When dusk finally draped the city in its misty veil, Morveyn Lyuteakh parked silently near a CTS junction that connected Teak-An’s grand ring highway to the wide-lane road leading to the outskirts of the capital. The third vehicle in just one day, he thought wryly. At this rate, I’ll become a seasoned driver. If they kick me out of my position tomorrow, I might as well work as a cabbie in the city’s taxi service.
He stopped near a small postal station surrounded by a lot filled with service vehicles and the cars of ordinary workers. Many parked here to switch to stagecoaches that navigated designated lanes toward the city center. This vehicle wasn’t from the Lyuteakh estate’s fleet. A faithful young servant had brought it ahead of time, leaving it near the estate’s back staircase.
He was headed for Teak-An’s historic center. Even though he wasn’t expecting to be followed, he was always surrounded by curious eyes in this city. The influence of the Crimson Hand, combined with his striking appearance, made him an unavoidably noticeable figure.
Anyone who had ever laid eyes on him immediately remembered his accursed face. If he ever let his guard down and appeared on the streets without proper concealment, word that Falconet Lyuteakh was dining at a restaurant or strolling through the city would spread across the capital in mere minutes. People would whisper, maids would pause their tasks to peek out windows, and idle aristocrats looking to curry favor with the Protectorium’s leadership would find excuses to “accidentally” bump into him.
Morveyn never understood the crowd’s insatiable curiosity. Why would anyone care to watch him eat dinner or sip wine as if there was nothing more interesting in the world? He’d had more than enough attention at the social events he was occasionally obligated to attend for duty’s sake.
Every such evening turned into an ordeal. For some reason, Menno had convinced himself that all the “diplomatic” missions involving the spread and reinforcement of the Protectorium’s influence could be dumped onto the Left Falconet, effectively sidelining him from fieldwork.
“You have what they need,” Menno often said. “Better to show off that face in salons where you can actually be useful than get underfoot during military operations.”
Morveyn often noticed how his father regarded his appearance as a tool, as vital as a battle sword or a strategic plan was to other commanders. The responsibility of catching the eye of a particular noble, influential merchant, or even a competitor often fell squarely on his shoulders.
Sometimes, this meant lengthy conversations full of innuendo and diplomatic finesse. Other times, it was a matter of saying just the right words at just the right moment to sow doubt or solidify trust. Occasionally, it involved grueling, branching intrigues, meticulously built over months like a house of cards, to achieve the desired result.
Yet, the social life brought him no joy whatsoever. He fulfilled his duties but inwardly despised the farce.
Undeniably, his pretty face made him exceptionally useful in these matters, but it wounded his pride deeply. His father knew perfectly well that the other assets Morveyn possessed, however unwittingly, could have been just as valuable in real fieldwork. Desperate to prove to Menno that he could contribute beyond strutting through parties, Morveyn had ended up entangled in the miserable debacle with Ao-Teien.
Secretly, he hoped to ruin his reputation so thoroughly that no respectable salon would ever welcome him again. Sooner or later, after everyone had their fill of gossiping about his failures, public attention would move on to the next scandalous headline, and he would humbly "atone" for his missteps by joining expedition groups sent to the Schism-afflicted wastelands.
But no matter how hard he tried to stay in the shadows, his reserved demeanor and refusal to engage in social pleasantries only seemed to amplify the fascination surrounding him. His introverted nature, rare appearances at balls or public events, turned him into a mystery for onlookers. And mysteries, as everyone knows, are irresistibly alluring.
The less he sought the spotlight, the more curiosity he seemed to provoke. Some people even tracked him like a rare animal. At times, it bordered on the absurd—for instance, when a chance appearance in a public hall became the main topic of the evening’s society column. Or when a former “business partner” he’d casually strung along turned into a bona fide stalker, hiring hordes of private detectives willing to risk their necks to gather any information.
What irritated him most was that none of these "adoring spectators" ever considered how burdensome such attention could be. To him, it was like standing in an arena under the gaze of a thousand eyes, all expecting the pretty falconet to start flipping and performing tricks.
Every step he took, every word he spoke, even his expressions were immediately scrutinized, interpreted, and exaggerated. Among the younger generation of aristocrats, many reveled in such attention, delighting in whispers, sidelong glances, and fawning compliments.
Tired of nosy gawkers, reporters scrambling to cook up another headline, and unwelcome acquaintances, Morveyn devised his own little masquerade to avoid unnecessary attention. He asked his servant to find him "something people wear in the city, but in calmer colors."
The off-the-rack clothes purchased from a store were simple and loose-fitting. The outfit was modest—an oversized tunic with a deep hood, wide trousers with large pockets, all in black, of course. He added a cloth mask, similar to those worn by open-vehicle riders to keep dust and insects out of their mouths, and a pair of gloves.
Only his formal high boots remained a part of his personal wardrobe.
When he needed to attend to matters unrelated to the Crimson Hand, he relied on this inconspicuous disguise. The plain clothing helped him blend into the crowd—people stopped recognizing him and no longer stepped aside reverently at his approach.
Once or twice, someone even elbowed him aside in a bustling street, and instead of taking offense, Morveyn found it absurdly amusing. At that moment, thoughts of aristocratic honor sullied by jostling with commoners were the furthest thing from his mind.
That evening, he was confident no one suspected the young master had left the estate. Morveyn had meticulously planned every step of his route, ensuring complete anonymity.
Hopping out of a taxi on the edge of Teak-An’s historic center, he slipped into the labyrinth of narrow streets. Winding his way through the pedestrian-only lanes—where sidewalks were frequently blocked by summer restaurant tables or the bright displays of luxury shops—Morveyn finally ducked under an ivy-covered archway.
Inside, a small, shadowy courtyard opened up, hidden from prying eyes by tall walls. Near an unmarked, unassuming door stood a burly bald guard in a sharp suit, massive and with a perpetually grim expression.
The guard gave Morveyn a lazy once-over, his eyes assessing the loose, simple clothing of the visitor before stopping on his face when Morveyn lowered his mask slightly.The moment he recognized the falconet, the imposing man immediately inclined his head respectfully and obligingly opened the discreet door.
Music mingled with shrill feminine laughter, while the air was thick with the spicy aroma of censers blended with the scent of heavy incense. The walls of the establishment were adorned in shades of pink and red, with burgundy curtains embroidered with golden patterns creating the illusion of windows, softening the otherwise claustrophobic feel of a basement.
The reception desk, intricately carved and inlaid with mother-of-pearl, stood as a work of art in its own right, perfectly complementing the red sofas in the waiting area. A cheerful hostess flitted toward him, her smile warm and inviting. Dressed very revealingly, but at the same time elegantly, long-legged, in a sequined dress that reached mid-calf and had a neckline that revealed her lush breasts right up to her nipples.
Without letting her friendly smile falter for even a second, the hostess cast a slightly puzzled glance at him, whose appearance stood out starkly from the typical clientele of such an establishment. This private club, accessible only by invitation or recommendation from a trusted client, offered services that varied in legality. Still, her experience working in a place like this had long taught her not to judge guests by their attire.
When the guest lowered his mask to reveal his face, her expression lit up entirely.
“Welcome, sir,” she purred, flashing a coquettish smile. “Allow me to escort you.”
She moved gracefully, each step emphasizing the sway of her hips. A model or a dancer, Morveyn mused—this club clearly selected only the finest to greet its patrons. Guiding him down a narrow, dimly lit corridor, she deftly pulled back a velvet curtain blocking the passage and stepped aside to let him through. She made sure, of course, to position herself so that he had to squeeze past her alluring curves.
To the hostess’s disappointment, Morveyn did not seize the opportunity. Instead, he quickly slipped into the crowd, pulling the dark fabric of his mask back over his face.
Not that anyone here was likely to be surprised by his appearance. Many of the club’s patrons preferred to obscure their identities behind half-masks, even if they chose to wear little else.
Behind the heavy velvet drapes lay a loud and vibrant world—a hall teeming with guests indulging in decadent revelry. Bright lights from colorful lamps sparkled across the surfaces of marble tables, glinted off wine glasses, and played in the deep folds of silk garments. Yet somehow, the darkness seemed undisturbed, clinging to the room like a deliberate backdrop to its hedonistic atmosphere.
Morveyn kept to the shadows, weaving along the edges of the room toward the private box the club’s owner most often occupied, all the while scanning the crowd. If there was someone here he needed to avoid, it was best to spot them first.
The guests indulged in all sorts of vices, lust, idleness and gluttony being the most harmless of them. Someone smoked carefree from long pipes, inhaling the spicy greenish smoke, while a card game was in full swing at the massive tables in the center of the room. Everywhere, here and there, young half-naked girls and boys served as decorative furniture. Here, a gorgeous beauty, wearing only a shirtfront and a short lace apron, leaned over the gaming table, dealing cards. Here, a beautifully built young lad froze with candlesticks in his hands, pretending to be a candelabrum. And here, a plump naked girl pretended to be a sonnet, hunched over on all fours at the foot of a chair – her massive breasts hanging down to the floor. Morveyn flinched slightly as he recognized the polished boots resting on a soft, rounded back. The wiry frame of Baron Neerghafen was all too familiar—ever since the old man had practically started hunting him.
Last year, Morveyn had rashly promised the baron a rendezvous at his secluded country estate in exchange for certain concessions from his trading company. However, after Senior Lyuteakh decided to partner with other suppliers, the promise—which Morveyn had never been eager to fulfill—became entirely meaningless. Meaningless, that is, to everyone except the obsessed baron, who continued to doggedly pursue the young falconet wherever he appeared. Morveyn couldn’t shake the thought that if he ever did visit Neerghafen’s estate, it would only be to burn that hornet’s nest to the ground.
At the far end of the hall was a stage, brightly lit by colorful spotlights, where a popular singer performed with sultry intensity. Morveyn didn’t keep up with such things, but even he recognized the annoyingly catchy tune.
Elegant metal cages flanked the stage, their occupants nearly naked dancers adorned with intricate feathered costumes, presumably meant to resemble exotic birds.
Several deep alcoves with circular sofas were concealed behind curtains—transparent only from the inside, shielding whatever went on within from prying eyes. From behind these veils came moans, gasps, and, at times, the sharp sounds of slaps and bursts of laughter. Passing one of the booths, Morveyn caught muffled thuds and sobs of pain, but the bored guards standing nearby made it clear that whatever happened inside was nobody’s concern.
Here, anything a person could desire to fulfill their fantasies was available. The city’s finest dancers. Private rooms where obedient young girls—or boys, if that was your preference—could be summoned. A wide array of toys to indulge even the boldest imaginations. At the bar, guests were served only the finest spirits, along with the latest indulgence to hit the market: “Hell’s Powder”—a finely crushed sap crystal specially prepared for smoking. This fashionable aristocratic drug produced a greenish, Schism-like bitter smoke and came with a price tag as exorbitant as its effects. The powder greatly amplified sexual pleasure, so much so that even the Schism-like traces it left in its wake didn’t deter thrill-seekers after just one taste.
The thick, heavy scent of Hell’s Powder wafted through the room from intricately carved burners, filling the air with its intoxicating haze.
In the farthest and, naturally, the most luxurious booth, he finally found Baronet of Acrass. Nodding to the footman standing by the curtain, Morveyn waited as his arrival was announced.
“Come in, darling, I’ve been waiting for you!” the baronet called cheerfully, and the footman obligingly pulled back the gauzy drape, allowing the guest to enter.
The scene that unfolded before Morveyn was reminiscent of an old painting of the First Messiah and his apostles gathered around a banquet table.
In the role of the messiah was Loran—a tall, long-legged, strikingly handsome man with predatory features. His golden locks spilled over his shoulders, and his muscular, sun-kissed chest, visible beneath an open shirt, gleamed under the lamps and was covered with coarse hair.
His powerful arms rested on the back of the sofa, casually embracing two “apostles” whose bodies were barely concealed by sheer, gauzy tunics designed more to inflame the imagination than to cover anything.
On the round table before them, posing as a sacrificial lamb, lay a naked woman, her body adorned with an assortment of hors d'oeuvres. The teeth marks here and there on the white skin indicated that the baronet apparently found her as appetizing as his other food.
It was sheer luck that Morveyn managed to win the baronet’s favor—through a few shameful favors and his natural charm. It had taken him a couple of months of persistent effort before the baronet finally invited him to spend time at this exclusive, members-only club.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Since then, Morveyn had come here once or twice a week, whenever he wasn’t away from the capital, joining the baronet for shared indulgences. Loran, with his weakness for pretty faces and stimulants, was a regular patron and one of the co-owners of this and several other similar establishments.
“You’re late today; I had to start without you,” Loran drawled petulantly, gesturing for Morveyn to sit.
After ensuring the curtain separating them from the main hall was securely drawn, Morveyn pulled off his mask and then tugged his heavy tunic over his head. The room was stiflingly warm, and the scene before him was enough to get his blood pumping.
The baronet’s approving gaze swept over Morveyn’s exposed skin before he smacked the nearest girl on the thigh, silently instructing her to attend to the guest.
“Sorry,” Morveyn said with a smirk. “The old man decided to lecture me today. I had to wait for him to leave so I could slip out unnoticed. You know he’d have my head if he ever found out about our little escapades.”
“Mmm, that’s a turn-on,” Loran laughed. “The Crimson Hand scouring the capital for Schism while his darling son gets high on it and frolics in a den of sin.”
Only when the girl moved slightly away from Laurent, obediently diving under the table, Wayne saw that between the baronet's widely spaced legs a pretty curly head was already working. A wide leather collar was fastened to her thin neck, and the baronet was clutching the leash tightly in his fist. Every now and then he pulled the leash so hard that she could barely breathe, impaling her to the very base. The girl coughed, choking, foamy saliva flowed down her chin, but in her clouded eyes one could read only pleasure and a desire to please.
This is how Hell’s Powder worked, one can say that the girl was lucky that everything that was happening to her did not reach her consciousness. Judging by the dull look, fresh bruises on her sides and sluggish movements, the girl had not regained consciousness for several days. This is the work of the local dolls - no one is kept here by force. Girls from poor families, daughters of impoverished bourgeois, burdened with parental debts, or even aspiring actresses on the way to fame - they all came here for easy and quick money. Get high on gunpowder, work for a week or two in a state of endless ecstatic oblivion, and then crawl out of here with a fat wad of money in your purse. This was a choice that the girls made independently, voluntarily and consciously. Some of them paid off their debts and continued their normal existence, but the majority - after resting at home and healing their bruises and abrasions - returned. Crowds of young and beautiful people fought for the right to suck the titular dick and then get hit in the face with a boot, because not just anyone would be hired at such an elite establishment. Sometimes so-called work-related injuries occurred - and then management paid substantial compensation to make up for the damage caused. Broken arms, knocked out teeth, cut bloody backs - all this spoiled the marketable appearance and the girl, if she was no longer good for anything, had to look for work in simpler places, where they paid less and beat harder. And most importantly, there was no endless anesthesia in the form of green smoke that fogged the mind and made one groan with pleasure even from a punch in the stomach.
It happened that thick black bags were taken out of the back doors of the club in the middle of the night, and an advertisement appeared in the newspapers about the disappearance of a young beautiful girl or guy, but, oddly enough, this did not promise any consequences for the business. The name of Baronet of Acras and several other high-ranking patrons was firmly off the scent of police bloodhounds.
The official position of the Protectorium was non-interference in the affairs of the secular police - until the murder was committed by a blighted man crazed by schism. Domestic murders, disappearances and even drug trafficking - all this was beyond the jurisdiction of anti-blight fighters. Red wolves preferred to destroy creatures in the swamps, catch monsters blocking trade routes in unsafe provinces, and guard the gates of the capital from blightted refugees from the periphery. The fate of the dissolute dolls was of no interest to the Crimson branch.
Morveyn smiled languidly at Laurent, running the tip of the tongue over his lips. Still clutching the leash, Baronet of Acrass reached out with a cat-like movement and kissed him soundly on the lips. He smelled of sweat and alcoholic, and Morveyn did not pull away, automatically noting to himself – the first touch. However, he gently stopped the girl who was reaching for his belt.
“Lori, I saw that bastard Neerghafen in the hall. The old creep’s looking at me like I’m a candy. I can’t relax knowing he’s just a few meters away.”
“You are the candy,” the baronet laughed, and to prove his point, he drew a long, deliberate lick along the boy’s neck. “But if you want a bit of privacy, we can move to the VIP room. I’ve already had everything prepared while waiting for you.”
VIP room, which could be accessed by elevator directly from Loran’s booth, was a lavishly decorated space with dim, atmospheric lighting, dominated almost entirely by an enormous bed.
The headboard and wall panels were adorned with intricate carvings depicting erotic scenes and beautiful nymphs—a motif echoed in the wallpaper patterns, the small table, the light fixtures, and even the door handles. Along the walls stood vases filled with luxurious bouquets of flowers.
Most of the establishment was located in the basement and on the ground floor, which lacked windows. The rooms for special guests, however, occupied the entire second floor, with windows set into the slanted ceiling, opening out onto the rooftop. This ensured that curious passersby couldn’t see what transpired within, while those lying on the bed could gaze up at the sky.
The bed itself was a veritable arena of indulgence, strewn with an array of pillows and draped in expensive silk sheets. At the headboard were reinforced posts with metal rings, designed to secure handcuffs or a leash for those who desired.
After having a few drinks, they settled onto the silk-draped expanse of the bed. The collared girl who had followed them was now kneeling, her round, juicy buttocks raised in the air. The stately man drove himself into her with powerful thrusts, pulling the leash tied to her neck. Her nipples were equipped with round metal bells. With each push, the elastic breasts twitched and the heavy jewelry made a loud clanking sound, pulling the dark brown peaks. The girl’s thighs were red from his spanks, and in some places brown spots of bruises could be seen on the white skin. The baronet's powerful physique was a display of taut muscles rippling beneath his sun-kissed skin. He looked like a tiger - graceful and very dangerous. He had never learned to temper his strength when dealing with women. On the contrary, the passion seething within him awakened the worst qualities in the baronet.
Loran never beat them in the Morveyn's presence, perhaps fearing to scare off the sensitive rich boy experiencing his toothless adolescent rebellion. At least, that was how Morveyn appeared to him — a wealthy and naive young man, not yet well-versed in such matters. Loran took particular pleasure in gradually introducing the innocent lamb to increasingly perverse pleasures.
Morveyn was well aware that Loran restrained himself in his presence. Each step he took toward sharing in Loran's debauched amusements brought him closer to earning the baronet's complete trust. The journey from casually cruel remarks, intrigued glances, and daring mischiefs skirting the edges of high society's etiquette had finally led him here.
Morveyn was convinced that if he continued down this path, he would uncover many more sordid secrets, leading him to powder suppliers, slave markets, and who knows what else. But he was not ready to descend so deeply into this abyss. He was terrified by the fact that he was starting to derive genuine pleasure from these activities, and that soon, when looking in the mirror, he wouldn't be able to tell himself that he was any better than Baronet of Acras.
There was a thick greenish haze in the room, the hell’s powder did its job so well that Morveyn felt a sweet twitch in his lower abdomen from the moment he entered. He sat down on the edge of the vast bed, taking off his clothes. The baronet, without slowing down, gave the girl a savory slap on the bottom, and she let out a scream, which instantly made Morveyn’s pants tense. Having taken off everything except his corset, he leaned back on the pillows and, watching the baronet ride around his horse, took a deep drag from a special pipe. Hell’s powder, emitting a barely noticeable glow, burst into the lungs and the head became light. The dull pain that had haunted him since the middle of the day finally subsided. He blew smoke into the girl's face, and she began to breathe greedily. It would be better to try to enjoy such work, he thought indifferently.
When Loran asked what he’d like to do tonight, the young man gave a vague reply—“your choice”—and now found himself in the company of a young girl whose only attire was a bright scarlet rope.
The rope encircled her neck, pulling her arms back and binding them tightly at the elbows, while cinching her waist firmly. The braided cord dug deeply into her soft flesh, leaving visible marks on her skin. Her youthful, perky breasts jutted upward, irresistibly drawing the eye. Her nipples were also pierced, adorned with jewelry that was slightly lighter than her companion’s. He watched with interest as she swung a leg over him and straddled his lap, pressing her smooth, hairless body against his tense groin.
“Let me serve you, Mylord,” she said softly and her beautiful breasts appeared right in front of the young man’s face. - I’ll accept whatever you give me.”
Morveyn took her by the chin, tilting her face toward the light. He hadn’t planned on doing anything like this tonight, but in the moment, he couldn’t quite explain to himself why not.
All the tension that had built up over his difficult week pounded in his ears as her warm, pink nipple grazed his lips, and her sweet scent seemed to linger almost tangibly on his tongue. It suddenly seemed to him that she looked too much like today’s girl maid. He was wondering if she imagined something similar while she was looking at him sleeping? While she was taking off his clothes, clumsily pretending that the warm touches here and there were an accident? His head began to spin, and he himself did not understand at what point he impaled her, squeezing her soft buttocks with his hands. The girl gasped, her pert breasts again smeared his face and he bit into her nipple, fingering the ringing toy with his tongue. Excitement, anger, anxiety - everything mixed inside him and poured out in a furious ride. He crushed the soft body and with each push his mental touch counter was getting more and more confused, until finally switched off completely. The girl, biting her plump lip, continued to rub against him. A feverish blush played on her face, and the red cord, slightly suffocating with each movement, seemed to only intensify the pleasure. Hating himself, he tried to be a little more gentle, keeping her pleasure in mind. The girl screamed and thrashed on him, the heavy bells in her pink nipples rhythmically ringing out almost a melody, and her voluptuous moans echoed like a wave of pleasure in his belly. Bathing in the warmth of her body was so good that he could not remember, no matter how hard he tried, why he had to stop touching her right now.
He came to his senses only when he caught, out of the corner of his eye, a withered petal falling onto the bedside table. The lavish bouquet, standing at the head of the bed seemed to have begun to wither, losing its fragrant freshness. With a jolt of clarity, he shoved the girl away. She fell onto the pillows, her breath fast and shallow, her eyes clouding over.
The stunned face of the maid, sprawled before him on the carpet earlier that day, flashed through his mind again, and he barely stopped himself from slapping his own face. He should have stopped much earlier, but he had completely lost control for a while. Whether it was the powder or his own rotten nature, he couldn’t say for sure. Heat pulsed in his abdomen, and he felt so energized and keyed up that, for a moment, he was genuinely afraid for her life. He needed to act now, before he completely lost his mind and did something even worse.
Grabbing a long smoking pipe, he took a deep inhale. Leaning toward the baronet, he kissed him, exhaling the smoke directly into his face.
“They seem so lifeless, don’t they?” he remarked with a careless smile. “Mine’s already broken. How about we send the girl away and really have some fun?”
Loran licked his lips, staring at him in admiration, naked - in just a corset - sitting right next to him. His cheeks were flushed - something that almost never happened to him - and his eyes were languid, drunk. This was exactly what the baronet had been patiently waiting for for several weeks now - compared to the boy, all the local dolls seemed simply ugly to him. Making him wriggle under him and cry with pleasure - that was the fantasy that pushed Loran to all these childish games, and he could not believe that little brat himself took the initiative. Maybe Loran had been too cautious with him all this time? He would not only have his sweet body, but also the entire Scarlet Branch, and this prospect alone caused him simply uncontrollable delight.
"Darling, why didn’t you say earlier that you wanted to play?" With a powerful kick, he threw the girl away from him, and she, sitting on the floor, looked around in shock, seeming to have sobered up a little.
Morveyn gently pushed the baronet’s chest, making him fall back onto the bed, then straddled him, noting with satisfaction that the stones in his abdomen felt heated to their limit. Turning to the girl, he said:
"Your services are no longer needed, doll. And let them know not to disturb us."
On all fours, she crawled to the door and quickly jumped out, slamming it behind. Morveyn heard her convey a message to the waiter standing guard at the door, and together they walked away down the corridor.
The baronet's hands rested on his hips, squeezing and stroking them.
“It doesn’t take long to fall in love like this” Loran grinned, rising and pressing his lips to Morveyn’s small pink nipple. The young man placed his hand on the baron’s warm chest and pressed, forcing him to pull back.
“Let’s start by playing my way, and then we’ll play yours”. He smiled with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
On Morveyn 's thumb rested a ring adorned with a sharp, claw-like protrusion. With this unexpectedly keen edge, he drew it forcefully along the entire forearm, slicing deeply into the flesh. Dark red, hot droplets dripped onto the baronet's chest. Raising his hand to the lips, he extended his tongue and languidly traced the wound, collecting the blood. Then, he offered his arm to the baronet.
"Care for a taste?"
The baronet's momentary surprise quickly transformed into sensual excitement. He seized Morveyn's arm and pressed his lips to it, greedily sucking the thick liquid. Morveyn's stomach grew even hotter, a fiery tornado intensifying with every lost drop of blood. The sensation was so exquisite it was almost painful. A voluptuous moan escaped his lips as he felt a feverish ecstasy, a mix of hell’s powder and hot stones churning within him. Almost losing consciousness from this primitive pleasure, he screamed, arched his back, and jerked his hand away, collapsing backward onto the pillows.
Several dramatic changes occurred in quick succession. The edges of the wound almost instantly closed up, leaving only a rapidly fading scarlet line. The baronet barely had a moment to be surprised before a scorching heat surged through his mouth and throat, intensifying with alarming speed. It felt as if his very soul was being wrenched from his body—and indeed, it was. Thick red foam bubbled up in his throat, and he clawed desperately at his neck, trying to alleviate the unbearable burning. But his strength waned rapidly, and within half a minute, he went still, his eyes rolling back as he stopped breathing forever. The bloody bubbles on his lips faded and disappeared. The few scarlet drops that fell onto the silk sheets left only faint, discolored stains.
Morveyn lay for a while, catching his breath and staring blankly at the stars visible through the window above the bed. The feverish whirlwind in his stomach subsided, and his mind cleared, though he still felt agitated. Rising to his feet, he circled the bed and checked on the girl. Her breathing remained shallow but steadier. Avoiding direct contact with her skin, he wrapped her in a sheet and placed her beside the baronet’s cooling body.
The baronet lay with an expression of agonizing torment permanently etched on his face, his legs sprawled wide. Around him, on the rumpled sheets, were damp spots and traces of ash; his smoking pipe still smoldered. Morveyn took a handful of powder and generously poured it into the corpse’s open mouth. Anyone who saw the scene would have no doubt that Loran of Acras had died from a dose of Hell’s Powder big enough to kill a horse.
Quickly dressing, Morveyn threw his shoes into his backpack, climbed onto the bed, and reached for the window frame. Using the same claw, he unlatched the hidden lock, pulled himself up, and nimbly jumped onto the roof. Closing the shutter tightly behind him, he climbed to the ridge, walked carefully along it, and made a daring leap to the flat roof of the neighboring building. The distance, a little more than three meters, was easily covered—he rolled and sprang to his feet. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have stood a chance, but now, a storm of unused energy raged inside him, making his very muscles itch with the need to move.
Morveyn retrieved his shoes from his backpack, put them on, and within a few minutes, descended the fire escape, disappearing into the tangled alleys of the city center. The journey home took twice as long; he had to walk quite a distance from the club to hail a taxi to another part of the city. Stepping out of the car on the outskirts of the city, Morveyn summoned the prearranged rental vehicle.
Finally making it to his room through the silent corridors of the estate, he exhaled in relief. Struggling to pull off his boots, he dropped onto the bed face down, feeling utterly drained. The raw energy of the vibrating stones had long since faded somewhere along the way home, leaving his arms and legs trembling with leaden fatigue. And yet, strangely enough, despite all that had happened, his soul—so thoroughly shaken—was finally at peace.
"Whatever happens now, let it be. Exile, prison, removal from the position of falconet, trials, councils, anything. " The important thing is that he managed to complete the task he had been preparing for months—dangerous, shameful, but, in his opinion, absolutely necessary. Without Baronet of Acras, this city and this world would be better off. Unlike the 'diplomatic missions' for the benefit of the Protectorate's interests, this was his decision, one he truly WANTED to see through.
There was only one problem. Morveyn felt unbearably dirty again.