It was a trap, without a doubt. Alaric was convinced after seeing that only a couple of guards patrolled the walls. Lysandra had done her part without any issues, leaving the soldiers at the gate completely asleep. But she hadn't seen any other enemies. Quite the opposite of what they expected to find, having assaulted the castle just two nights before. So it was clearly a trap. They were being allowed in.

But there was no turning back now. They crossed the courtyard without incident, taking care to stay in the shadows and make no noise. As they passed by the stables, from which emanated a strong odor of manure and hay, they heard only a brief neigh and the snort of a restless horse. They continued to the storeroom, with no sign of anyone watching, and reached the kitchen. They entered through there, then crossed several hallways decorated with tapestries and some frescoes that Alaric barely noticed, partly because of the hurry, partly because of the darkness. Almost all the lamps were off or burnt out. They passed several solid wooden doors lining both sides until they reached the Count’s quarters, but he wasn't there. Finally, they headed to the main hall. The entrance was half-open, and the glow of chandeliers and the fireplace spilled out from inside. Normally, Alaric would have sneaked in as quietly as possible, but this time, he simply opened the door and walked in.

They entered the spacious hall and found the young Count standing by the fireplace, dressed in an unbuttoned dark red leather doublet, without a shirt. His long blond hair fell to the sides. He wore matching hose but was barefoot. In his hand, he held a half-finished goblet. He didn't move at all when they entered. He seemed lost in the crackling of the fire. But even with the fireplace lit, the room was quite cold. The windows were open, and the breeze swayed the curtains and tapestries on the walls, making the candle flames dance.

"So here we are, just as you expected, I imagine," said Alaric.

The Count didn't even turn to look at him. He finished his goblet and threw it into the fire.

"Help. To me, the guard," he responded, raising his eyebrows and faking a childlike voice with a sardonic smile. "I’m glad you finally made it here without any complications. It would have been a shame if my guards had killed you before we could meet."

"Well, now you've seen us. I imagine you know why we’re here. Hand over the medallion, and no one will get hurt," replied Stick, seriously.

The Count turned to look at them and began to walk slowly, hands behind his back, as if inspecting them.

"Ah, but I can't see your faces; you cover your heads with hoods and hide your faces with kerchiefs, like common highwaymen. Please, show them to me. In return, I'll show you where I keep that cursed medallion that's causing you so much trouble."

Alaric hesitated for a moment, turned to his companions, and nodded slightly. He removed his hood and lowered his kerchief. The others, seeing him, did the same.

"Much better to speak face to face, like gentlemen. As promised, here it is. The medallion."

The young man moved aside part of his doublet to reveal the jewel hanging over his bare chest. It was the Serpent amulet. Exactly like the one Alaric kept in his pocket.

"And don't worry. I assure you this is the real one," continued the Count. "There are no more copies."

"Alright, enough games," growled Crab. "Give it to us, and I promise to only hit you a little."

Alaric put his hand on his impulsive friend’s arm. He kept studying the room. Escape routes. Where the guards might enter. Maybe an assassin hidden in the shadows. Right on the nail. He thought he saw something move at the back of the room, in the darkness.

"Don't be rude, good man," continued the Count. "Besides, we haven’t even properly introduced ourselves. My name is Marcell. Marcell Deischamps, Count of Brademond. Though you already knew that. See how easy? Now, as my guests, I would appreciate it if you returned the courtesy and gave me your names."

"And who is the lady?" Alaric pointed out.

The Count turned, impressed. Indeed, from the shadows at the end of the room, a red-haired woman emerged, swaying as she slowly approached. She wore a heavy dark cloak, but it was clear she had nothing on underneath.

"Can you see her?" he asked, astonished.

"Of course they can see me, dear," said the woman as she stood behind him and hugged him from behind. "If it is my desire, they can."

Alaric turned to his companions, who exchanged glances among themselves, undoubtedly thinking that the young Count wasn't entirely sane. But when he looked at the sisters, he saw something he didn't like at all. Both were pale, their eyes wide open. Zarinia was tense, with a frown and clenched fists. Lysandra was even worse. She was trembling as if she had just seen a ghost. She seemed terrified. But why? Because of the red-haired woman?

"Go ahead, dear. Introduce me. Although I think the girls already guess who I am, right?" she continued, looking intently at Lysandra and smiling mischievously.

"Very well, as you wish. Ladies, gentlemen, may I introduce my late sister, Lenna" said the Count, melodramatically.

Alaric thought he was indeed stark raving mad. The young man must have realized, judging by their expressions, and raised his hands, as if excusing himself.

"I know it sounds strange, but what can I say. We live in strange times," added the young man with a sigh.

He then turned back to the fireplace, where he had a bottle of liquor. For a moment, he seemed to hesitate. Perhaps he had forgotten he had thrown his goblet into the flames a moment before. He shrugged and started drinking directly from the bottle.

"I hope you’ll excuse me. I’d offer you some, but I have no more cups," he said, sitting in the chair by the fire, completely unconcerned. "And now, I will speak frankly. I have no interest in you or your companions. I only wish to talk in person with the ladies. I need them to tell me a few things. So, they stay, and you are free to go. I won’t raise the alarm, I promise. And keep the medallion copy, as payment for the trouble," he made a slight farewell gesture with his hand. "Leave, then."

"He won’t, my dear Marcell," said the woman, approaching them. Alaric grasped his sword hilt and stepped back, on guard, while Crab and Wart positioned themselves on either side, ready to act. The sisters moved aside, behind them. "It's not in his nature to abandon his own, is it, Alaric?" continued the woman.

Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

He was stunned. How did she know his name? Who the hell was she, so terribly beautiful, looking at him with those purple eyes that seemed to pierce his soul?

"Alaric, the child rejected by his own mother. Perhaps it would have been better if no one had found you, and your body had served as food for the rats. You think you're so honorable, with your stupid moral code, but you’re just a reed swaying on the riverbank. You won’t change the current of destiny. You are nothing."

She turned to Crab, who had taken a menacing step forward.

"Oh, yes. Master Brisur. The disfigured and despicable 'Crab.' You weren't a good person when Alaric saved you. Your story is dark and terrible. Do you think that by following the impeccable 'Toothpick,' you’ll balance your past debt? You should have died in the fire; it’s what you deserved. Every day you remain breathing is an insult to the victims of your previous life."

She crossed by Alaric to approach Wart. He took a nervous step back.

"Rendel. Such a pleasant and promising young man. It's a shame you ended up with these two. You are so handsome. And your body has all the strength of youth. I’m sure I could ride you for hours," she whispered sensually, opening her cloak to reveal her nakedness and reaching out to caress his face.

"Stay away from him, bitch," said Zari suddenly, stepping up beside him.

"Well, young Zarinia, the second heiress. Poor girl, so inexperienced, so innocent. Always in the shadow of your sister, incapable of doing anything on your own. You’re not jealous, are you? I see. You’ve never had a man inside you, and you’re eager to spread your legs and have your dear Rendel fill you with his manhood," the woman said, laughing.

"Leave my sister alone, damn demon," exclaimed Lysandra suddenly. "It’s me you have to face."

"You?" The woman replied, half amused, half scandalized. "Lysandra, the future heir. You don't have Edel's strength, your mentor. Your 'mother'. And you never will. You'll be the last guardian, a mere shadow of what your lineage once was," she said disdainfully, almost spitting, as she stepped in front of Lysandra. "Speaking of her, how is she? Last time I sensed her, she wasn't in good health. And since I'm interested in family, how's your fiancé?" Her voice took on a mocking tone. "Lorenz, right? Oh no, sorry. Was. I just remembered you forced him to slit his throat like a dog. But don't worry, it wasn't your fault. The poor thing lost his mind... because of me. What a pity. He was a 'great' man, if you know what I mean. I enjoyed many nights with him. Don't take it badly, but I think he preferred me, honestly."

The tension in the room was palpable. The young Count remained unperturbed, as if enjoying the macabre game. The woman smiled shamelessly, reveling in the pain her words caused. Suddenly, Lysandra frowned, tightened her lips, and said:

"It's over, bitch."

The punch must have been heard all the way to the stables. Everyone was stunned to see Lysandra, arm outstretched, fist clenched, and the red-haired woman thrown backward, landing on her back and rolling to the center of the room.

For a few moments, no one said anything, until the Count let out a loud laugh.

"Ha! You can touch her! It's wonderful!"

Alaric drew his sword and pointed it at the young man.

"As we've said, enough games. Give us the medallion now," he threatened, seriously, though he glanced sideways at Lysandra, who still had her fists clenched, in a defensive position. He smirked. "Or you'll have to face her."

The young man rose from his chair, smiling.

"Well, I tried to be a gracious host, but if this is how you want it, so be it."

Before Alaric could react, the young man threw the bottle at him. Alaric had no trouble dodging it, but the Count used the moment of confusion to nimbly climb one of the stone eagles guarding the fireplace and reach one of the swords decorating the panoply. He jumped back onto the wooden floor, did a couple of warm-up flourishes, and assumed a guard position.

"Whenever you're ready," he boasted, defiantly.

Alaric studied the young man's stance. Impeccable. He was probably a better swordsman than Alaric. He must have received good training and participated in many combats. But it was evident the young man was used to clean duels, one-on-one, skill against skill. He did not expect the chair that Crab threw at him, nearly hitting his head and making him lose his balance. Nor the dagger thrown by Wart that, moments later, lodged inches from his ear, cutting a lock of his silky hair and causing him to fall completely. By the time he realized what was happening, Alaric was already stepping on his sword and pointing his blade at his neck.

"Last chance. The medallion. Now."

"What a foolish mistake on my part, thinking you'd play fair," the young man responded, not very impressed.

"We're not knights, we're just simple ruffians. It shouldn't surprise you."

The Count sighed resignedly and reached for his neck to remove the jewel. Alaric noticed he was trembling slightly, as if it took great effort.

"You're right. Enough games."

Alaric heard it inside his head. It was a terrible voice. It was the red-haired woman's voice, along with thousands of others, all at once. He had stopped paying attention to her, thinking the sisters were handling her. It was a mistake. He turned and froze, seeing not only had she gotten up, but she was floating in the center of the room, radiating a growing shadow of darkness that absorbed everything it touched. The sisters were chanting a litany, their eyes white, their hands intertwined, fighting against it with all their strength and Power. But it seemed it wasn't enough.

"Well. Looks like you've angered her," the Count said, without much emotion. He took advantage of Alaric's surprise to push the blade away from his neck and stand up again.

Zarinia fell to her knees, exhausted, though she continued repeating the mantra. Lysandra held on, but she was beginning to tremble from the effort of trying to contain the darkness. At that moment, Crab lunged at the woman, roaring and making a surprising leap for someone of his size. But he didn't touch her. He was thrown against the wall with such force that the impact knocked him out, even breaking a table as he fell. Wart threw his other dagger, but it was similarly deflected. Seeing that he could do nothing, he ran to Crab to check his condition.

"Is this all your Power, Edel's disciples? You disappoint me. I won't waste more time, it's time to end this. Guardians. Ha! Pathetic."

He finally saw Lysandra fall to the ground, on her knees, out of strength. Zarinia lay on her side, defeated and unconscious. He felt a blade at his neck. The Count had used all this to grab the other sword from the panoply. Alaric dropped his own.

"Kracio!" the young man shouted, and immediately, the guards stormed in.

The captain approached Alaric from behind and delivered a strong blow behind his knees, making him fall.

"My lord, are you well? Were you hurt?"

"No, Kracio, I'm fine. Thank you for waiting for my signal, as I told you. Tell me, do you by any chance see a woman floating in the middle of the room?"

Alaric could see the expression on the captain's face. The expression of someone used to hearing all kinds of craziness.

"No, my lord. What do you want us to do with these rats?"

"Take them to the dungeons. Lock the women in separate cells and give me the keys personally. No one is to speak with them."

"And the men?"

"I'm feeling magnanimous today. Chain them together, let them share their last hours as good companions. And hang them tomorrow at dawn."

Alaric could no longer see the woman either. She had vanished like smoke. But she was still there, somehow. He could feel it. Before leaving, the Count knelt beside Alaric and whispered,

"As you said, you're not knights, but simple ruffians. And as such, you will die."