The uncertainty of the room’s actual status only deepened his sour mood.
The grand chamber, dimly lit by flickering candles and draped with tapestries that seemed more ceremonial than functional, had never quite felt like his own. It was a place of echoes, where history loomed too large for comfort. He shifted uncomfortably on the throne, a piece of furniture far too ornate for his tastes, its velvet cushions an unwelcome indulgence against the harshness of his thoughts.
The room, with its high vaulted ceilings and grand, empty space, was supposed to signify authority, the power of House Trellec. Yet, to Fion, it felt more like a hollow mockery.
No matter how many times he had taken up residence in it, the walls seemed to whisper of failed ambitions and lost potential. His mind wandered back to the decisions that had led him here, each choice another stone added to the weight of his frustration.
His hands rested on the armrests, fingers tapping lightly, the sound echoing in the stillness, a reminder of just how alone he felt in this supposed place of command. It seemed ridiculous to him that such a thing as this remained unclear. But how did you go about gaining clarification in such a matter? Who did you ask? And, more importantly, what did you do if you did not get the answer you wanted?
He pondered on that for a few moments, sipping at a cup of blood-red wine.
The West was free. Now, of that, he was certain.
Fion Trellec had achieved his life's goal, the one thing he had set his sights on for years: he had orchestrated the decisive vote that had severed the West’s connection to the Capital. It was his victory.
His.
He had bent the will of the land, torn the ties that bound it to the Kingdom, and in doing so, had freed the West from the suffocating grip of the Capital’s influence. No matter what had transpired in the aftermath—and Fion was still, to this day, uncertain of the exact chain of events that followed—he had wrested control back from the grasping, inept nonentities in Court and delivered the freedom the West had longed for.
But there was a problem. One that gnawed at him with a relentless intensity that threatened to drive him mad.
The thing was—and this was a truth he could not escape—what was the West supposed to do now, with its hard-won freedom?
The weight of that question hung over him like a storm cloud.
He had broken the chains, yes, but in doing so, he had left the West untethered, adrift in the open sea of possibility. And with no one but him to steer the ship, he could not help but wonder whether this freedom was a gift or a curse. Would the West rise to the occasion, carving out its own destiny, or would it fracture under the pressure of its newfound autonomy?
The freedom he had fought for was now a burden he wasn’t sure how to bear.
And as the silence of the room pressed in around him, Fion was left to wrestle with a disquieting thought: would the very victory he had worked so tirelessly to secure become the thing that unravelled him?
In a flurry of proclamations, each more definitive than the last, he had ensured that the people across the length and breadth of this newly released State knew, unequivocally, that they no longer had to bow their heads to the King.
They were free, unshackled, sovereign. He had given them this gift. Yet, for all his careful planning, for all the pomp of his declarations, the response had been... underwhelming.
Disappointment clung to him like a second skin.
The masses, far from rejoicing in their newfound freedom, had merely watched with blank faces as his words fell into the air like so much wasted breath.
The expected celebration, the triumphant march into a new era, had not materialised. Instead, Fion’s proclamations echoed in a void, met with a stunned, awkward silence from those he had fought so hard to liberate.
The streets, once full of the fire of revolution, now seemed eerily empty, as though the people were unsure of what to do with their newfound autonomy. A few had gathered in the town squares, murmuring amongst themselves, but the fervour of his cause had somehow slipped through his fingers. They had been told they were free, but freedom, it seemed, was a concept far too complex for them to grasp so easily.
Fion, now the reluctant ruler of an untested land, found himself questioning whether he had overestimated the desire for independence. He had torn the chains from the West, but it appeared that what was left in their place was a disorienting emptiness, a question mark hanging over the horizon.
And he, their architect of freedom, stood at its centre—unsure, uncertain, and profoundly alone.
"More!" Fion barked, as his eyes flicked to the serving girl standing behind him. She was staring blankly into space, her gaze unfocused, yet laced with a mixture of confusion and sheer terror. The expression was becoming all too familiar to him.
The girl shuffled forward, her movements sluggish, almost mechanical, as though she were tethered to the earth by invisible threads. As she passed, the jug of wine tilted in her hands, spilling a generous splash across the floor. The crimson liquid pooled in uneven patches on the stone.
Fion's blood boiled at the sight. He surged to his feet, his chair scraping loudly. His gaze locked onto the girl with an intensity that might have burned through steel "What are you doing, you stupid child?"
Her eyes flickered, but there was no recognition in them. No urgency to correct the mistake, no reaction to his words beyond a faint, distant shiver that seemed to pass through her. He had seen that look more than once recently—an almost dissociative blankness.
His fist clenched at his side, the heat of his anger tempered only by the gnawing frustration that seemed to accompany everything he tried to command. This is what freedom brings, he thought bitterly. This is what I fought for—this apathy, this fear.
He was losing them all, one by one, and it gnawed at him worse than any battlefield wound ever could.
His shout sliced through the tension in the room, rousing Gilles from his stupor in the corner. The Steward blinked, his bleary eyes struggling to focus as he dragged himself to his feet.
Gilles, in theory, was responsible for the smooth running of the Trellec household. In practice, however, he seemed to be as much a part of the dysfunction as any other. The Steward was supposed to embody order, control—a reliable presence in the midst of the chaos that had become their daily lives.
The sight was almost too much for Fion to bear. This is what I’ve built? This was the reality of the West now: disorder masked as freedom, a house on fire with no one brave enough to put out the flames.
"You need to get your girls in order, Gilles! This is unacceptable."
The Steward looked at Fion blankly, his eyes unfocused, as if the very concept of his lord had slipped from his grasp. There was a fog behind his watery gaze, as though he were trying—and failing—to remember. His lips twitched as if the words he wanted to speak were being chewed and rejected by some unseen force inside him. They bobbed on his tongue, hesitant, unwilling to form into anything coherent.
Fion’s patience snapped, the sound of his empty cup slamming against the table ringing. “Gilles! Did you hear what I said?”
The Steward’s eyes flickered, but there was no spark of recognition, no urgency to his movements. The sudden noise of metal on wood, however, caused a blossom of consciousness to appear on Gilles's face, and the slackness in his expression retreated somewhat. "I am sorry, my lord. Wool-gathering. What was it you said?"
Fion jutted his chin at the servant, his eyes narrowing with contempt. "She spilt the damn wine, Gilles! What is wrong with the help nowadays?"
The answer, of course, was quite a lot.
However, the unfortunate truth was that the man destined to articulate this significant observation was not, in fact, Gilles Harcorth. Not that Gilles would have had the wherewithal to do so.
From the very moment he had overextended his control of
It had flaked apart like five-hundred-year-old oil paint peeling off a cheap canvas: a fitting metaphor for the blankness that had overtaken Gilles’ mind, layer by agonizing layer.
For years, Fion had noticed the creeping signs of his Steward’s mental erosion—the subtle forgetfulness, the moments of confusion that lingered too long in the air, like the bad smell of spoiled food. But it wasn’t until the last few months that it had truly become apparent.
Those months had been a steady progression from alarming to grotesque. Gilles had always been somewhat distant, but now? Now, there was something unnervingly vacant in his eyes, a hollow, sunken stare that spoke of a mind worn thin, unable to hold together the tattered pieces of its former self.
And yet, for all the signs, Fion couldn’t shake the bitter irony: Gilles had been his creation.
Fion had called upon the man’s loyalty, forced him into a position of power, and now here he was, a shadow of his former self, utterly incapable of handling even the smallest of tasks. The thought left a sour taste in Fion’s mouth, one he couldn’t seem to wash away no matter how much wine he drank.
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For Gilles, though, his days had become an unrelenting torment of fractured images, each more disconnected and incoherent than the last.
One moment, he was dutifully by his lord’s side, doing his best to remember what exactly he was supposed to be doing. The next, he was in bed with some shrieking, half-dressed servant—his mind an angry blur of confusion and disgust, appalled at the cacophony of tears and slurs of passion he couldn't remember initiating.
And then, as if in some cruel twist of fate, he would find himself atop the battlements of the newly rebuilt Keep—no, Castle, wasn’t it Castle now?—Trellec, staring out over a land he could barely recognize, the wind biting at his face, but no recollection of how he got there.
The last time he found himself there, he was sure he intended to jump. Indeed, he was not sure why he had not.
The transitions were like those endless, maddeningly abrupt scenes in a half-forgotten nightmare. One minute, there was a sense of purpose, and the next? A hopeless tumble into chaos.
His thoughts scattered like dried leaves in a storm, fluttering around without ever quite landing. There was a constant battle within him to hold onto something—a thread of meaning, of continuity—but it slipped through his fingers each time, leaving only a sense of confusion and unease.
But perhaps the most bitter irony of all was that, despite the wreckage of his mind, no one seemed to notice much. Or care, even more.
Fion? Too preoccupied with his own brand of crushing authority. The lords? Too busy figuring out how to steer their newly ‘freed’ West into oblivion. Gilles was nothing more than a ghost wandering the halls of his own mind, no longer even an afterthought to the very people who had once relied on his abilities.
And yet, here he was, the last person to see the reality of the collapse that had become his life. His mind had become a puzzle, with pieces missing and those that remained jumbled, like a cruel joke from the gods themselves. A joke he had no idea how to laugh at.
The deterioration of the Steward's mind was, in and of itself, a thing that deserved great pity. However, for those who owed their fealty to the Trellecs - which now encompassed a significant proportion of the West - the consequences were far more horrific.
Before the seismic events around the expelling of the Lady Darkhelm from the village, Gilles had been a casual predator, using the power of his Class Skills to please himself however he wished. However, those under his control now saw that as a golden age compared to the impact upon them caused by the man's current dotage.
Gilles glanced at the girl with the wine—her name was a fleeting thing, slipping through his fogged mind like water through cracked stone. He supposed that in some distant corner of his fractured thoughts, he should care. But he didn’t. Instead, he straightened, his posture stiff and deliberate as he activated
"Apologise to Lord Trellec, and then clean the mess up."
The girl, too stunned to process the command in the usual way, gave a strangled cry as the magic latched onto her. Blood poured from her eyes, nose, and ears, staining her pale skin, a reminder of the immense power Gilles commanded. She crumpled to the floor with an anguished whimper, her body shaking in spasms like a newborn animal fighting to breathe.
"For the Dark God’s sake, Gilles!" The outburst came not from Fion, as one might expect, but from Pernille, who had been watching the spectacle unfold with a disturbingly wry smile, clearly finding some dark amusement in it.
Her voice, however, held no trace of mirth now. She was already moving toward the girl, lifting her skirts with a swift motion, eager to clean up the mess Gilles had made, both figuratively and literally.
She reached the girl, and without a word, pressed her fingers to the servant’s forehead. The flicker of Mana was almost imperceptible as she activated
As the healing took effect, Pernille’s hands moved from the girl’s head to her torso, washing away the injury in layers. Broken bones knit themselves together, bruises faded like fog under the sun, but it wasn’t just physical healing. There was a mental unravelling happening too.
Pernille’s eyes softened as she began to erase the memories that had caused the girl’s pain. The trauma, the humiliation, the violent snap of the
The girl’s breathing steadied, her trembling subsiding, but her eyes were wide with confusion, and Pernille knew that, like all those she had touched with her healing, she would never remember the depths of what had just transpired.
Only the dread, the fear, that something else had happened would remain, gnawing at her until it faded, buried somewhere beneath the mundane day-to-day.
"Better?" Pernille asked softly, standing up and brushing off her hands as though this moment had been as trivial as adjusting a crumpled sleeve. The girl nodded dazedly, oblivious to the turmoil she had just been through, and scrambled to her feet, hastily scrambling to clean the spilt wine.
Gilles watched her, his vacant eyes reflecting none of the consequences of his actions. He turned, not waiting for a response. It was clear he was long past caring about the details of any of this, and yet… perhaps there was a faint flicker of a grin on his face, though it quickly vanished.
Pernille eyed him with quiet disdain. "You really have no idea what you're doing anymore, do you?"
Her words hung in the air for a moment before she turned back to Fion, her attention once more on the man who had once been the proud force behind Trellec's bold, rebellious rise. Now? Now, it seemed he was merely the last stand of a fading empire.
She glared up at Gilles. "You don't need to blow their minds out with every order! Where's your subtlety gone!"
Gilles stared back, and then a terrible fury welled up behind his eyes. Pernille had just enough time to increase her mental shields when the weight of his suggestion crashed against her. "Slit your throat with your knife!"
Even considering the depth of her own power—particularly since the Dark God had enhanced her abilities—it was a significant strain not to reach for the blade hanging from her belt. The Shadow Cleric glanced over to Lord Trellec, wondering if he had noticed the latest example of his Steward's monomania.
But no, he was staring off into the distance again, with a look of injured frustration. He often seemed to look that way, she thought.
Well, that would at least give her some space to work.
She turned back to Gilles, summoning
"Pernille!" The warning bark came from the open door of the throne room. She glanced up to see Drunnoc Trellec standing there and dropped her hand. "We've talked about this. Now is not the time!"
"When will it be?" Pernille stood, the silent girl at her feet now forgotten. "He tried to get me to kill myself again!"
"And, once more, clearly failed," Drunnoc sauntered into the room. His father looked his way momentarily, then dropped his eyes to the floor. "We've discussed this. Gilles is, currently, necessary."
"But he's getting worse!" Pernille hissed. The two of them gave no sign of caring for the others in the room who could hear them. "If we don't do something soon, who knows what chaos he could cause."
Drunnoc dipped his head in acceptance of the point and moved to stand before Gilles, reaching out to grasp the old man's face in his hand. He pulled it close to his own, squashing the cheeks into a facsimile of pouting lips. Pernille thought she felt the younger man trigger some sort of Skill as he did so, but it was far above her ability to discern what.
Lordling Trellec was manifesting a whole host of unusual abilities of late.
Pernille knew that Drunnoc had found the favour of the Dark God, which brought with it all sorts of advantages. However, from her understanding of such things, the conduit to a god's power was through the Class they granted their followers.
Her own Shadow Cleric - a darkly evolved version of her Healer Class - drew its strength from the god in that way. Her new Skills - not just
However, there were times when she missed the simplicity of her previous life, especially in moments such as this.
"If you cannot control yourself, Gilles, I must do it for you. Do you understand?" Drunnoc's voice was a vicious whisper. "Say you understand."
The old man was finding it difficult to speak through his squashed cheeks. "I understand, my lord."
Drunnoc shook his head, then moved his ear closer to Gilles' mouth. "I can't hear you. Say you understand."
"Stop this!" Fion's voice boomed from the throne.
For a fleeting moment, Pernille thought Drunnoc would refuse—his heavy silence hanging in the air like a storm about to break. The tension between father and son had been building steadily for the past month, a crackling undercurrent that threatened to spill over.
She could almost feel the heat between them, the weight of unspoken words and unresolved grievances pressing against the walls of the room.
But then, in a moment that felt both inevitable and anticlimactic, Drunnoc did the unexpected. With a grunt, he released the old man, letting him slump to the floor with a sickening thud. The sound echoed through the room, a hollow note that resonated long after the action had passed.
The fury in Drunnoc’s eyes burned still, but it was redirected now, no longer aimed at the frail figure at his feet. Instead, he turned toward Fion, the glint of something unreadable in his gaze.
Pernille watched, a subtle shift of surprise flickering across her expression. She had expected more—perhaps even a final, explosive rupture between the two men—but Drunnoc's sudden retreat into silence was both an admission and a challenge.
Fion, for his part, seemed to hold his breath. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. The question remained: Would the son finally confront the father, or had their power play simply shifted into a new phase of silent contest?
Drunnoc’s steps were slow, deliberate, and as he closed the distance between them, the tension that had filled the room became almost unbearable.
"Father, long time no speak." How is everything going in the world of high governance?"
"It goes well, son. And how is . . . whatever it is you are doing with your time?"
"Cannot complain." Drunnoc's eyes never left his father's. Pernille could feel the crackling tension between them despite the seeming amiability of their words. "We've tracked the Darkhelm to the Bloodspires if you are interested. Sounds like she is still with that Mayor who causes you sleepless nights."
Fion's jaw bunched. The continued existence of Taelsin Elm was a running sore. He could not understand how the man had survived the destruction of Swinford, and all the reports that had come back made nothing any clearer. Drunnoc waited for an answer, but seeing his father would not give him the pleasure, he pressed on.
"Don't you worry about it, though. We will soon be rid of that troublesome knight and her various hangers-on.
That was too much for Fion not to respond. "I have heard you boast similar before, son. It seems to me that there are limits to the power of this Dark God of yours."
It was the mocking expression on Fion's face, as much as his words, that drew Drunnoc's ire. He exploded forward, crossing the distance between them in an instant. Pernille barely had a chance to trigger a healing Skill she was sure she would need to save Fion's life when she saw man and boy, nose to nose, glaring at each other.
It appeared the Dark God's favourite had been able to restrain himself from anything too explosive.
"He is your god too, father. All of this," Drunnoc waved his hand around the room, "comes from his favour. Do not speak so slightingly of him."
Fion had blanched white at the speed his son had moved. He had known that powers had been granted to his son, but that was the sort of thing he expected to see from someone of the Lady Darkhelm's ilk.
Just what had been done to his boy?
Fion cleared his throat. "Indeed. I misspoke, son. I apologise."
Drunnoc nodded, stepping back. "Your words are appreciated." Then he smiled, his face splitting into an angelic grin. "I came to tell you that, in short order, your problems in that regard will soon be over."
Much as it pained him, Fion couldn't resist asking a follow-up question. "How so?"
Drunnoc smiled, shadows dancing in the corner of the throne room as if he were draining the space of light with his joy. "Let us just say, the Lady Darkhelm has just walked into a situation even her beloved Goddess will not be able to pull her out from."
The silence in the room was punctuated by the quiet sobbing of the serving girl and the soft drip of spittle bubbling on Gilles' mouth.