Chapter 22

After cutting through the darkened halls and twisted corridors of Castle Morne, they encountered a lumbering, helmeted figure with an oversized head— Pumpkin Head. The creature let out a guttural roar, swinging its spiked flail, but they quickly overwhelmed it. Nyra dodged its sluggish swings with ease, while he struck from the side, his blade finding weak points in the creature's body. The Pumpkin Head fell with a heavy thud, clearing their path.

They continued onward, cutting down more Misbegotten's in their way, including a few annoying, screeching ones with wings that dove at them from above. Each one fell, and soon they reached a top within the castle.

an armored man sat alone, his weapon held ready. His gaze sharpened as it landed on Nyra, noting the distinct, deadly look of a Black Knife assassin.

"Stay back," he warned, his posture defensive. "I won't fall to an assassin, not here."

Nyra held her ground but remained silent, her hand on her weapon, ready if needed.

The man's suspicion softened as he turned his attention to the letter that vyke held out. "I'm not here to fight. I bring word from Irina," he said calmly, watching as Edgar's expression shifted from wariness to surprise.

The man took the letter, his fingers trembling slightly as he opened it. His eyes softened, reading the words carefully.

"Irina… so she's safe, then?" Edgar's voice held a note of relief, though it was laced with sorrow. "Thank you. I'm in your debt."

"She's safe," he confirmed. "We made sure of it. She's waiting for you."

Edgar exhaled, a trace of a pained smile crossing his face. "But I can't leave. Not yet. Even if this castle is doomed, as warden, it's my duty to stay. I must make sure the treasured Sword of Morne doesn't fall into the wrong hands."

Nyra watched silently, her gaze steady but respectful, maintaining her stance on guard.

"If you see Irina again," Edgar continued, his voice heavy, "tell her her father will come for her once his duty here is done."

"Alright," Edgar replied at last, his voice heavy with resignation. "Irina is safe, and that's all that matters. I'll leave this place."

"I'll meet her," he continued, his gaze distant. "But if you truly mean to put an end to the madness here, the Sword of Morne is deep within the castle, in the clutches of the Misbegotten king. Take it if you can. That beast is beyond me."

"We'll retrieve it," Vyke said firmly, giving a curt nod.

Once Edgar was far way, his heavy footsteps fading into the distance, Vyke turned to Nyra with a glint in his eye. "Hmm. Since we're already here, why not kill the Leonine Misbegotten and take Castle Morne for ourselves?" he muttered, a cunning edge to his tone.

"If I can bring this castle under control, it would shift the balance of power. The entire Weeping Peninsula would fall into my hands, and convincing Irina's father afterward would be easy enough."

"Whatever your plan, where is this Leonine Misbegotten?"

"Follow me," Vyke said, motioning for her to come along.

He led her deeper into Castle Morne, their path winding through crumbling halls and past the remnants of fallen Misbegotten. 

At last, they emerged onto a clearing near the shore, where the crashing waves of the sea mingled with the creature's guttural roars.

There it was—the Leonine Misbegotten. A monstrous figure, half-lion and half-beast, its sinewy form rippling with raw power. In its massive hands, it clutched an enormous sword, its blade jagged and ancient, as though forged to tear through both steel and stone.

Nyra's hand instinctively went to her weapon. "Looks like fun," she said.

Vyke drew his blade, its edge gleaming in the dim light. "Let's see who the true ruler of Castle Morne will be."

The creature let out a deafening roar, charging toward them with feral speed. Without hesitation, the two readied themselves for the battle ahead.

With coordinated strikes, they wore it down, exploiting every opening. Finally, with a precise, powerful blow, he managed to sever its last line of defense, and the beast collapsed, defeated.

As the dust settled, he approached the fallen creature and noticed the sword it had clutched so fiercely—a colossal, intricate weapon unlike any he had seen before. He reached down and lifted it, feeling the weight of the Grafted Blade Greatsword.

"Not bad. This place might be yours sooner than you think."

He examined the sword, feeling its power. "With this, maybe Castle Morne can serve a new purpose," he murmured, thinking of the potential influence it could bring. Controlling the Weeping Peninsula was just the beginning, and Edgar's loyalty could be won with a little persuasion.

With the Leonine Misbegotten defeated, he and Nyra turned to leave, ready to claim their place in Castle Morne.

With the weight of the Grafted Blade Greatsword in his hands, he walked through the halls of Castle Morne, Nyra silently at his side. The remnants of Misbegotten and weary survivors watched from the shadows, their gazes wary. The whispers had already begun—word of the Leonine Misbegotten's death spreading quickly.

In the castle courtyard, he stopped and raised the greatsword high. Its jagged blade glinted faintly in the dim light.

"Listen well," he said. "The Leonine Misbegotten is dead. This castle is mine now. You can stay and serve or leave and never return. Those who resist will share its fate."

The crowd murmured, uncertain but attentive. Some glanced at each other with cautious hope, others with doubt. For now, the castle was quiet.