An Eldritch Legacy: Sin & Sacrilege-Chapter 15: Sky Gazing Noble...

After what Krael could only term the most comfortable bath he had had in a long while...

Who else could say they had soaked in warm waters infused with the scent of roses and a plethora of other fragrances that could make even the most esteemed noble houses drool in delight?

All while hearing the screams of the wounded and the dying as blood fell onto the eaves like midsummer rain.

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Yes, that was not rain that had sounded out earlier; in fact, it was the blood and ichor of countless beings—the innocent, the cruel, the murderous, the corrupt, the devout. Even noble blood had rained somewhere along the streets of Astrea.

Not that it mattered. These occurrences were quite common during the Year of the Surge.

A period where the number of those culled could equal the blades of grass mowed on a mountain hill.

So, witnessing such sights was nothing out of the ordinary.

After his bath, Krael left the bathing chambers and headed for his bedchamber. There, Krael found his clothes hanging from the arms of his butler.

Who handed him a towel, which he used to dry himself off. Then, one by one, he dressed himself in the most comfortable silks his noble title could afford.

Underneath, he wore a forest-green tunic paired with soft, wide-legged trousers, with simple slippers on his feet.

Over it, he donned a long, loose, deep charcoal-gray silk robe with minimal embroidery—almost as if he were paying respect to her, the darkness that covered all.

He would have loved to remain barefoot, but the state of the balcony itself was less than ideal.

Many nobles of his age, even those aged like wine, would have had a small army of maids to dress them, groom them, and cater to their every whim. But he had none of that.

This one butler was enough. He handled everything with an efficiency that belied his bloodline—it was almost as if he had been born to serve him.

Though Krael would never allow him to bathe or dress him; Krael had developed a liking for the independence of doing all that himself.

But everything else—he did. And it certainly helped that Krael had a deep dislike for maids, or for anyone, really.

Krael could say he was a perfectionist who desired everything to be done with efficiency that bordered on the divine. Thankfully, Adler seemed to have been made for all that.

He cleaned. He prepared the meals. He looked after the estate and the manor. He handled the finances. He did everything one could imagine. He was simply that efficient. Perhaps Krael should have felt pity for someone who did all that work alone, but Adler had a way of making him feel like an idiot for ever worrying about it.

After dressing, Krael felt like a new man.

The air was crisp, a pity. It still felt cold, though a gradual warmth was beginning to build, preparing for the light that would soon follow.

So, he left his chamber and stepped onto the balcony that extended from the bedroom.

And there he stood. Below him, there was little to see but the subtle black glow that covered every structure within sight.

The haunting rain was beginning to lighten, as was the darkness. It seemed to recede beyond the walls of Astrea like a tide, heading toward what many assumed to be the edge of existence.

Only the ignorant thought that way.

Krael had expected the balcony to be covered in a filth of blood, of so many kinds.

Not that he had any desire to touch it, one of the many reasons he wore slippers, to protect his noble feet from the unknown filth left behind by the fallen.

Who knew what he might contract from a single careless misstep?

Besides, Krael was certain most of it was commoner blood. And only the Diearchs knew what kind of sickness festered in their stench-ridden bodies.

Yet, somehow, Adler had cleaned it all up, leaving the place as spotless as the day it had been built.

A shame, really. Krael had hoped to enjoy the sensation of stepping on the last vestiges of their existence beneath his feet. The hopes and dreams they had carried in their final moments, now reduced to nothing.

And Krael almost laughed, but he remembered the old teachings—mocking the plight of others could bring woes beyond imagining.

Hopefully, the Fates would recognize his sincerity in holding back his disdain for their petty dreams.

"I'm sure they won't be too harsh on me," he muttered, barely suppressing a chuckle.

Looking ahead, Krael could see the plantations—fields of crops riddled with scars that would take considerable effort to mend. At least the earth was being nourished by the filth of the fallen, their dreams enriching the soil.

The East Cardinal, among the four, was charged with farming—responsible for feeding all of Astrea. A foolish decision, in his opinion.

After all, in a city where wielding flames was as natural as breathing, all people did was burn things to the ground. The very air of Astrea was poison to ordinary plants and livestock; only those that had undergone rigorous mutations could hope to survive.

They had adapted, becoming flame-based organisms—the only reason the people of Astrea had not starved to death long ago.

That was to say, the people of Maesta—or rather, his subjects—were farmers.

And every inch of land in Maesta County belonged to him, as the last standing Maesta. Well it was the Emperors, first before it became his.

But Krael seemed to always forget about his uncle, his bastard seed, and his whore of a wife.

But they were of little consequence. He would deal with them soon enough. One day, only one name would be remembered—the young Count Krael Maesta.

As Krael contemplated ways to dispose of his dear uncle, a voice reached his ears. Gods, how he longed to rip out that bastard's tongue every time he was addressed.

"Lord Maesta."

His voice was deep and soothing, like a gentle flowing river. But to Krael, it was the call of some ancient evil he was destined to slay with a holy sword, if only the universe deemed him worthy.

"I have set up your early morning meal," he continued.

Krael clenched his teeth, barely suppressing his fury.

He spoke with such reverence and grandeur that to others, it would have sounded like worship. To Krael, it was mockery.

He mocked his master without even trying.

One day, Krael would knock his teeth out. Then we would see how he kept up his maddeningly smug tone.

But Krael could not lay a finger on him. Adler was the definition of untouchable—despite being the servant, and Krael the master.

Seeing his silence, Adler continued, unfazed.

"I have prepared tea from Demon's Touch, and I have baked fresh bread using ashgrain, after soaking it in bitter wine for three seasons."

Gods! Krael wished he could pummel Adler's smug face into the ground so deep that the earth itself would claim him as its own.

'His voice was mocking me—clearly mocking me—yet he wore the smuggest smile I had ever seen.'

'Not even I posses his talent for veiled insolence.'

"And yet they call him the most subservient butler a noble could have," Krael muttered under his breath.

Just as he raised his head to respond, Krael was startled to find Adler's figure towering over him.

The butler stood ten steps away—still too close for comfort.

His entire body was pristine, his brown skin glowing like polished caramel, exuding a subtle scent of tree bark—powerful yet understated.

His ever-present smile was affixed to his lips as though carved into his very being.

The one thing Krael hated more than Adler's height...

Raising his eyes, Krael regarded him—Adler, the Butler of the Maesta family. The man who had been his servant for as long as he could remeber.

One could even say, he was raised by Adler. If not for their similar ages, he was more like a sibling than he was a servant.

But that made Krael hate him more than any other. For Adler, was everything he was not and more.

His servant.

Adler... something. He could never quite recall if the man even had a last name.