existence, shaping into a bow of pure fire. Its glow illuminated the dark orchard in eerie violet hues.

Hel's scowl deepened. "Your little flames mean nothing. My scythe can only drain life through direct contact."

"Exactly," Jafar said. With a smirk, he drew the arrow back and let it loose.

The blazing projectile shot past Hel's head, soaring high into the afternoon sky.

Hel sneered. "You missed."

The air shifted.

Without warning, Hel's scythe twisted and contorted, leeching blood from his own arm as it transformed into a monstrous serpent. It coiled upward, growing to an impossible height—nearly reaching the tree canopies.

Four hollow sockets adorned its skeletal head, but an actual, living eye now protruded grotesquely from the back of Hel's bony hand. He pulled his hood up, shrouding his face in shadow.

"Dinner is served," he murmured.

At his command, the scythe-serpent reared back, fangs bared.

"Bon appétit."