An Eldritch Legacy: Sin & Sacrilege-Chapter 13: Waking Noble...

The moment Adler left the bedchambers, Krael could not help but listen to the raging thoughts in his mind. The momentum that had accompanied his decision—the crushing weight it had introduced—now seemed to dissipate. His mind felt free and unburdened.

He did not even understand how it had happened. Yet, somehow, the exchange with his butler had left him with a newfound peace, one he could not quite name. But by the gods, he would be damned if he ever admitted that truth.

He would not allow that man to have a reason to be so smug in the future.

Now that the burden of impending repercussions felt momentarily distant, he opened his eyes for the first time since his pathetic display on the battlefield.

Well, calling it a battlefield was a stretch, but in truth, every place could be one. Within oneself, within bonds of blood, and even in the sacredness of marriage, battles were fought.

So, to say he had left a battlefield was not much of an exaggeration.

Krael clambered out of the massive structure he called a bed, his steps almost requiring a small journey just to reach the other end.

As his feet met the warm stone floor, he stretched his limbs, inhaling the scent of death lingering in the air, intertwined with foul, underlying traces of decay and pain carried by the breeze that drifted into his chambers.

It flowed against his bare skin like the touch of a lover, gliding over his muscled form in a silent, intimate worship.

And gods! He relished the feeling. Many would have retched at the putrid stench of ichor that tainted the air, but not him. To him, it was a comfort, like a cheating husband getting drunk on the scent of his secret whore.

But it was good that no one could see him. For sight was denied to all during this time of year.

Darkness had laid claim to both day and night, relentless in 'her' pursuit of dominion.

'She' allowed not even a sliver of light to breathe when she hunted.

It was a phenomenon that set all on edge—but not Krael. He had never feared 'her'. In fact,'she' granted him a sense of solace that no noble ballroom could ever provide.

'She' was the only one to whom he could reveal his true self without consequence.

For while nobility might be a source of envy for the dirt-ridden commoners and the wretches of poverty, it was no bed of roses.

Well, it was a bed of roses—only... that the thorns came along with it.

And one could only rest upon them if they were willing to let the thorns claim their flesh.

To be a noble, to survive long enough to pass down a legacy, one had to master the art of enduring those thorns—learning to revel in the fragrance they exuded while enduring their bite.

Such was the life of nobility—a subtle dance between privilege and peril.

But at least they were not like the scum of the earth, wondering where their next meal would come from or whether the grace of the Diearch would be enough to sustain their pitiful lives through the coming surge.

Nobility was a game of danger, yes, but far better to dance with snakes than to wallow in the despair of commoners.

Their lives were never truly their own. But then again, neither were the lives of nobles.

Krael's thoughts soared as high as the heavens, yet the ache in his body was a stark reminder of the shame he had felt earlier.

Turning in the embrace of darkness, he moved with the grace of a maiden and the resolve of a general, the burdens of nobility and self-existence momentarily forgotten amid the comforting stench carried by the wind.

And if it was not already obvious, there was something deeply wrong with him.

For as the distant roars and agonized cries beyond the manor walls echoed through the night, a shiver coursed through his body. A thrill, hidden beneath the veil of darkness—or was it night? He could no longer tell, nor did he care.

Dancing in the abyss, he moved with a rhythm that would have shamed even the most seasoned warriors and hunters. His hearts ignited, warmth surging through him, bringing his euphoria to new heights.

Giggles threatened to spill from his lips as his chest rumbled in cosmic delight.

Oh, how he wished the darkness would stay forever.

Only under 'her' cover could he release the fractures in his mind.

Only she knew the madness he carried.

Or had it been there all along—hidden, unnoticed until now?

His movements sent a ripple through the air, the very fabric of reality trembling beneath him. He was unaware.

Had Adler still been present, he would have trembled in terror at the unconscious aura Krael had been emanating since the moment his mind let go of the constraints forced upon it by the weight of mercy—vast and laced with something imperceptible.

Distant roars, the whimpers of unseen things, the laughter of mighty beings, and the weight of fractured perception.

Nothing made sense. And perhaps that was why Krael had not noticed anything yet.

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Then, like a dying flame, the moment began to fade.

His dance in the darkness came to an end.

With slow, deliberate twirls, he stilled, exhaling shallow breaths.

The exertion had taken more out of him than he had expected.

He traced the bedrail with his fingers as he moved toward the bathing chambers, the absence of light doing nothing to hinder his vision.

His steps were purposeful, light against the warm stone floor.

Whatever had occupied his mind before had all but vanished—replaced by something else. Not that he could see the expression he now wore.

The journey felt longer than it should have, but finally, he reached the door to the bathing chambers.

The moment he stepped inside, his eyes flinched in pain.

Even the softest glow was blinding.

For those who had grown accustomed to a year of total, unbroken darkness, even the faintest hint of light was as blinding as the Everflame's radiance.

But within moments, his vision adjusted.

The glow was soft, ethereal—lavender that bordered on amethyst.

It had no definitive source, yet it flowed throughout the chamber, illuminating the black stone walls that framed the room.

The walls themselves seemed to emanate the glow—subtle enough not to enrage the darkness yet sufficient to provide sight.

And what greeted him was pure opulence.

A massive golden tub, inlaid with silver carvings—designs he had never cared to study.

Its edges curved with white wood that shimmered like jade.

Steam curled into the air, adding to the room's spectral atmosphere.

To his left stood a mirror, spanning the entire wall.

It reflected the chamber with eerie clarity, like a still lake—sharp and silver, reminiscent of something he could not quite recall.

And there it was.

His godly appearance.

One that, he dared say, rivaled even the most beautiful of the Diearchs.

Others could argue otherwise, but to him, there was no contest.

His hair, a shade of smoky gray, carried undertones of deep crimson, giving it a ghostly glow—like smoldering embers. At the tips, necrotic blue wove its way through, adding a dreamlike texture.

And then there were his eyes.

Enchanted pewter, soft metallic gray, with flecks of lavender and pale blue—a shimmer that danced between mysticism and cold detachment.

Beneath his eyes, two silver teardrop markings shimmered.

That was new!

Likely a result of his so-called awakening.

His skin, an obsidian shade with dark gray undertones, had remained unchanged since birth.

And yet, despite standing as an outcast, he had never been truly alone.

The world's racial scale was ever shifting, with new variations appearing due to intermingling.

Even now, the maddened whispers in his mind hinted at a deeper story about the blurry line between the races he had yet to uncover.

His face bore sharp, chiseled elegance—just the right balance of regality and masculinity.

His physique was lean but well-muscled, perfectly balanced in a way that neither made him too bulky nor too slender.

Wrapped around his arms were two iridescent golden bands, shimmering with jewel-like streaks of emerald, ruby, and sapphire—growing more defined as his blood continued to boil.

One adorned each bicep, the other his wrists.

"And they call me Clayborn," he scoffed.

Reason dictated he should react more strongly to all of this.

But he felt nothing.

This was his power, restrained only by an entity with a hidden agenda.

None could compare to his beauty.

Not the nobles, not the dukes, not even the imperial princes.

Might he dare say, even the divine had no right to claim number when he stood in all his glory?

And yet—

His smirk faded.

There was one stain upon his glory.

The one thing he loathed above all else.

And no matter what he did, it would not change.

The one thing he had thought to have been among the many changes had remained as it was in the beginning, courtesy of his late mother.

His height.

Seemingly losing interest in his reflection, he turned away before his fury led him to shatter the mirror entirely.