The air was thick with a smoky blend of oil and iron. Onxyburg's skyline was punctuated by belching factory smokestacks. Underneath the sound of gears and metal, the city's heartbeat pulsed in a symphony of grinding wheels, hissing steam, and clattering tracks.
Shadowy figures moved through the soot-filled air, their faces obscured by shawls and goggles. They ranged from the hunched-over Pucks repairing clockwork contraptions on the corners to the finely dressed human lords and ladies stepping from their coal-fueled carriages.
All were pieces in a grand mosaic that made up the House of Neddingstein Nation's crowning jewel—Onxyburg.
It was said that Onxyburg was a city where appetites of all kinds could be satiated. If a Witch were hungry for knowledge and power, the grande libraries had ancient grimoires and cutting-edge magical schematics.
If riches were what lords, adventures and beggars sought, merchants and traders buzzed through the bazaars, making deals that could build empires overnight. And with some luck, maybe a demon could be near.
But if it was lust or blood that drove them, well, they could find that too, in the dimly lit corners and hidden alcoves, beds or any potential places of debauchery you can think of.
The cobblestone streets seemed to whisper temptation as people passed by. One secret for everyone.
Over there, a cluster of alchemists huddled, their hands glowing with Atua-charged energies as they debated over arcane formulae.
Across the way, a shifty-eyed man offered a vial of some illicit substance to an impatient young lordling. Even the buildings seemed to be in on the conspiracies—the walls closing in like onlookers eager for the next act in the ongoing drama that was Onxyburg.
Under a sky awash with twilight hues, Restelo stood atop the balcony of his secluded villa. A murmur of evening activities echoed from Onxyburg in the distance, but here, all was hushed.
A crow, black as the secrets he relished, spiralled down from the heavens to rest upon his outstretched finger. The bird's eyes were like twin beads of golden ember, mirroring Restelo's own piercing red gaze.
"Well, well. What tidings do you bring, emissary of the shadows?" he murmured, his voice laced with a chilling elegance.
With a shuddering flutter of its feathers, the crow vanished. In its place appeared an ornate card that read, "The Morningstar invites you for the grand opening."
Restelo's red eyes narrowed, gleaming like rubies under the sliver of moonlight of his hair. "The Morningstar, is it? Now, that's a name I've not heard in an eternity. Curious indeed."
The door creaked open, revealing a chamber bathed in an unsettling red glow. Hung from the walls were cadavers, their life force drained, eyes vacant. Restelo's nostrils flared at the acrid smell of coagulated blood. In the midst of this gory tableau sat his latest creation, a vision of malevolent beauty. A spawn with long, white hair cascaded down her back like a frozen waterfall, her eyes a molten red as if borrowing their hue from the pits of hell.
With a look of annoyance marring his otherwise immaculate visage, Restelo sidestepped a pool of blood and took a seat in the only clean chair in the room. "Must you make such a mess?" he said, shaking his head. "You're tarnishing the very notion of what it is to be a vampire."
"I'm hungry!" she snapped, her fangs glistening with fresh blood.
"Ah, but the insatiable hunger that you feel is precisely the lesson here," Restelo retorted, his voice dripping with an exasperated formality. "You must learn discipline, restraint. A true vampire is a master of their desires, not a slave to them."
She glared up at him from her position on the floor, one hand still clutching the limp wrist of her latest victim. "So, when will I become a true vampire, then?"
Restelo's red eyes met hers, and for a moment, a flicker of doubt crossed his face. "You're not ready. You're nowhere near ready. And I find myself contemplating whether I've erred in my judgment of you."
Her eyes narrowed, taking on a dangerous glint. "You're regretting me?"
He sighed, a low, rumbling sound that filled the room like the distant peal of a funeral bell. "Perhaps it's time to correct my mistake," he said, his tone tinged with a sadness she had never heard before.
Her breath hitched, "You don't love me anymore?" For the first time, the weight of his words seemed to penetrate her rebellious demeanour. She stared at him, waiting for him to pronounce her fate.
Restelo leaned back, steepling his fingers before his face as he considered her. After a moment that stretched like an eternity, he spoke.
"I'll give you one more chance. An opportunity to show me you can be more than this...wild animal you've become."
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
"And if I can't?"
Restelo's eyes darkened. "Then, my dear, you will be nothing more than a cautionary tale, a footnote in the annals of my long existence."
The woman, her eyes locked onto his, rose deliberately from a carpet of fallen bodies. Each step she took toward him resonated with a silent promise of defiance. "Restelo, do you still love me?"
His lips curled into a mirthless smile. "Ah, the desire is burning in you, isn't it?"
With her chin lifted, eyes unyielding, she nodded. "Tell me. Tell me you do."
Restelo's hand cradled her cheek, his eyes meeting hers in a gaze that was both tender and severe. "Such a sweet girl," he murmured, his words laced with a paradoxical mix of affection and disappointment, "in such a sour world."
In an instant, his grip tightened, and with a swift, surgical movement, her head was separated from her body. Her lifeless form collapsed to the ground, disintegrating into ash that mingled with the other remains in the room.
Restelo stood there for a moment, his eyes colder now, like shards of red ice. "You were given the gift of eternity," he said softly to the pile of ash that had once been his creation, "but you lacked the character to wield it."
As he stepped out of the room, a sense of grim satisfaction settled over him. His expression was unreadable as he closed the door behind him, shutting away the consequences of his latest judgment.
It was time to focus on other matters now—like that intriguing invitation from The Morningstar.
"I wonder, how is that little piece of shit, Adamastor."
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Nord sat alone in her study, surrounded by piles of elegant parchment, each one bearing the flowery script of RSVPs. It was a sea of affirmative responses, and the flood of letters seemed never-ending. Each one she opened added another note of trepidation to her heart. On one hand, the overwhelming acceptance filled her with a sense of accomplishment. On the other, it filled her with dread.
What if she couldn't handle it? What if she'd bitten off more than she could chew? How could she host a grand event when she felt like she was navigating through a labyrinth with no exit? Adamastor seemed to have an uncanny ability to orchestrate events with graceful ease, but trusting him was another story. His very presence unnerved her, his confidence often bordering on arrogance.
And then there was Baal. Each day seemed to tether her more deeply to him, and it unsettled her. He'd become her anchor in the midst of chaos, consistently reliable, perpetually there. It wasn't just that he hadn't failed her. It was that he seemed incapable of it. And that scared her more than anything. What if she became dependent on him, and then he left?
The thought clawed at her, and she felt ashamed for even considering it, but as long as Merlin remained a factor, Baal would stay. And that thought—a hope anchored in someone else's existence—made her question the person she was becoming. Since when had she allowed fear and dependency to shape her decisions? Since when had she become this... selfish?
The haunting strains of a violin’s melody wove through the air, seeping into the walls of Nord's study and through the tangles of her fraught thoughts. It was Baal's playing, she could tell. There was an unmistakable nuance to his music—a raw, emotive quality that had the power to both console and challenge.
As the notes floated toward her, each one seemed to sweep away a layer of her apprehension, filling the emptied spaces with something closer to clarity. Nord realized the sheer artistry of it; the music was not just the skilful manipulation of strings and bow but a language, and Baal was fluent. Adamastor had been right: Demons wielded instruments as if they were extensions of their very souls.
Yet, knowing it was Baal who played made it all the more touching. She found herself tethered to each note, to the sweep of his bow, to the quiet pauses between movements. It was as though he was speaking directly to her, acknowledging her fears and her hopes, and telling her it was okay to feel both.
She felt the urge to go to him, to stand in the doorway and lose herself in the music, but she hesitated. There was a vulnerability in that choice, an admission of her dependence on him, and the thought stopped her in her tracks. Instead, she rose from her desk and quietly left the study, retreating to the sanctuary of her bedroom.
"This is video 06. I'm Nord Morningstar, and I will be leaving Earth for Nyu soon. Very soon."
Taking a deep breath, she sighed, her gaze momentarily shifting off-camera as if trying to gather herself. "Look, I've been living it up these past few days—like a last hurrah or something. But it's crunch time, and I've got to record this. If the journey wipes my memories... well, this has to exist."
She clenched her fists, deliberating. "Baal doesn't get it. He can't comprehend that there are ways to make someone happy even when they are not physically with you. That was a faux pas that I assumed since the beginning. We worked on this idea—schematics, blueprints, if you will. He calls them 'keys.'"
Her eyes narrowed slightly, intrigued by her own words. "These 'keys' are unique. They activate spells infused with his Atua Na—a rare trait for a demon to even possess. So, it's not just mumbo jumbo; it's significant. Each key is a part of Baal, his own magic."
Leaning in closer to the camera, she lowered her voice. "Here's the snag: How do I take these spells to Nyu without losing them or their functionality? That's the million-dollar question, isn't it?"
She paused, letting the words hang in the air, her eyes almost piercing through the screen.
"Oh, one more thing," she said, her expression softening into a chuckle. "If you find yourself staring at your reflection in the mirror, wondering what the hell's going on, just know this: there's a folder on the desktop. It's labelled 'The Keys.'"
She leaned back, her eyes glinting with a cocktail of humour and earnestness. "Inside, you'll find all the schematics, detailed explanations, what each key does—the whole shebang. I've documented it as meticulously as I could. So, future me, if you're confused, that's your starting point."
Her laughter faded, replaced by a sobering reality that tightened her expression. "I just hope that I—or you—will be wise enough to use them effectively. Without Baal, well, it's going to be a whole different ballgame."
Nord's eyes met the camera's lens one final time as if trying to imprint her current self onto her future self, to pass on that wisdom, that courage. "So, here's to unlocking the answers, right? Let's just hope we're as clever as we think we are. But if you're wondering about my -yours- little obsession with tattoos, well, this is the story."
[https://i.postimg.cc/HxHH21Xt/Screenshot-2023-09-12-113428.png]
> NA: The cloud synchronization is clearly a bug created by Nyu’s magic