Chapter 21 Castel Morne

"Can't even sleep peacefully," he muttered, eyeing the destroyed tent.

Nyra glanced at him, noticing the exhaustion expression in his face.

"Come here," she said, patting the ground beside her as she leaned against a nearby rock. He looked at her, a bit confused, but took a few hesitant steps closer.

Just as he came within reach, she gently took his hand, guiding him down. His head rested on her lap, her touch unexpectedly soft.

"Now, sleep," she murmured.

For a moment, he was speechless, unsure what to make of it. This was not what he had expected from a Black Knife assassin. Who would've thought someone like her could be so… gentle?

As he closed his eyes, he whispered, "Didn't know Black Knives could be this soft."

A faint smile played on Nyra's lips as she brushed a stray strand of hair from his forehead, her fingers light as a feather.

"Even we need rest sometimes," she replied softly.

 ...

a soft light cast over the ruined campsite. He stirred, waking. She was already watching him.

"Ready?" she asked, her voice gentle.

He nodded, gathering his gear and feeling more refreshed than he'd expected. Together, they set off toward Castle Morne.

The path was treacherous, the craggy cliffs rising around them as they moved through dense mist. As they neared the castle's towering gates, 1 golems loomed in the distance, guarding the approach. stationed on entrance, gripped a massive bow

The moment they entered the golems' range, a low rumble sounded. Nyra's eyes widened as the golem raised its colossal bow, pulling back an arrow the size of a tree.

"Run!" she whispered urgently.

They darted forward, the first arrow whistling through the air and striking the ground just behind them, exploding in a cloud of shattered rock and dust. With each step, they dodged and weaved, barely keeping ahead of the rain of massive arrows.

Finally, they reached the entrance of Castle Morne, slipping through the stone archway. They paused, catching their breath as the last arrow struck just outside the gate. Safe within the castle walls.

"Not bad," Nyra said. "You kept up."

He laughed, shaking off the tension. "I'd say I saved you a few times back there."

Nyra rolled her eyes, but the hint of a smile remained as they took their first cautious steps into the shadowed halls of Castle Morne.

As they stepped onto the lift, Nyra leaned against the stone wall, arms crossed, watching him closely as they began to rise. The creaking of the old chains echoed through the narrow shaft, and dim light flickered around them.

"So," she said, breaking the silence, "what exactly is going on here? This place feels... cursed."

He glanced at her, taking a breath before explaining. "From what I've gathered, it seems the nobility here at Castle Morne used Misbegotten's as servants.

They treated them as if they were brainless, believing them inferior in every way."

Nyra's brow furrowed. "Let me guess—poor treatment eventually led to a revolt?"

He nodded. "Yeah. The nobles and guards didn't stand a chance once the Misbegotten's rebelled. They're strong, and with their sheer numbers, they overwhelmed everyone in their way. It looks like the larger ones act as leaders, keeping the others in line."

The lift ground to a halt, and the iron gate creaked open. They stepped off, greeted by the eerie silence of Castle Morne's upper level, where faint whispers and the distant crackling of fire could be heard in the darkness ahead.

As they entered the castle's main area, a gruesome scene unfolded before them—a smoldering pile of corpses stacked high, the twisted remains of nobles, soldiers, and townsfolk tangled together.

The fire crackled hungrily, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. Misbegotten prowled around the pile, muttering in guttural tones, while a pack of mangy, rotten dogs snarled and snapped at the edges of the heap.

Nyra's eyes narrowed as she assessed the creatures. Without a word, she moved forward, her blade glinting in the firelight. She struck with swift precision, cutting down the Misbegotten one by one, her movements fluid and relentless. The creatures barely had time to react before they fell, and soon, none remained.

Meanwhile, he readied himself, taking on the feral dogs as they lunged, their rotting jaws snapping wildly. He fought them off, dispatching each with clean strikes, even as the stench of decay threatened to overwhelm him. When the last of the dogs lay still, silence settled over.

As the smoke and heat from the burning pile washed over him, he felt a tightness in his chest. His eyes were drawn to the tower of human corpses. He forced himself to look, but the sight churned his stomach.

Nyra noticed his discomfort immediately.

Without a word, she stepped in front of him, blocking his view of the grotesque pile. 

"Focus on me," she said quietly, her tone unexpectedly gentle.

He swallowed hard, tearing his gaze from the tower of corpses to look at her. 

"Thanks," he murmured, his voice thick.