The dining hall of the Hale estate radiated opulence. A chandelier of crystal hung above the long table, casting a warm glow over a meticulously arranged feast. Lord Varnis Hale sat at the head, a man whose rigid demeanor demanded order. His wife, Lady Cera, sat to his right, her delicate features taut with fatigue. Across from her, their two younger children, Edric and Lenore, sat quietly, their postures stiff under their father’s scrutinizing gaze.
“Lenore, sit straighter,” Varnis said, barely glancing up from his plate. “If you cannot manage dignity at the table, how do you expect to represent this family?”
“Yes, Father,” Lenore replied, her voice faint as she adjusted her posture.
The quiet rhythm of their dinner was shattered by the sound of deliberate, echoing footsteps. The family froze, eyes darting toward the grand doorway as a figure stepped into the light.
“Orlan?” Lady Cera gasped, her napkin falling to the floor as she clutched the edge of the table.
Varnis Hale rose sharply, his chair scraping against the floor. His face twisted in a mixture of shock and fury. “You… you have no right to be here! Guards!”
Orlan stepped forward, a crooked grin spreading across his face. “Oh, Father,” he said smoothly, his voice dripping with mockery. “Don’t waste your breath. No one is coming.”
“What nonsense are you spouting?” Varnis snapped, but his voice faltered. There was something uncomfortably sure about Orlan’s demeanor.
Orlan reached into the satchel slung over his shoulder. “You’ll understand soon enough,” he said, his tone light yet unsettling. With a sudden motion, he pulled out two severed heads and tossed them onto the dining table. They rolled awkwardly, stopping amid the fine china and silverware. The blood that still clung to them spread across the pristine tablecloth.
Lady Cera screamed, her hands flying to her mouth. Edric and Lenore recoiled, chairs screeching as they stumbled backward.
Varnis stared, his face blanching as recognition struck him. The heads belonged to the estate guards—men who had served his family loyally for years. Their expressions, frozen in death, bore the marks of terror.
“What… what have you done?” Varnis stammered, his voice shaking.
“What you taught me,” Orlan replied coldly. “Remove obstacles. Make them irrelevant.” He leaned closer, his eyes gleaming faintly with a violet shimmer. “These men were in my way. But they were just the beginning.”
Edric pressed himself against the far wall, his face pale. “You’re insane,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
Orlan laughed, a harsh, guttural sound. “Am I? Or am I just better at playing the game than Father ever was?”
Lady Cera sobbed quietly, clutching Lenore’s trembling form. Varnis, his fury now tinged with fear, pointed a shaking finger at Orlan. “You’ve gone too far. You are no son of mine.”
“No son of yours?” Orlan repeated, his voice rising. “You cast me out. Stripped me of my name, my place. But look at me now. Look what I’ve become.”
The violet shimmer in his eyes intensified as black veins began to spread across his face. His voice grew deeper, resonating unnaturally. “You think this house stands without me? Without me, you’re nothing. This family is nothing.”
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Varnis took a step back, his once-imposing figure shrinking under the weight of Orlan’s growing presence. “Orlan… what have you done to yourself?”
“Evolved,” Orlan snarled, his voice deepening, resonating with an unnatural cadence. His eyes burned with a violet glow as black veins began to spread across his neck and face, stark against his pale skin. His remaining arm twitched violently, the fingers elongating into sharp, claw-like talons.
But the true horror began when the stump of his severed arm twitched. With a sickening sound, sinew and flesh began to grow, dark and twisted. The new limb stretched outward, a grotesque mockery of his lost arm, its surface blackened and jagged like corrupted stone. The monstrous claw flexed as it fully formed, its sharp edges glinting in the dim light of the dining hall.
Orlan glanced at his new arm with a twisted grin. “You took this from me,” he hissed, holding the claw aloft. “Now it’s returned… better than before.”
Varnis took a trembling step back, his earlier rage now consumed by fear. “You’ve turned into a monster.”
Orlan’s grin widened. “A monster? No, Father. I’m still very much myself. I’ve simply been… improved.” He stepped closer, his towering figure casting a shadow over the shattered remnants of the dining table.
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The dining hall erupted into chaos. Lady Cera screamed as Orlan lunged forward, his monstrous form smashing the table in two. The fine dishes shattered, and the chandelier above swayed dangerously, casting flickering shadows across the room.
“You should have cherished me, Father,” Orlan growled, his voice guttural and warped. “Without me, this house has no reason to exist.”
The last thing Varnis saw was Orlan’s monstrous grin before chaos overtook the hall. Screams rang out, echoing briefly into the quiet streets of the capital before silence fell once more.
Outside, the Hale estate stood dark, its once-proud halls now consumed by an eerie stillness.
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Far from the chaos at the Hale estate, the disciplined march of General Roderic Thane’s army cut a steady path through the countryside. Rows of soldiers moved in perfect formation, their armor gleaming under the faint light of the clouded sky. Supply wagons rumbled behind them, laden with rations, weapons, and medical supplies, while mounted scouts ranged ahead, their sharp eyes scanning the road for potential threats.
Thane rode at the center of the column, his posture rigid and commanding atop a dark warhorse. Beside him, his chief advisor, Lord Castren Hale, leaned slightly in the saddle, his sharp eyes observing the meticulous movements of the army.
“General,” Castren began, his tone edged with skepticism. “We have the numbers to crush this rebellion in days, yet we proceed at a snail’s pace. You insist on securing every bridge and scouting every inch of the road. Why such caution?”
Thane kept his gaze forward, his voice measured. “A hasty army is a vulnerable one, Lord Hale. The 7th Brigade rushed ahead with no preparation. Look what it earned them—defeat and disgrace.”
“But these are villagers and deserters,” Castren countered. “Do you truly believe they pose a threat to a force of this size?”
Thane turned to him, his expression hard. “This rebellion isn’t about their strength in arms. It’s about their will. Desperation makes people dangerous. And if they’ve turned knights against the crown, they’ve already shown they can exploit weakness.”
Castren’s frown deepened, but he pressed on. “Still, we could overwhelm them with brute force. A decisive strike would put an end to this quickly.”
Thane’s voice grew firmer. “And risk stretching our forces thin? Marching blind? No, Lord Hale. An army without food and coordination isn’t an army—it’s a mob. We move carefully because precision is what wins wars, not reckless charges.”
The advisor fell silent, his expression contemplative. Around them, the column moved with quiet efficiency. Scouts returned with maps of the road ahead, while engineers reinforced a nearby bridge to ensure the wagons could cross safely. The rhythm of preparation was unbroken, every step securing their path forward.
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The camp settled into a quiet rhythm as the soldiers finished setting up their tents. The steady murmur of voices and the occasional clang of metal broke the stillness of the night. General Thane stood near the command tent, his gaze on the horizon, where the faint outline of the mountains marked their eventual destination.
Lord Castren approached, his steps deliberate. “The scouts report clear paths ahead,” he said. “The supply lines are secure for now.”
Thane nodded, his expression unreadable. “Good. Ensure the men get rest. The real march begins soon.”
Castren hesitated. “You seem pensive, General. Are you expecting trouble?”
Thane’s gaze didn’t waver. “Not yet,” he replied calmly. “But trouble always finds you if you’re not ready for it.”
The faint rustle of the camp continued as Thane turned and entered the command tent, the quiet efficiency of the army promising readiness for what lay ahead.