Mascious’s mind raced in a thousand directions, grasping at thoughts and possibilities. But the question that pressed most on him slipped out before he could stop it. “How did you find us?” he asked, his voice tight with the weight of the situation.

  The man smiled, an almost casual gesture, and explained that it had been sheer luck. "No one was actively looking for you—at least not yet," he said. "There was an incident at Leviathan's Rest, Lord Koleson’s hold. Its… preoccupied the entire family on this very night you’ve chosen to abscond with your Lady.”

  He paused for a moment, then added, “But don't forget—your Lady has been making waves in the family. She's drawn attention. People are watching. They’ve always been watching. You could have never run away without being chased”

  Mascious cursed under his breath. Her restlessness, he thought. Her need to stir things up. He had warned her so many times, urged her to lay low, but Varessi had never been one to sit quietly, to let things settle. Now, her defiance had come back to haunt them.

  His hand moved instinctively toward his weapon. He knew exactly what he was dealing with: a descendant of Lord Koleson. A Whydit. That meant power—great power. The scion standing before him wouldn’t be weak.

  Lord Koleson, though never formally wed to major nobility, had sired children with high-ranking talent, many of whom had gone on to bear children of their own. The well of strength within the family never seemed to dry up, only shift and vary. And while this particular Whydit was a member of the Southern Garrison and probably lower in the hierarchy of the family tree, Mascious knew better than to underestimate him.

  He wasn’t going to hold back.

  Just as Mascious was about to summon his weapon from his inventory, he felt something. A small hand—or rather, the specter of one—gently grasped his. He paused, looking to his right, and there she was: the image of a young Varessi. Not the woman she had become, weighed down by the burdens of the world, but the girl she had once been—full of hope, her spirit untouched by sorrow.

  The young Varessi shook her head softly, and a memory surged into Mascious’s mind. He remembered the day Varessi had teased him about his nature. Despite his calm, contemplative demeanor, she had said, he was surprisingly brutish and obstinate. "Sometimes things can be settled with words," she had told him. "Not everything requires force."

  Mascious hesitated, his grip on his weapon loosening. Instead of pulling it out, he chose to speak.

  "My Lady has endured so much," he began, his voice steady but laced with emotion. "All she wishes is to return to her home, away from the troubles that plagued her during her years in Lord Koleson’s house."

  The soldier across from him, the Whydit scion, responded without hesitation. "Lady Varessi has already delegated herself to Lord Koleson," he said, his tone matter-of-fact. "She forfeited that right the moment she did."

  Delegate. In the Empire, to delegate meant submitting one’s soul to a superior. It was the foundation upon which the Empire was built—a bond of power and protection.

  Mascious pressed on, undeterred. "Does my Lady not deserve the right to her own happiness?"

  The soldier’s response was cold. "In the High Lords’ Empire, happiness is submission. Nothing else. The weak submit to the strong, and in exchange, the strong protect the weak. That is how the Empire functions. You, of all people, should know this."

  Mascious felt a surge of heat rise within him. The soldier’s words were so cruel, so devoid of empathy, and yet Mascious couldn’t refute them. This was the world they lived in—a world both he and the soldier had been shaped by, a world built on domination and submission.

  For a brief moment, Mascious felt he understood, if only in part, the melancholy that had always haunted Lady Varessi. Perhaps it was this harsh reality, this system of power, that she had been battling against all her life.

  Still, he attempted reason. "Surely Lord Koleson is not wanting for concubines and bed warmers. He can spare this one woman, who many have said was almost invisible in her presence. His kingdom would not fall if she were allowed to go. Surely, he could let her slip away."

  The soldier shook his head, a low chuckle escaping his lips. "The serpent takes what it wants, and it does not let go. If Koleson’s accessories could simply wander off, then what is their value?"

  Mascious felt something snap inside him. There was no reasoning with this man, with someone who viewed others—his Lady, no less—as mere possessions to be owned and controlled. The heat in Mascious’s chest flared into anger.

  There would be no more words.

  He reached for his inventory, pulling it from his back pocket.

  Mascious’s weapon of choice emerged from his inventory: the Kindling Gloves. He slipped them on, the material fitting snugly against his skin. With a swift motion, he swiped his hands against each other, and instantly, embers flared to life around him. The embers swelled, growing into crackling flames that burst forth, surrounding him in a chaotic storm of fire. It was the inclement phenomenon—an explosion of raw, elemental energy from which he would draw his power.

  With practiced skill, Mascious wove the roaring flames into a tight, intricate pattern, shaping the fire into the form of a sword. The weapon burned fiercely in his hand, radiating heat and light. He flared the fires once more, sending the flames dancing along the blade, before raising it and pointing it directly at his opponent.

  He knew he was in for a brutal fight. If he was being optimistic, he might survive—though likely wounded. But realism told him that the man standing across from him was probably stronger, and there was a good chance he wouldn’t leave this battle alive. Still, Mascious made a silent vow. If he were to fall, he would make sure to bring this man down with him.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  His opponent, the Whydit soldier, calmly reached into his own inventory and pulled out a needle—a long, gleaming weapon that caught the moonlight, reflecting a brilliant blue-green sheen. A silver thread extended from the rear of the needle’s hilt, connecting to the reel inventory strapped to the soldier’s back, where the spool rested.

  The man flared his essence, and a colorless miasma began to swirl around him, the energy billowing off his form. He enshrouded his needle in that essence, the weapon glowing faintly as the power infused it.

  Without another word, they both charged.

  Mascious raced forward, his flaming sword trailing fire in his wake. Opposite him, the soldier—whose name was Heltrell—let the silver thread from his needle unspool as he moved. The two warriors closed the distance between them with deadly intent.

  Mascious, recognizing the reel inventory on Heltrell’s back, knew exactly what kind of fight he was in for. Reel users specialized in trapping their opponents with their thread, seeking to entangle them in the midst of combat. It was a swift and effective way of immobilizing an enemy, and true to the traditions of the Southern region, it made the fight feel more like a hunt.

  Mascious knew better than to engage Heltrell up close, so he kept his distance, swinging his flaming sword in wide arcs, releasing fiery projectiles that sliced through the air toward his opponent. The flames burned bright, leaving trails of heat in their wake.

  But Heltrell moved with fluid grace, evading the fiery arcs as if he were gliding through water. Each step, each dodge, was smooth and effortless. In moments, he closed the distance between them, striking with his needle in a quick, precise motion.

  Mascious barely had time to counter, blocking the attack with his sword. The force of the clash sent sparks flying, but Mascious immediately hopped backward, determined to maintain distance between them. He couldn’t afford to be caught in close combat.

  Heltrell paused, his head tilting slightly as he observed Mascious. His movements were patient, calculating. It was clear he wanted to finish the fight quickly. Mascious’s attacks, though powerful, were becoming desperate. Every fiery strike carried the weight of his essence, each arc imbued with his full strength. Heltrell could see that Mascious was fighting with everything he had. He might not win, but he was stalling—delaying the inevitable.

  Realizing this, Heltrell changed his strategy. He summoned his reel inventory closer, the thread pooling back into it. Placing the machine in front of him, he revealed its true purpose. The body of the hunting device had several small holes on its sides.

  Mascious narrowed his eyes. He knew what this meant. Heltrell was about to take control of the fight’s distance.

  Suddenly, from the holes on the sides of the inventory, small needles shot out—each attached to a thin reel of thread. They flew toward Mascious at blistering speeds.

  Mascious swung his flaming sword, slashing through the air to knock the needles away. One by one, he deflected them, but for every needle he struck down, two more came racing toward him.

  The needles were fast—almost invisible in the night. The only way Mascious could track them was by expanding the range of his essence flare, which allowed him to sense the threads just before they struck. But with each swing, with each effort to counter the relentless barrage, Mascious felt his stamina draining. His essence was running thin, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before he was overwhelmed.

  Mascious made a bold decision. With a sudden burst of speed, he dashed toward Heltrell, shifting his tactics entirely. He didn’t plan on getting too close, but once he was a few feet away, he slammed his flaming sword into the ground. In a heartbeat, he unleashed a torrent of fire, igniting the sword in a massive explosion. Flames roared across the roof of the Korindt, engulfing everything in their path, shaking the entire building to its core. The blast repelled the incoming needles and incinerated everything within its radius, sending a shockwave of heat and force through the air.

  To anyone outside the illusory barrier surrounding the Korindt, the building appeared quiet, unremarkable. Nothing about it suggested that a battle was raging within. But inside, the ground trembled beneath the force of Mascious’s burst, a technique commonly used by warriors who channeled their power from the god of war. Mascious’s version of the burst wasn’t particularly strong, but it was still dangerous—anyone caught within its radius would likely not survive.

  Breathing heavily, Mascious stood amidst the lingering heat of the explosion, his body fatigued from the fight. He hadn’t wanted to kill a member of the Southern Garrison, but the battle had left him with few options. It’s over, he thought, turning his back and preparing to return to his Lady, who still labored in the room below.

  But just as he was about to take a step, he sensed movement. Something stirred behind him.

  The smoke from the explosion was beginning to dissipate, and with it came a low hiss of steam. Mascious spun around, his eyes widening as he saw Heltrell emerging from the fading smoke. He was not incinerated, as Mascious had expected. Instead, he was wet, his body glistening with moisture. The air around him shimmered with cold.

  Mascious’s heart sank. He realized then what had happened. The pressure shift, the change in the air—it all came from Heltrell’s reel inventory. The device had created a concentrated zone of ice around Heltrell the moment the explosion hit, shielding him from the flames. Mascious had assumed it was just a standard inventory, but now he understood. It was also an entangled weapon, capable of more than just managing reels.

  Mascious cursed his luck.

  Heltrell stepped forward and, with a swift motion, kicked Mascious square in the chest. The force sent Mascious flying backward, crashing hard against the wall behind him. Pain shot through his body, but he clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay focused.

  Heltrell approached slowly, confidently, each step deliberate. He raised his needle, its gleaming tip stopping just inches from Mascious’s face. "Yield," Heltrell commanded, his voice cold and unwavering. "Surrender your Lady to my Lord."

  But Mascious wasn’t finished. His power, channeled through the god of war, allowed him to control certain natural phenomena. The heat from the explosion still lingered in the air, swirling like an unseen force. That heat belonged to Mascious—it was born from his flames, from the natural fire he had tamed with his essence.

  Gathering the heat, Mascious ignited it once more, shaping it into a fiery spear that materialized behind Heltrell, its blazing point aimed directly at the back of his head. They were now locked in a stalemate.

  Heltrell chuckled, seemingly unfazed by the danger. "I wish things were different," he said with a touch of regret. "I would have enjoyed fighting under better circumstances. It could have been... fun."

  Mascious, seizing the opportunity, offered a way out. "It doesn’t have to end this way," he said, his voice steady but firm. "We could forget all of this. We could go back."

  Heltrell shook his head, his expression unchanged. "No. That’s not possible," he replied. "And while you may have me cornered, don’t fool yourself into thinking you’ve won."

  Mascious frowned, uncertain of Heltrell’s meaning—until he felt it. Another ripple across the surface of the barrier. Someone else had arrived.

  Without a word, Mascious bolted downstairs, racing back to the room where Lady Varessi labored. Heltrell made no move to stop him. He had no intention of dragging Mascious as a hostage.

  When Mascious reached the room, his heart sank. Standing there was another Whydit, dressed in the same Southern Garrison attire as Heltrell. The resemblance between the two was striking—this man looked like he could be Heltrell’s brother. But what truly caught Mascious’s attention was the fury etched across the man’s face. His eyes blazed with outrage at the sight before him: Lady Varessi, the Lord’s woman, giving birth to a child.

  He made his feelings known without hesitation. "What the hell is going on here?" he roared, his voice thick with anger.

  House Myrrar is one of the prominent houses among the fifty great families that rule over Aquilora and the Sovereigns of the Purple Ranges. Although their seat and homestead lie in the Second Realm, their influence extends far. The house’s nobility traces back to Dorin Myrrar, a hero of the wars that followed the Emperor’s decree, centuries after the Corruption Wars had ended. Dorin led the campaign against the Heretical Kings in Purple, toppling their dynasty. In recognition of his deeds, he was granted a great needle and sovereignty over the region.