chapter eighteen

In the calm early morning, chaos reigns in the kingdom of Ashrone. The chilling massacre of the Blouet clan has sent shockwaves through the realm, leaving its inhabitants in a state of fear and confusion.

The divide between the nobles and the commoners has never been more pronounced, with tensions escalating to dangerous levels. Each side points accusing fingers at the other, fueling the flames of mistrust and animosity.

In the once orderly office of Saethan Sunsworn, the scene is one of devastation. Books lay torn, shelves splintered, and the air thick with an air of desperation. Standing amidst the wreckage is Saethan Sunsworn himself, his usually composed demeanor shattered by the recent events.

Saethan's anger is palpable as he struggles to come to terms with the senseless massacre that has befallen the kingdom. He had implemented measures to ensure the safety of Ashrone, yet it was not enough to prevent the bloodshed that now stained its lands.

The looming threat of invasion hangs heavy in the air, casting a shadow of fear over Saethan's heart. The kingdom can ill afford such a loss in its current fragile state, and the weight of responsibility bears down heavily on his shoulders.

"Who could have done this?" Saethan's voice is barely above a whisper, his fists clenched in a mix of frustration and despair.

The click of the door interrupts his brooding thoughts, and Saethan's gaze snaps to the figure of Wendel as he enters the room. The sight of the chaos in the office seems to ignite a spark of defiance in Wendel's eyes as he meets Saethan's gaze.

In a sudden burst of rage, Saethan lashes out, seizing Wendel by the throat and pinning him against the wall with a strength born of fury. Wendel gasps for air, his struggles futile against Saethan's iron grip.

"I gave you a mission, and you failed," Saethan's voice is low, dripping with menace. "What use are you to me if you cannot carry out a simple task?"

Wendel's attempts to pry Saethan's hand from his throat only serve to anger the already incensed Saethan further. The pressure on Wendel's neck intensifies, his face turning a shade of purple as he fights for breath.

As Wendel's vision begins to blur, Saethan releases his hold, watching with a cold detachment as his subordinate gasps for precious air. The tension in the room is almost palpable as Wendel struggles to regain his composure.

Saethan moves away, his gaze fixed on the broken shelves as he seethes with barely-contained fury. Snatching up a book, he hurls it at Wendel with a gesture of disdain.

"Make yourself useful. And remember, should you fail me again, it will be the last mission you ever undertake," Saethan's words carry a finality that hangs heavy in the air.

Wendel, slowly rising to his feet and massaging his abused throat, meets Saethan's gaze with a steely resolve. "I believe your usefulness to me has come to an end as well," he sneers, his eyes alight with a sinister gleam.

Drawing upon hidden reserves of power, Wendel's words are laced with magic that crackles in the air between them. "You will be the instrument of this kingdom's destruction," his voice is laced with malice, his intentions clear.

Saethan's form freezes as if struck by a powerful spell, his mind clouded by dark whispers that distort his thoughts. His once vibrant eyes now empty and devoid of emotion, he speaks in a tone stripped of humanity.

"I will comply with your commands, Master," Saethan's voice is mechanical, his movements robotic as he submits to a will greater than his own.

.....

In the grand dining room of Gregor's house, the atmosphere was bustling with activity. The table was laden with delicious food, and the sound of silverware clinking against plates filled the air as the nine figures indulged in their meal.

Auron, a prominent figure among them, wiped his mouth with a napkin before addressing the group. "Gentlemen, we cannot allow this chaos to persist. These savages cannot be allowed to continue living among us."

Ivar, known for his more barbaric tendencies, nodded in agreement as he continued to devour his food.

Lutin, Ivar's son, spoke up inquisitively. "How do you propose we handle this, Father?"

Auron, with a sly smile on his face as he took a sip of his red wine, suggested a plan. "We should strike during the memorial service of the Blouet clan. They would never suspect us on such a solemn day."

Ivar let out a hearty laugh, and the others at the table joined in, fueling the dark excitement that filled the room. "We will make those insects regret crossing us," Ivar declared with a fierce determination.

The celebration continued into the night, but amidst the revelry, Lutin sat quietly, deep in thought as he slowly sipped his wine. He watched his father revel in the chaos, and a seed of doubt began to sprout in his mind. "Is this truly the leader our clan deserves? No, they deserve better. They deserve me."

Meanwhile, outside the kingdom in the mystical forest, purple magic shimmered in the darkness as cloaked figures gathered, preparing a powerful summoning ritual.