The cobblestones beneath Erik Marlowe’s boots felt both familiar and alien. The streets of his hometown, once bustling with vitality, now carried a heavy stillness, as if the very soul of the place had been hollowed out. He pulled his hood lower, the fine fabric of his cloak, a gift from the High Magus; shimmering faintly in the dying light. It was dusk, and shadows stretched long across the roads, casting jagged shapes over crumbling walls and broken windows.

He passed groups of people, some gaunt and hungry, others shying away from him as if he carried the plague. The vibrancy of his youth had been replaced by desperation. The once-busy market square was nearly empty, save for a few haggard merchants trying to peddle their wares to those who could barely afford them.

Erik’s golden-brown eyes flicked upward, catching sight of the Governor’s Mansion perched on the hill, its spires silhouetted against the deepening sky. The sight of it sent a chill through him, though not from fear. Memories stirred; old wounds, deep resentments—but he buried them beneath a calm exterior. His father’s house, his house, stood as a testament to power and privilege, its high walls and marble façade untouched by the decay that had seeped into the town below.

His companions were elsewhere, gathering supplies, leaving Erik to walk these streets alone. Perhaps that was for the best. They wouldn’t understand what it meant to return here, not yet.

As he approached the mansion gates, the two guards stationed there shifted uneasily at his approach. They were strangers to him, dressed in uniforms that bore a northern crest, Lady Eveline’s influence, no doubt. Their posture straightened as they noticed his fine clothes, the deep gold and black embroidery catching the light of the torches lining the road.

“Halt,” one of them barked, stepping forward with a hand on the hilt of his sword.

Erik slowed, his lips curling into a faint smile beneath his hood. “No need for such hostility, gentlemen,” he said smoothly, his voice tinged with amusement. “I come to discuss a matter of trade with the Governor.”

The other guard raised an eyebrow, glancing at his companion. “Trade? And who are you to think you can walk up here unannounced?”

Erik let the question hang in the air, the silence more pointed than any retort. Slowly, he reached into his cloak and withdrew the orb he had purchased from Rashaad. The polished surface shimmered with faint magical energy, casting a soft glow that danced across the guards’ faces.

“This should suffice as my introduction,” Erik said, holding the orb aloft.

The guards exchanged glances, their greed barely concealed. Magic of this caliber was rare, valuable. “Wait here,” the first guard said, disappearing through the gates. The second remained, eyeing Erik warily.

Moments later, Erik was ushered inside, past the iron gates and up the marble steps. The evening air grew cooler as the fires in the braziers outside the mansion flickered against the encroaching dark. Two women, dressed in long crimson and gold robes adorned with sigils of northern royalty, swept past him with an effortless grace.

Their laughter was soft, light, but carried an undertone of intrigue. As they moved, their gazes lingered on him, sliding from his polished boots to the subtle gleam of gold embroidery on his cloak. It wasn’t disdain but something more calculating, as though they were weighing the man beneath the finery, trying to determine whether he belonged or was simply pretending.

Erik caught their eyes, holding their gaze just long enough to send a flicker of amusement across their facees. Let them look, let them wonder. Their hushed words trailed behind them, unintelligible but no doubt about him, their interest as fleeting as their steps.

“This way, sir,” the butler said, his clipped tone echoing faintly through the corridor as Erik followed him deeper into the mansion.

The butler was a man Erik didn’t recognize, his face lined with the weathering of age, his posture stiff and practiced. He moved with the efficiency of someone who had served this house long enough to memorize its every corner yet lacked the warmth Erik had once known in the staff who had cared for the mansion in his youth. There was no curiosity in the butler’s expression, no hint that he questioned Erik’s presence beyond ensuring protocol was followed.

The walk was a quiet one, the soft shuffle of their footsteps on polished marble accompanied only by the faint crackle of torches set along the walls. The light played across Erik’s cloak, the subtle gold and black embroidery catching the flicker of flames. He kept his hands clasped behind his back, his posture regal yet unassuming, his gaze drifting over the details of a house that felt both familiar and foreign.

The tapestries were different; darker in tone, depicting northern victories and sigils that did not belong to the Marlowe family. The air smelled faintly of pine and incense, masking what Erik thought was an underlying metallic tang. His brow furrowed slightly, though his face remained neutral.

After a moment, he spoke, his voice smooth and measured. “Forgive me, but I couldn’t help but notice the Governor’s crest,” Erik gestured subtly toward a banner hanging on the far wall, “it seems… different than I remember.”

The butler’s pace didn’t falter, his gaze remaining forward. “The Governor has taken to adopting symbols reflective of Lady Eveline’s heritage,” he replied curtly, his words devoid of further elaboration.

Erik inclined his head, allowing a faint hum of acknowledgment to escape his lips, though the answer only deepened his curiosity. The silence returned, stretching between them like an unspoken pact to avoid further inquiries.

As they rounded a corner, a maid appeared from a side passage carrying a tray of folded linens. Her steps faltered the moment her eyes met Erik’s, and for a fleeting moment, recognition sparked between them. She knew him, of that Erik was certain.

Her gaze widened, her lips parting slightly as if to speak, but she quickly looked away, her face going pale. The tray tilted in her hands before she steadied it, lowering her head and hurrying past as though nothing had occurred.

Erik’s expression remained impassive, but a flicker of amusement crossed his mind. The game begins, he thought. She wouldn’t speak, her reaction had already told him that much. Fear or loyalty, perhaps both, would keep her silent. But her presence was a reminder that his past lingered here, woven into the walls no matter how much the house had changed.

The butler, for his part, seemed not to notice the exchange. He stopped in front of a tall set of double doors, turning sharply to face Erik. “The Governor will see you now.”

Erik nodded, brushing the faint traces of memory from his thoughts as he stepped forward. The butler pushed open the doors, and Erik walked into the room with the steady confidence of a man who had been here a thousand times before, even if this time, it was an entirely different battlefield.

The Great Hall loomed large, its vaulted ceiling echoing faint murmurs of distant conversations. The Governor sat at the head of a long mahogany table, his fingers idly drumming against the polished surface. His presence was commanding, yet Erik’s attention was drawn to the man standing behind him, Greydawn, cloaked in shadow, his calculating eyes a sharp contrast to the room’s gilded opulence.

Erik stepped forward with measured grace, his boots tapping against the marble floor. His dark cloak swayed as he approached, the gold embroidery glinting faintly under the flickering chandelier light. With a slight bow, Erik gestured toward the ornate case he carried under his arm.

“I bring an offering,” Erik said, his voice smooth and measured, “a relic of immense power, one that could elevate this region to prominence.” He set the case gently on the table.

The Governor leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “You speak with conviction, stranger. Yet you remain nameless. Who are you to offer such gifts?”

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Erik allowed a small smile to curl his lips. “A merchant of opportunity,” he replied. “And an admirer of governance that values strength and foresight. Surely, a man of your stature recognizes the value of such an ally.”

The Governor chuckled, though his tone was laced with suspicion. “Flattery does not buy loyalty, trader. Let us see what your ‘offering’ entails before we speak of alliances.”

At a nod from the Governor, the butler stepped forward. Erik unlatched the case, revealing the demonic sphere within. The room seemed to dim as the orb’s eerie, pulsing light filled the space. Its surface swirled with faint traces of dark energy, like shadows caught in a storm.

The butler hesitated, his hand trembling as it neared the orb. Erik caught the flicker of uncertainty in the Governor’s eyes, the subtle twitch of his jaw. He was beginning to remember.

“You...” the Governor whispered, his voice dropping into a rasp. His eyes fixed on Erik, the veil of confusion lifting as his memories returned in a sudden, jarring wave. “Erik Marlowe.”

Erik remained still, his smile faint but unbroken. “A name I haven’t heard in a very long time.”

The Governor shot to his feet, his chair scraping harshly against the floor. “Guards! Seize this man!” he bellowed, his voice cracking with rage. “Erik Marlowe is a murderer, the killer of my son, Lucian!”

The guards in the room hesitated, their hands on their weapons but their eyes darting between the Governor and the cloaked stranger who radiated an unsettling calm. Erik raised a single hand, his voice cutting through the chaos.

“Lucian...” he said, tasting the name on his tongue. “An unfortunate tragedy, one that cost me more than you can possibly fathom. But before you throw me to the wolves, Governor, you might want to take a closer look at the company you keep.”

Before the Governor could respond, Erik’s gloved hand rested on the hilt of his sword, still sheathed in its black scabbard. A faint hum of energy rippled outward as his demonic power surged. His eyes burned crimson as his vision shifted, the world around him becoming a tapestry of eldritch patterns and distortions.

His gaze swept the room. The polished servants standing near the doors, the guards flanking the Governor, even the butler; all of them shimmered with faint, grotesque outlines. Half the room was infested, their forms twisting and writhing under Erik’s demonic sight.

Erik let out a cold, humorless laugh. “What a delightful gathering,” he said, drawing his sword with a sharp, resonant hiss. “It seems the infestation runs deeper than I thought.”

The guards closest to him lunged, but Erik moved like liquid shadow, sidestepping effortlessly as he unleashed the technique the Grand Magus had taught him. A pulse of raw aura radiated outward, an invisible wave that struck the room like a thunderclap.

The reaction was immediate. The servants screamed, their bodies contorting as their true forms were exposed, limbs elongating, jaws splitting unnaturally wide, eyes glowing with eldritch light. Even the butler let out a guttural screech, his face splitting into a horrific grin as his skin peeled away like old paper.

The Governor stumbled back, his face pale with horror. “What... what is this?” he stammered, his voice trembling.

“Your trusted servants,” Erik replied coldly, “are nothing more than puppets of the Eldrtich.”

Greydawn stepped forward, his voice calm but laced with malice. “Impressive, Marlowe. I didn’t think you’d catch on so quickly.”

Erik’s eyes snapped to him. “So, you’re the architect of this little infestation.”

Greydawn smiled faintly, his hand resting on the hilt of a dagger that pulsed with faint eldritch energy. “The Governor may be blind to his allies, but I’ve been waiting for this moment since I heard what you did in Ebonfield.”

The tension snapped as the stained-glass windows shattered simultaneously on either side of the hall. Vesper landed gracefully to Erik’s left, her blade igniting with the searing blue light of the Sword of Akron. On the opposite side, Berndhardt crashed down with his massive executioner’s axe, the ground cracking beneath its weight.

“Looks like the party started without us,” Vesper said, her voice sharp and playful.

Berndhardt grinned, his hulking frame radiating menace as he hefted his axe. “About time we stopped sneaking around.”

Erik didn’t glance at them, his focus fixed on the shifting eldritch forms writhing in the room. “Keep them contained,” he said calmly, his voice cutting through the chaos.

Erik’s gaze locked onto Greydawn, the man standing behind the Governor like a shadow given form. His presence was a quiet storm, restrained yet crackling with an almost imperceptible menace. The faint glow of eldritch energy curled at his fingertips, as though the void itself answered his call.

“You will pay for what you did to my father. You will pay for what you did to me,” Erik said, his voice low and measured, cutting through the chaos with a chilling finality. “I’ll deal with you.”

Greydawn tilted his head, his lips curling into a smile that didn’t touch his cold, piercing eyes. “You speak as if you have the advantage, Marlowe,” he said, his tone smooth and mocking, like a blade sheathed in velvet.

Then the air shifted. Greydawn’s aura exploded outward, the temperature in the room plummeting as the faint glow of eldritch energy transformed into a pulsing, suffocating force. Shadows writhed along the walls like living things, and the faint screech of distant, unseen horrors filled the space. The Governor stumbled backward, his face pale as sweat beaded on his brow.

Greydawn began to laugh, a manic, resonant sound that echoed in Erik’s ears like nails on glass. His laughter grew louder, more unhinged, as he stepped forward, eldritch tendrils curling and snapping in the air around him.

“Easy” Greydawn sneered, his laughter subsiding into a cruel grin. “It was laughable how easy it was! Your father; so noble, so righteous cracked with the slightest touch. A whisper here, a nightmare there, and soon he was nothing more than a puppet. A shell of the man you thought you knew.”

Erik’s fists clenched at his sides, the demonic energy inside him thrumming like a coiled serpent.

Greydawn’s voice dropped, thick with mockery. “He begged for clarity, you know. Begged for the visions to stop. But oh, I wasn’t finished with him.” His grin widened, his gaze locking with Erik’s. “And you? You were the perfect little tragedy. The devoted son who became the perfect scapegoat. Did you ever wonder, how easily he signed your fate away? How willingly he traded you for a moment of peace?”

Erik’s teeth clenched, his voice calm but sharp as a blade. “You should have killed me when you had the chance.”

Greydawn let out another laugh, sharp and cold. “Kill you? Oh, no. That wasn’t the plan. You were meant to vanish” He gestured toward the Governor, his long fingers moving with theatrical flair.

The Governor flinched as Greydawn’s hand pointed directly at him. “Look at him,” Greydawn spat, his voice dripping with disdain. “Another willing puppet, dancing to the strings of a master he doesn’t even know exists. Pathetic. You should feel right at home, Marlowe, surrounded by the remnants of your family’s glory; rotting away piece by piece.”

The Governor’s face twisted with confusion and horror, his voice trembling. “Greydawn, what is the meaning of this?”

But Greydawn ignored him, his attention fixed on Erik, his smile widening as eldritch tendrils swirled more violently around him. “Come then, Marlowe. Show me what the slave turned-merchant turned ghost has learned in his exile. Entertain me, if you can.. Hopefully more than that brat Lucian did when I tore his throat out.”

The Governor’s eyes widened, his lips trembling. “You... What are you saying?”

Greydawn stepped closer, his eldritch aura coiling around him like a living thing. “Oh, you poor fool. You still don’t see it, do you?” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Lucian didn’t die by Erik Marlowe’s hand. No, Governor. That was me.”

The room seemed to freeze, the weight of Greydawn’s words crashing down like a thunderclap. The Governor’s breath hitched, his body trembling as the truth unraveled before him.

“You...” The Governor’s voice cracked, his face contorting in equal parts horror and fury. “You killed my son? You lied to me? You—”

“Lied to you?” Greydawn interrupted, his laughter cutting through the Governor’s outburst like a blade. “No, Governor. I freed you. Lucian was a weakness, just as Erik was a weakness to his father. You were blinded by sentiment, held back by the chains of family. And look at what you’ve achieved since I removed them.”

“You...” The Governor’s voice was barely a whisper now, his hands shaking as they gripped the arms of his chair. His eyes darted to Erik, then back to Greydawn. “You used me. You made me betray my family, my honor... my own blood...”

Greydawn smirked, stepping back as if admiring his handiwork. “Betrayal is such an ugly word. I prefer to think of it as... liberation.”

The Governor rose to his feet, his face twisted in rage. “You monster! You’ll pay for what you’ve done!”

But Greydawn merely laughed, his voice echoing off the walls like a cacophony of madness. “Oh, Governor, if only you had the spine to act. But don’t worry, I have no intention of letting you bore me with hollow threats.”

Greydawn raised a hand, eldritch energy crackling at his fingertips. Erik, however, stepped forward, his sword gleaming as it caught the dim light of the room letting an even more intense Aura fill the room.

“Enough,” Erik said, his voice sharp and commanding.

The Governor turned to Erik, his expression torn between desperation and shame. “Erik” he said, his voice unsteady. “If... if what he says is true...”

“It is,” Erik interrupted coldly, his eyes burning crimson with purpose. “You were his pawn, just as my father was. But I’m not here for apologies, Governor. I’m here to end this.”

Erik drew the blade in a single, fluid motion, the black steel igniting with a kaleidoscope of shifting colors that danced along its edge finally ending with pulsing crimson sparks.

He raised the sword slightly, tilting it toward Greydawn as the ground beneath him began to hum with the intensity of his aura. The air itself seemed to buckle, the room vibrating as the dual energies of his blade flared brighter. The eldritch beings surrounding Greydawn recoiled, their distorted forms screeching as the prismatic energy burned against their unnatural existence.

Greydawn’s laughter faltered, his expression twisting into a mix of rage and curiosity. “Impressive, Marlowe. But raw power won’t save you.”

Erik smirked, shifting his stance slightly, his blade gleaming like a shard of concentrated chaos and light. “Let’s find out.”