Redmane's return to the chapel was met with a warm welcome from Letha, her son Kale, and the Magister Helmold.

Not much from the other two, unless the crone’s inscrutable smile counted.

The crone in the corner still sat in the corner, as if she hadn't moved at all. She rocked in her seat, looking as though she were lost in pleasant thoughts.

Aric Morholt took one look at the greataxe Redmane carried against his shoulder, and his eyes widened in horror.

"You..."

Redmane grinned and nodded.

"Yes, me. You'd better sit still now. If you made a sudden movement, there's no telling what I might do."

The color drained out of Aric's face.

Magister Helmold smiled and gave Redmane a bow. "Well done, good sir. I wish I could have been of greater assistance, but I'm afraid I'm not so useful in a fight."

Redmane nodded and thanked Helmold for watching over the people here, but then he turned to Letha with a solemn look on his face that she immediately seemed to understand. She frowned too, glanced past Redmane at the closed door to the chapel. Realizing Sven wouldn't be walking through it.

"There are bodies in the gaol," said Redmane. "I think you should go down there and see if he's among them, when you're ready."

Letha gave Redmane a sad smile and nodded. "I shall, my lord."

He smiled back. Partly because she called him 'my lord.'

And then he turned to address the small group of them as one.

"I've completed the Tasks the System set out for me, and Häerz Castle is my reward. This place is now a Sanctuary. You're free to stay or go as you please, but I'd caution against leaving now. The Blight has covered all of Volos."

Letha gasped. Kale stared, wide eyed. Helmold and Aric Morholt visibly paled. If the crone reacted, Redmane couldn't tell. To prove his claim, Redmane conjured the map of the continent for all to see. Letha and Kale gazed at its detail in fascination, while Helmold looked like he'd seen such a thing many times before.

"I'm going out into Midva Forest next," said Redmane. "If it too becomes my possession, then I'll have the town of Barograd after. Any innocents I find, I'll send here to the castle."

Helmold cleared his throat politely. "Ah, did you say you've claimed this Sanctuary? That would mean you've created a Faction of your own, yes?"

Redmane nodded.

The Magister smiled and bowed again. "Then I humbly request membership in your Faction, good sir Redmane."

"Me too!" said Letha.

"Me three!" said Kale.

Redmane smiled. "I accept you all."

It took some searching, and help from Helmold, to get through the Faction Menu trees and locate the correct selection. Once there, he added the three of them.

—

Roster of House Redmane

Faction Leader:

Redmane - Level 22 Hunter (Predator)

Faction Members:

Helmold Brecht - Level 6 Magister (Tutelary)

Letha Shedomir (Classless)

Kale Shedomir (Classless)

—

It wasn't much, but it was a start.

Little Kale frowned at his entry on the list. "It says we're Classless."

"Well, you are," said Redmane.

"How do we get Classes?"

"You must receive Astral Communion and become Imbued, like us," said Helmold. "But you would have to wait until you're of age. Your mother could if she wished, but I think it's best if she stayed by your side."

"Agreed," said Letha, with a wry smile. "Kale and I can attend to the housework and cooking. With only the five of us to feed it shouldn't be much trouble."

Kale pouted up at his mother. "Chores and cookin? Baahh!"

She smirked down at him and ruffled his hair.

Redmane walked past them then, approaching Aric Morholt in the back. The young noble looked as though he'd like to bolt out the window. The look on his face was an amusing blend of contempt and sheer terror.

"You know, I have you to thank for all this," said Redmane.

Aric was breathing a little faster. His gaze darting about for an escape route.

"For my uncle's hospitality? His generosity? Yes, yes you should."

Redmane crouched down so they were eye to eye, Lord Morholt's axe handle resting against his shoulder.

"I overheard you speaking to the head cook about the body you found by the river," he said. "The one you told him to feed me. Well, he did as you commanded. And behold the results."

"If only I could take it back, you little f-freak," Aric stammered.

Normally the lordling could speak cutting words with finesse. Now he seemed to lack the capacity.

Redmane grinned. "Alas, you cannot."

Stolen story; please report.

Then he caught Aric's throat in his hand and squeezed.

The young Morholt squawked and grasped Redmane's wrist with both hands, kicking his feet wildly, his eyes bulging as his face lost color. Redmane stood and dragged him out of the chapel. Across the castle yard. Down into the undercroft beneath the keep.

To the kitchen and larder.

He dragged Aric into the cell he'd been made to live in for so long he'd lost track of the passage of time entirely.

He slammed last Morholt's head against the stone wall a few times, to make him senseless.

"Remember sending your thugs in here, to do this to me?" Redmane asked calmly, between blows. "Because you were bored? To hear a little screaming?"

And then he dropped him on his rear, hunched over and fetched the manacle. He'd snapped it when he made his escape, unfortunately. So he had to secure it by taking the cold iron chain, wrapping it tight around the young man’s ankle, and tying the chain into a knot.

The metal bent so taut he heard a bone snap.

Aric cried out in pain and grabbed his broken ankle with both hands, bleeding from the temple, tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. Redmane fetched the muzzle, took a fistful of Aric's hair and jerked his head back to secure it to his face and then snap the lock shut.

"There."

He stood and reviewed his handiwork. Aric Morholt, sat in the muck, chained and muzzled, his eyes full of pain and fear.

It was a start.

“You’re a monster,” said Aric, his voice shaking. “And you always will be.”

Redmane stared at him for a short while, not saying anything.

After such a long time in this stinking hole he stood free, and the prince of his tormentors sat in chains at his feet.

It felt good.

But it made him think.

Should he just kill the whelp now?

If he were to leave him here, should he not expect vengeance?

It’s what Redmane had wanted in that position. And the longer he waited, the brighter the desire burned.

But the thought sat upon the assumption that Aric Morholt was capable of escape, which seemed unlikely.

"Letha will remember to feed you," he said, as he walked out of the cell, closed its door and secured the lock. "You should hope she does, at least."

He walked out of the kitchen feeling a small sense of satisfaction.

But the sight of the old crone made him stop in his tracks suddenly.

She awaited him at the foot of the stairwell, hands clasped in front of her, a smile on her weathered lips. Under that cowl her face was deeply wrinkled, but her eyes were such a luminous green he thought they might begin to glow.

"Who are you?" he asked.

She didn't answer. A long moment went by in silence.

Then the crone walked toward him, and as she did so she lifted her clasped hands, palms up, to reveal what they held.

It was a dark green seed. Roughly the size of an eyeball, covered in a zigzagging pattern of natural grooves like a brain.

"Young Lord," said the crone, in a voice which sounded as ancient as she looked. "If thou seekest prosperity and strength for thy newborn domain, plant this seed in yonder castle yard, and sow it with thy blood."

Redmane's eyes narrowed. He stared at the seed in the crone's hands. He was no expert on horticulture, but he'd never seen one like it. The old woman simply waited with an unwavering smile on her face.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Thine other half," said the crone.

"I don't understand."

She let out a soft, cackling laugh, and pressed the seed into Redmane's hand.

"Well met, Lord of Hunger," she said. "A parting word of caution for thee. Not all who aid thee are thy allies, and not all who fight thee are thy foes."

Redmane blinked. "You offer aid right now. Do you mean to tell me you're my foe?"

She cackled again, and this time the sound was so resonant it echoed off the stone walls in every direction with such force that dust shook free from the ceiling. Rats scampered away at top speed. A shadow fell over her form, blacker than night, and all at once the laughter and her silhouette vanished.

Redmane stood there, stunned by the display. His gaze shifted to the strange seed in his hand.

His other half...

What in the gods’ name did she mean?

He rolled the seed about in his palm, considering it. In his mind there was a brief tug of war between caution and curiosity.

Curiosity prevailed.

Redmane closed his fist around the seed and climbed the stairs. Above, in the castle yard, he selected an empty patch of lawn by the inner wall, to the right of the keep and the left of the stables and kennels. He crouched and dug a hole in the dirt, placed the seed in it.

Sow the seed with thy blood, she said.

He cut the pad of his forefinger with Morholt’s axe, reached out with it and let droplets of blood spatter down on the skin of the green seed, one at a time, until it was coated all over. Then he pushed the earth over it and patted it down.

Still he wondered what she meant. His other half. He felt whole enough, especially now. He felt more whole than he had for as far back as his memory could reach. Full of life, full of hunger.

He looked up, noticing the gloam creeping over the castle walls. Dawn was here. He hadn’t slept a wink and didn’t feel the urge to. Behind him, on the other side of the drawbridge, lay the world beyond.

And all his future conquests.

The domain of House Redmane was born last night. Today it would grow.

He stood, the axe of the Morholts over his shoulder, and strode across the drawbridge toward Midva Forest.

----------------------------------------

Governess Mecia Porsena sat at the desk in her lavishly appointed office, awaiting her Praetor’s report. The marble floors shined like a mirror, and the dark wood of the desk itself was polished to a similar luster. To the left and right, fully laden bookshelves flanked her, and directly behind it hung a mural sized map of Volos.

Her eyebrow arched when Lar Tathvaal entered the office instead of Jarel Craith.

“I believe I called for my Praetor,” she said, her tone flat.

“You did indeed, Governess,” said the smiling Dicentis. “But as he is most diligently executing your orders and working to keep us all safe and sound, I’ve come to impart what we’ve learned in his stead.”

Mecia noted that her steady gaze didn’t wilt Lar Tathvaal the way it did the others. She stared at him and he smiled in answer. It was almost a smirk.

She’d have to find a way to break him, else he was sure to become increasingly insufferable.

“We believe the Blight originated in north central Volos. Our conclusion is based on a review of the timeline of the Corruption of each zone. It appears to have emanated outward from somewhere around a town called Barograd, though our method of determining such is a bit imprecise. It could have originated from an adjacent Zone, of which there are two; Midva Forest and Häerz Castle.”

“Are there any Imbued in this area?”

“There are,” Lar answered with a nod. “One Coterie and two individuals, a Magister and a Hunter, all of them quite low level. Though we shall have to wait until a Faction activates its Pharos to contact them, we may not have to wait overlong. The System registered the creation of a new Faction just this morning.”

“Splendid,” said the Governess. “Do we yet understand the precipitating event?”

Lar’s smile turned wry. “Not just yet, Governess, but we’re working on a lead.”

“Oh? No need to be coy about it, tell me what you’re working on. Unless it’s nothing and you’re stalling for time.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” said Lar, though he was concealing a grin, badly. “This lead is the reason Jarel is presently indisposed, actually. He’s speaking with a Sicarius Coterie he’d dispatched to the area recently.”

Mecia’s eyebrow rose again. “The area where the Blight originated? What were we doing there?”

“It appears our efforts to convert a local demigod failed, and we had to resort to other measures.”

The Governess knew precisely what he meant by ‘other measures.’

It was procedure. Mortal or divine, those who refused to submit to the rule of Numantia met a swift end.

“Are you suggesting the murder of this being somehow set off a Blight across the entire continent?” she asked.

“That doesn’t seem to be the case,” said Lar. “But all the same, Jarel is interrogating his team thoroughly.”

The Governess sat back in her chair, with a frown on her lips. Surely the activities of the Sicarius would be related to whatever this was. But how? She’d never heard of such a thing.

On the other hand, it could be entirely unrelated. Numantia colonized thousands of worlds. If she looked into it, she would likely find records of similar cases elsewhere, which would help her figure out what happened, why, and what to do about it.

She thought about what Jarel said last night, about heredity.

“Bring me whatever we have on the genealogy of the peoples of Volos,” she said.

Lar Tathvaal bowed gracefully. “At once.”