They passed by a woman hunched over, scrubbing furiously at the already pristine base of a statue. Her hands were raw, her nails chipped, and her expression vacant.
"The master is pure. His palace must be pure. No stain. No smudge. No taint. Pure..." she murmured in a hollow, obsessive chant, her rag moving in frantic circles over stone that gleamed under the dim candlelight.
Astarion barely spared her a glance. "Do not bother speaking with them. They're too far gone. Nothing left inside but blind devotion."
Alex, however, slowed his steps and placed a hand on her head. The woman didn’t react, didn’t even seem to notice his presence as his mind reached into hers. Her thoughts were chaos—a fractured maze of repetition and servitude. He could barely piece together anything coherent. A name? A past? Buried beneath layers of subjugation.
Alex withdrew his hand, his face unreadable. "She barely remembers herself."
They moved forward, silent but for the whisper of their steps against the cold floor. Soon, they came upon a massive door of dark iron, its surface glowing faintly with crimson light.
The engraving upon it was grotesque—a symbol of a rat king, a tangled mass of vermin writhing together, their tails entwined in a grotesque unity. Around the image, etched into the very metal itself, were curling lines of script in a language unfamiliar to most, but all too recognizable to Alex.
Memories stirred—not his own, but remnants of Myrkul’s knowledge now embedded in his mind.
Astarion’s voice broke his thoughts.
"There’s writing like this all over the palace—some old, probably dead language of Cazador’s. We were strictly forbidden from learning it."
A ripple in the air caught their attention. From behind a curtain-draped archway to their right, a figure stepped into view. He moved with smooth precision, clad in immaculate crimson robes that hung like liquid silk over his lithe frame. His hair, golden as sunlight, was slicked back, revealing sharp, angular features that twisted in an expression of mild surprise as his gaze fell upon them.
Astarion’s lips curled. "Vilhelm."
The thrall's head tilted, examining them as if he had miscalculated something. "Another guest for the master’s celebration? I’m afraid you’re too late, you’ll have to—" His words cut off abruptly as recognition dawned. His eyes locked onto Astarion, his brows knitting together. "Master Astarion?"
His gaze flickered then to Alex, lingering a fraction longer than necessary before shifting warily to Amanita. She tensed beside Alex, her fingers brushing the hilts of her weapons.
"What are you doing here?" Vilhelm’s voice was suddenly taut. "Why aren’t you downstairs?!"
Astarion scoffed, his patience already wearing thin. "Well, obviously I’m on my way down now. So if you could just point us in the right direction—"
"But you’re too late!" Vilhelm interrupted, his voice rising in alarm. His head snapped around, his expression tightening with barely concealed panic. "The doors have been sealed—the ritual is about to begin!"
Astarion’s expression darkened. He stepped forward, his fangs flashing in irritation. "Speak. Damn it. What’s going on?"
Vilhelm swallowed hard, his eyes darting around like a trapped animal before finally resigning himself to answer. "It’s the master’s ascension. Once the ritual is complete, he will be reborn—more perfect, more powerful than before."
Amanita sucked in a breath, her hands curling into fists.
Vilhelm, as if feeding off his own words, let a twisted, reverent smile creep across his lips. "You should be there. All his children were summoned. He’ll be furious you’re not."
Astarion’s voice was a blade. "Then unseal the door and let us in."
Vilhelm’s smirk faltered. "It’s too late. Godey has sealed them. He won’t open them until the ritual is complete."
Astarion’s nostrils flared. "Cazador entrusted the key to Godey? And where is that sadistic sack of bones?"
Vilhelm hesitated, then took a step back as if to retreat. "Downstairs. In his favorite room. But it won’t matter. The master will be furious when he learns you missed the ritual. He will do such terrible, terrible things to you."
There was something unsettling in the way he spoke—like he was almost pleased by the thought. Then, as if suddenly remembering something urgent, Vilhelm turned sharply and strode down the hallway, vanishing into the shadows.
A moment of silence lingered between them.
"Why didn't you just read his mind and excuse me from speaking with him?" Astarion asked, his voice edged with irritation. The conversation with Vilhelm had clearly left him unsettled, his usual poise slightly frayed.
"Who said I didn’t?" Alex replied with a smirk, his eyes glinting with amusement as he approached the metal door. His expression shifted as his gaze fell upon the engravings carved into its surface, his fingers tracing the intricate lines with quiet reverence.
"These engravings are written in archaic Kozakuran—a rare dialect of an already obscure language," Alex explained, his voice steady but thoughtful. "My knowledge is lacking, but I can make out enough to recognize an incantation. The specifics, however, elude me." His fingers paused against the cold metal, his brow furrowing slightly. "Something is missing."
His gaze moved lower, settling beneath the symbol of the Rat King. A small hollow was carved into the door, its purpose suddenly clear.
"The family signet…" he murmured under his breath, realization dawning. "We need a ring to open the door."
Astarion exhaled sharply, folding his arms. "Tsk. What are we waiting for, then? Godey must have the ring."
But Alex’s gaze had already shifted to Amanita, whose expression had darkened. Her fingers trembled slightly as they slipped inside her coat, emerging with a silvery ring set with a deep red gem. The flickering torchlight caught the facets of the stone, making it gleam like fresh blood.
"That’s the Szarr family ring…" Astarion muttered, his voice tight. "Cazador has one identical."
Amanita hesitated for a moment, then wordlessly handed the ring to Alex.
A tense silence settled between her and Astarion as he glared at her, his expression unreadable.
"I kept the ring as a reminder," Amanita finally said, her voice firm but fragile, the words brittle as if they might shatter under their own weight. "To remind me who I was… and who I never want to become."
Alex observed her quietly, noting the way her fingers clenched into her coat, the barely perceptible quiver in her breath. 'This place is taking its toll on her,' he thought, tucking the ring into his pocket with a quiet nod.
"Aren’t you opening it?" Astarion asked, impatience lacing his tone.
"Not yet," Alex replied, stepping back from the door. "There are still things worth checking in the palace before we head down. And besides—" he smirked slightly "—this is your chance to pulverize that sack of bones."
Astarion’s scowl eased into a smirk of his own. "I can’t wait."
Alex turned toward Amanita and extended his hand.
She looked at it, her fingers twitching slightly before she began to reach out. Then, she hesitated. Her lips parted, as if to say something, but before the words could come, Alex took her hand in his.
Her breath hitched slightly, but then, ever so faintly, a smile appeared on her face.
Without another word, they turned toward the right, stepping through the curtain Vilhelm had disappeared behind.
Astarion, following just behind them, smirked to himself. 'Shadowheart is going to explode when she hears about this.'
They stopped as Alex’s gaze drifted to the right, where an open door yawned before them.
"Something died in there," Astarion muttered, wrinkling his nose at the pungent scent of decay laced with something acrid. "That’s Dufay’s room."
They stepped inside. A grand crimson bed sat in the center, its silk sheets undisturbed, contrasting with the ornate furniture that had begun to gather dust. Shadows stretched long across the chamber, their forms flickering in the dim candlelight.
Their gazes moved toward the left, where a body lay sprawled on the cold stone floor. As they approached, the cause of death became all too clear—a gaping hole had been bored straight through the corpse’s abdomen. Even the floor beneath him was melted away, the acid having eaten through layers of stone like the remains of a failed escape.
"Antwun Dufay," Astarion muttered, his voice devoid of sympathy, yet tinged with curiosity. "One of the other spawns. What happened to him? And don't get me wrong, I’m not sympathetic—just intrigued."
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
Alex’s sharp gaze caught something glinting from beneath the bed. He stepped closer, crouching as he reached for the book peeking out from the shadows. Brushing dust from its cover, he flipped through the brittle pages until he reached the final entry. His voice carried through the dimly lit chamber as he read aloud:
I know enough about what the Master has in mind with his ritual that I refuse to be the stand-in for that missing brat, Astarion. He has already found a replacement for Dalyria. That fool gobbled up the Master's lies, but I will not suffer the same fate. Even if Cazador finds my body, the potion Bonecloak sold me is promised to provide a convincing illusion of death—especially since I’ll leave behind a lookalike potion of acid poison.
My one regret is dear Lurianna—but I simply cannot trust her with the secret of my one chance of escape. When the potion wears off, Cazador will have Ascended and will have need of my services—or he will be no more, and mastery of this place will fall to me.
A moment of silence stretched between them before Astarion let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "Hmm. It seems he drank the wrong potion."
Alex closed the book and turned toward the far wall, where an old chest sat undisturbed. He moved it aside with ease .Without hesitation, he stepped through the wall and in to a concealed room.
Amanita and Astarion followed closely.
In the middle of the secret room lay a werewolf—her body still, her fur matted. A bottle sat beside her, its contents long emptied. Near her outstretched hand lay a folded letter, edges worn and delicate.
Alex bent down, picking it up carefully. His voice softened as he read:
My Darling Dufay,
Despite all your promises that when we went to the afterlife, we’d go together—you went without me.
Or did you? I found your body and the empty bottle—I know you took a potion, but was it poison or something else? Here are two more identical bottles—I’m going to drink one of them and then I’ll join you, one way or another. I love you for eternity.
- Lurianna
Alex exhaled quietly, lowering the letter back beside the fallen werewolf. His mind flickered to a tragic tale of star-crossed lovers, their fate mirroring this very moment.
'Romeo and Juliet,' he mused silently. 'They ended just like the two of them.'
He turned back to Astarion and Amanita, his expression unreadable. "Let’s go downstairs." His voice was quiet, but resolute.
Without another word, they stepped back through the passage, leaving behind the lovers who had gambled with fate—and lost.
They descended further into the depths, passing thralls whose vacant gazes revealed the hollow existence forced upon them. They moved with mechanical precision, their bodies enacting the tasks assigned to them without thought or resistance.
Alex's gaze drifted toward a door on the left. His steps slowed, his posture tensing.
"I can feel something behind that door. Something foul," Alex murmured, his voice low but resolute.
Astarion let out a frustrated sigh. "Alex, come on. I understand you like to leave no stone unturned, but if we waste any more time, Cazador will be done with the ritual."
"Behind that door is Victoria, Leon’s daughter," Alex explained, his voice unwavering.
Astarion's irritation faded in an instant. "What? What is she doing there?" His eyes flickered with something close to unease. "Leon was a sorcerer before he was turned into a spawn. He must have set some kind of trap."
Alex offered a brief nod. "And Dalyria triggered it when she tried to drink her blood."
Without hesitation, he stepped toward the door. A powerful seal had been placed upon it, arcane magic thrumming against its surface. Alex raised his hand, and in a moment, the energy sustaining the spell was absorbed, the barrier vanishing like mist under sunlight.
The door creaked open, revealing the still figure of a child lying just beyond the threshold. Victoria lay face down, her golden hair splayed across the cold stone floor, a small pool of blood glistening beside her. The markings on her neck told the story of her near demise.
Astarion stepped forward but recoiled almost instantly, an aura of withering energy pressing against him.
Alex approached, unaffected by the lingering curse. Kneeling beside Victoria’s small form, he placed his hand gently upon her back, channeling his power into her still body. The curse unraveled, its dark tendrils dissipating into nothingness. The child stirred.
Amanita and Astarion watched as the lifeless girl took a shuddering breath. Her eyelids fluttered open, revealing wide, frightened eyes.
"What happened?" Victoria's voice trembled with panic as she spotted Astarion. She gasped, shrinking away. "Is the monster gone?" she whispered, her gaze darting toward Alex in search of reassurance.
Alex rested a comforting hand on her small shoulder. "Victoria, listen to me."
The girl hesitated but then met his eyes and nodded, her trust placed entirely in his steady presence.
"We are going to save your father and free him from the monster’s grasp," Alex promised, his voice firm yet soothing. "I will teleport you away to a safe place. My friend will take care of you until we are done."
Victoria glanced hesitantly between Astarion and Amanita before nodding. She swallowed hard but didn’t resist.
The girl vanished, sent safely to the magic tower where she would be protected.
Amanita observed Alex with a small, approving smile, while Astarion, tapping his foot impatiently, let out a theatrical groan.
"Are we done here?" he asked, his voice edged with exasperation.
Alex merely nodded, his focus already shifting. Without another word, he turned on his heel and headed toward Godey’s room.
They opened the wooden door and stepped inside.
The room was suffocating in its macabre stillness, the scent of stale blood and decay thick in the air. The stone walls were blackened with old soot, the remnants of fires once lit for grotesque purposes. Crude symbols, carved into the stone, told a silent tale of suffering. The floor was uneven, dirt and dried blood embedded deep into its cracks.
Dirty, tattered mats lay strewn haphazardly around, stained beyond recognition. A cluster of coffins rested in one corner, their lids partially ajar, revealing skeletal remains contorted in agony. Chains hung from the ceiling, swaying slightly in the draft, some ending in rusted hooks still crusted with dried flesh. Iron racks lined the far wall, their wicked implements gleaming in the dim torchlight—saws, blades, and pincers stained from years of torment.
Their gazes moved ahead, where an armored skeleton stood motionless, its hollow sockets burning with an eerie light.
As they walked closer, the skeleton chuckled—a dry, raspy sound that sent shivers down their spines. "So, so, you've come home, little one. And come to visit Godey in your old kennel."
Astarion’s lips curled into a wicked smile as purple, ethereal armor flared to life around his arms. He clenched his fist, slamming it into his palm with a deafening crack, his knuckles glowing with raw power.
"Time to pay for what you have done to me, son of a bitch," Astarion growled, his voice dripping with malice.
Alex took Amanita by the arm and moved a few steps back, their eyes locked onto the unfolding carnage. Astarion launched himself at Godey with unrelenting fury. His blows shattered bone and metal alike, sending shards flying across the chamber. The skeleton let out a strangled chuckle before it was silenced, reduced to a crumbling heap of scraps and dust.
Astarion stood over the remains, his breath heavy with exertion. His crimson eyes burned with satisfaction as he spit onto the pile of debris.
Lifting his foot, now encased in his spectral armor, he brought it down with tremendous force. The impact sent a thunderous crack through the room, splintering the stone beneath the remnants of Godey. Dust billowed up, swirling in the dim light.
His ethereal armor dissipated as he straightened, turning to Alex and Amanita. His expression was one of dark triumph.
"I can't wait to do the same to Cazador," Astarion murmured, his voice thick with anticipation. His crimson gaze glowed as he strode forward, his steps echoing in the now silent chamber.
Alex took out the ring Amanita had given him and carefully placed it into the hollow slot. The metal clicked softly into place, a perfect fit. He stepped back, and with a deep groan, the door swung wide open, revealing the ballroom beyond.
The sight that met them was grotesque.
The room bore the same grand design as the rest of the castle—high ceilings, ornate columns, and an air of faded opulence. But whatever grandeur it once held had been reduced to ruin. The long banquet table, once laden with decadent meals, was now overturned, its silver platters clattering uselessly onto the floor. Broken bottles of alcohol spilled their contents, mingling with the deep puddles of blood that painted the room in a macabre sheen. The remains of guests—torn limbs, half-devoured torsos, and gnawed bones—were strewn across the ground like discarded scraps. Chairs were overturned, some shattered, their splintered wood soaked in crimson.
They weren’t alone.
All the creatures feasting on the carnage slowly turned to face them. Wolves as large as oxen, their yellow eyes gleaming with feral hunger. Gnolls, their blood-streaked maws curled in snarls. Bats clinging to the walls, their wings stretching, twitching in anticipation. Swarms of rats scurried across the remains, their chittering filling the air like whispers of the dead.
And then there was the werewolf. Its thick, matted gray fur was slick with gore, its muscles taut beneath its hide. It stepped forward, its feral gaze locking onto Astarion.
Amanita’s hands twitched toward her crossbows, her breath slow and measured.
"You!" The werewolf’s voice was a guttural growl, low and menacing. "You can’t be here. No one in. No one out."
Astarion raised a single finger, utterly unbothered. "You’re new. Cazador never kept guard dogs before."
The werewolf inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring as it took in Astarion’s scent. Recognition dawned in its bestial features. "The runaway spawn!" It stepped closer, its claws flexing. "You reek of the Master’s scent. Come with us. Come to Master."
Astarion’s expression darkened, his lip curling. "Excuse me?" he said, his tone one of pure offense. "I will not be ordered around in my own house by some mangy, overgrown mutt."
The werewolf’s lips peeled back in a vicious grin. "We bring you to him… We get his favor."
The creatures stirred at its words, abandoning their grisly meals, their collective movements like a tide shifting toward the trio. A hungry, bloodthirsty tide.
And then, just as they were about to lunge—
They froze.
Their bodies went rigid, mid-motion. Their glassy eyes lost their fire, their movements ceased entirely. Amanita and Astarion glanced around, realizing that every single creature in the room had been rendered motionless, as if some invisible force had seized their minds.
Alex snapped his fingers.
The beasts collapsed where they stood, hitting the blood-slicked floor in unison. They weren’t dead—shallow breaths still moved their chests—but they were utterly, completely incapacitated.
Alex crouched before the unconscious werewolf, his piercing gaze locking onto the creature’s still form. He reached out, his fingertips barely grazing its fur, and then—
Memories flooded his mind.
A massacre in the ballroom. Blood. Screams. The floor awash with entrails. And then—Cazador. Striding through the chaos, his expression unreadable. Behind him, his chosen spawns, silent and obedient, following him toward a door. The door to the left.
Alex’s gaze flicked to that very door, now standing ominously in the corner of the ballroom.
But something else caught his attention.
Amanita stood stiff, her hands trembling slightly as her eyes locked onto a different door—the one on the right.
Alex moved to her side, placing a firm, reassuring hand on her shoulder. A shuddering sigh escaped her lips, her body trembling under the weight of memories resurfacing like ghosts from the past.
"I’m sorry…" she murmured. "But seeing this place… it brings back a lot of bad memories. That room—up the ladder—is the attic. The place where Cazador kept me locked away for over ten years."
Her voice was tight, brittle. Her eyes swept the ballroom, and for a moment, she wasn’t here with them—she was back in time, reliving the past. She saw herself, younger, more naïve, walking into this very room, unaware of what was about to happen to her. Unaware of how she would be changed, broken. The degradation. The loneliness. The years stolen from her.
A warm touch pulled her back.
Her gaze snapped to Alex. His hand had slid down to take hers, fingers wrapping around her own. She met his eyes—unflinching, piercing, beautiful. They were steady, grounding her in the present.
She took a slow, deep breath.
"You know," Astarion said, examining his nails, his tone deliberately casual. "You’re not the only one with past traumas. You can relive them all you want—after we’re done with Cazador."
Amanita exhaled, her fingers tightening around Alex’s for a brief moment before she released them. She turned to Astarion and nodded.
"You’re right, Astarion."
The weight of the past still clung to her, but she straightened, setting her jaw. There would be time to mourn later. But first—
Cazador had to die.