Chapter 10: The Bloodstains
The carriage lurched to a halt, the wheels grinding against the ground as if they too were glad to stop. Cherion stepped down awkwardly, knees stiff from hours of sitting, his legs tingling with pins and needles. His boots squelched slightly when they hit the ground, the reminder of dried blood crusted on his face and clothes making his nose wrinkle.
He brushed at his sleeve, futilely trying to rid himself of the sticky stains. "Sure," he thought, his sarcasm as steady as his heartbeat was not. "Nothing says welcome to the family like looking freshly butchered."
Then he looked up.
The northern stronghold loomed over him like a silent sentinel. Its towers cut into the sky, jagged against the stars. The stone was dark, polished smooth by time and cold winds, gleaming faintly under the sunlight. Iron gates swung wide, groaning with age, and the breath of winter rolled out to greet him.
Cherion’s lips quirked, not quite a smile. Servants stood in two neat rows at the entrance, their heads bowed in perfect unison. Their discipline showed in every move, almost like a choreographed routine. Cherion felt immediately out of place, like a child caught sneaking into a play where he didn’t know his lines.
Zarius walked ahead, cloak flaring slightly as he climbed the steps. From behind, his posture was flawless. But Cherion’s eyes picked up the little things. The faint hitch in his stride, the leftover strain from the ambush earlier. No one else would have noticed. Cherion did.
Cherion started forward, only to find someone stepping neatly into his path. A young man, bowing with grace that seemed older than he was.
"Lord Cherion," he said with a small bow. "I am Flio, head butler of Valtrane Duchy. I will attend to you during your stay."
Cherion blinked at him, lips twitching. Head butler? He looks barely old enough to order a drink. Out loud, he managed a dignified nod.
Flio’s presence put Cherion on edge, the kind of courtesy so sharp it felt like a warning. Even the way he bowed seemed to say: This house sees everything.
The butler led Cherion through vaulted halls. The whole place looked elegant, but in a stiff, rule-bound way, not a cozy one. Candlesticks gleamed like they’d been scrubbed raw. Paintings hung in perfect rows, lined up as neatly as soldiers on parade. Nothing was out of place.
The chamber waiting for him was spacious, richly furnished, but to Cherion it felt less like a bedroom and more like a stage someone had set, with him as the unwilling prop. The bed looked soft enough to smother him. Heavy curtains blocked most of the light, and the windows were too narrow to be of any real use.
"Lord Zarius has retired for the rest of the day," Flio said smoothly. "Rest well, Lord Cherion." Flio’s bow as he left carried the weight of a dismissal.
Cherion’s answering smile was thin. "Have a good day, you!"
The second the words left his mouth, he wanted to shove them back in. He clapped a hand over his face, groaning quietly. Really, Cherion? That’s what you go with?
Flio paused and turned just enough to look back at him.
Cherion peeked at him through his fingers, trying for a weak grin. I was just trying to be friendly, alright? Not like you make small talk easy.
Flio gave the faintest of nods, then turned back and walked out, shutting the door behind him.
Later, the butler reappeared to escort him to the dining hall. The dining hall was long and vast, chandeliers blazing with light, silver dishes steaming with food. But the seat at the table’s head, carved with the Valtrane crest, sat empty.
Cherion’s eyes lingered on it before he asked, "Where’s Zar-Alpha Zarius?"
"The Lord isn’t feeling well," Flio replied. "But you needn’t worry."
Cherion prodded at the food on his plate with a fork. "Not feeling well," he thought, mouth twisting. "He just gutted assassins like he was peeling apples. If that’s him sick, I don’t want to see healthy. Probably levels mountains for sport."
The silence pressed around him. The servants did a good job at everything, but no one spoke. Cherion’s own chewing sounded uncomfortably loud, so he gave up and set his fork down.
By the time Flio escorted him back, his restlessness had knotted tight in his chest. Alone, he lay on the bed, staring at the carved ceiling beams. Sleep refused him. His thoughts replayed Zarius’s cough between blows, the blood on his knuckles, the exhaustion he carried like a cloak no one else could see.
A maid’s whispered directions came back to him. Zarius’s quarters.
Cherion sat up, staring at his new bedroom door.
"Just a quick look," he muttered under his breath. "In, out, no big deal."
The corridors were colder at night. Torches hissed against the draft, shadows stretching long across the stone floor. His footsteps echoed. Cherion almost expected Flio to step straight out of the wall and catch him wandering like a thief.
Zarius’s door was ajar. A thin crack of darkness spilled into the hall. Inside, something shifted, rustles, a scrape, a low growl too soft to be human.
Cherion hesitated, heart thudding against his ribs. His better judgment screamed leave. But worry shoved him forward. He pushed the door open.
And froze.
The room was in mess. Blood splashed across the rug, staining the walls, dripping down the legs of overturned chairs. Then came the smell. Iron, thick and choking.
Bodies were scattered across the floor, dressed in dark cloth, limbs bent at wrong angles. The silence of them was louder than any scream.
At the center stood a wolf.
It was massive, fur black as coal, matted with blood. Its chest heaved, each breath a rasp, yet its presence radiated unbroken dominance. And its eyes, golden, burning, alive, glowed in the torchlight.
The beast turned. Its gaze struck him like a blade, sharp and unrelenting. Cherion’s breath stuttered, his throat dry. The wolf’s lips peeled back, revealing teeth slick with crimson. A low rumble built in its chest, vibrating through the blood-soaked air.
The black wolf stepped forward, claws sinking into the ruined carpet, leaving wet prints of blood.
Cherion’s knees locked. His heart felt like it was trying to beat its way out of his chest. He wanted to run, but his body was frozen, rooted in place under those blazing golden eyes.
His mind jumped in ten different directions at once. Oh, no. No, no, no. That’s not just a wolf. His pulse slammed in his throat, panic rising sharp and familiar all at once.
That’s him. That’s Zarius.