An Eldritch Legacy: Sin & Sacrilege-Chapter 22: The Count Of Maesta

After another session in the warm waters of his bath chamber, Krael emerged, his skin glistening with a freshened luster. As he stepped forward, he found his butler, Adler, waiting with a towel in hand, ready to wipe away the lingering droplets from his body. In his other hand, Adler held an outfit suited for travel—clearly well-acquainted with his master's routine.

The count had experienced several surges in his lifetime—one during which he was born, which was the same day his mother died; again at the age of five, during which his father later perished in the schemes of others; then at ten, after which his uncle attempted to claim his parents' legacy—their hard work, by claiming his title, he would become the new count of Maesta. if the boy suddenly died due to the attacks of the chained ones, but Adler was nothing if not powerful enough to deter his uncle and the schemes he had planned for the ten-year-old count.

The most recent had been the one that had just concluded, and it was his first time actively taking part in a surge. It was then that he learned a cruel truth: survival often required sacrifice. leading to his acceptance of the contract.

Yet, even back then, Krael had made it a habit to tour his territory after the surge ended, ensuring his people saw him in times of hardship.

Now, standing beside what had once been his father's desk, he wiped the remaining water from his body, his gaze drifting to the invitation resting upon the wooden surface. Picking it up once more, he felt his thoughts spiraling.

He already had an inkling of why they had sent for him.

It had to be because he was an easy target; in Astrea, where food was hard to come by, a farming territory like his was a piece of meat waiting to be devoured. And the only reason nothing untoward had happened yet was because of his title and the protection from the imperial palace that forbids infighting among nobles.

The whole East Cardinal was responsible for producing food that would feed the rest of Astrea. And all farming territories were under the protection of the empire and the noble houses that had long histories to themselves. While the House Maesta had only him alone. That made him an easy target.

And so his uncle had used this opportunity to paint a target on his back, one that he could not shake off without power or a high enough standing.

That was the only logical explanation for why they had gone out of their way to extend a private invitation—especially to the most prestigious military academy in all of Astrea, an institution even attended by the royal family.

Aside from his food production and the slightly better success rates of his county's farms, there was nothing else about him that warranted such special treatment.

Not only had they invited him personally, but they had even sent transportation to ensure he reached the academy safely. More like they wanted to ensure their hostage reached in one piece.

One would think that in a world constantly besieged by unseen horrors and creatures birthed from the darkness—where even the gods were barely holding their ground—Astrea would have been united, striving to nurture strength and talent to combat the surges.

Yet, greed and power plays still held precedence. Schemes were so deeply rooted in nobility that an invitation like this was enough to mark him for assassination.

And many had tried.

Assassins came in waves, but none ever returned.

His butler had always done a wonderful job at protecting his young lord.

Krael, however, found it amusing.

The blatant disrespect implied by the invitation, the relentless attacks from his uncle, a slightly more privileged commoner, and the expectations placed upon him—it all filled him with a dark sense of amusement, a crazed gleam flashing in his eyes, though he remained unaware of it.

He was a noble fallen from grace, one who remained only to safeguard the house his father had built for his mother and the little territory they were given to honor his father's achievements at the wall. He possessed nothing beyond a hollow title that held no true power and only held as much weight as he could assert in his territory.

The only reason he was allowed to keep his title was that his lineage was required to maintain their authority. Without him, they too would lose the power they had forcefully seized in his stead.

One might ask, why did he allow it?

He would simply answer that he was weak—so incredibly weak—yet paradoxically, the most powerful being he would ever come to know, at least that's how he felt it was.

He possessed the potential to tear Astrea asunder with but a thought, yet he was also the weakest.

Not weak like an ordinary mortal, for he was certainly stronger than that.

But all of this was because of him.

That being had shown him the depths of his power—the terrifying reality that he could treat the god of Astrea as nothing more than a servant. He had seen what he could unleash upon the universe.

And then, just as swiftly, it had all been stripped away.

"The game wouldn't be fun if you could simply take what you wanted just because you had the strength to do so," the being had said.

It wanted to see him struggle, to watch him grovel for what was rightfully his.

It wanted him to beg—for every inch of power, for every shred of dignity, for every ounce of the birthright that had been denied to him.

It had shown him the throne that was meant to be his, only to reduce it to rubble, forcing him to build it from the ground up once more.

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Even then, it would never truly be his.

Because that being was in control.

And there was nothing he could do about it.

That day, Krael had not known how to feel.

On one hand, rage boiled within him. He wanted to flay the being alive, to force-feed it its own tongue for daring to mock his existence.

Yet another part of him felt something else.

Excitement.

A slow-burning thrill.

He wanted to witness his own rise—to tear everything down and rebuild it with his own hands. Not because it was simply given to him by birthright, but because he had earned it.

From that day forward, he had not been alone.

A second presence had taken root in his mind.

It whispered things he could not hear, yet he somehow understood. And when his mind was unoccupied, he would find himself enacting those thoughts as if they were his own.

One day, he found himself staring at a creature—one that could only have come from beyond the walls.

Yet, he had never set foot outside the city. He had never even ventured to the upper terraces, let alone returned to what had once been his county.

It was not as if he had captured the beast during a surge, nor had he purchased it. If he had, it would not have been so rare. It would not have been so powerful.

And yet, there it was, lying before him, dissected with surgical precision.

Skin, bones, tendons, sinew, blood vessels, and tissues—each component carefully separated, folded, or placed neatly aside. All that remained was a single, beating heart.

A heart he had held to his lips.

A heart he had already taken a bite from.

The sight of that day had never left his memory.

The heart was translucent, an ivory-like organ, its blood flowing down his arms like liquid frost, searing his near obsidian skin with a coldness that burned. Wounds marred his flesh, healing only much later.

He had been covered in blood.

He had felt full.

Which meant he had consumed more than just that heart.

When his mind returned to him, he was in a state of shock—one that threatened to shatter his psyche.

He did not understand what he had done.

He had no explanation for why his body had acted without his command.

Perhaps that being had seized control of him.

But then, a laugh—dark, maddening—echoed in his ears, shattering the notion that it had been his fault.

And then the voice spoke.

"I see you've finally awakened your other self."

"I know he can be quite the handful at times."

"But think of 'them'—him as a necessary evil."

'Right....the other prefers to be hidden.'

"One that will keep you on your toes. One that will do the things you are too prim and proper to do."

"He is the most merciful helper."

"But beware—he has no anchor."

"If you do not find one soon, all of my plans will be for nothing."

"Not that it would matter to me."

"It would simply bring the inevitable closer."

"And I 'hate' disappointments."

That day, Krael's very cells screamed in dread. His entire being was submerged in an abyss so cold that he felt his soul crack beneath the weight of the voice.

And then, just as suddenly, the presence vanished.

Yet, he knew the being had never truly left him.

For now, as he stared at the invitation before him, a message had already been left for him—written in his own blood.

Right next to the invitation, there was a script, or a text, or was it a verse? He could not really tell.

At some point during his crazed smile, he had slit his own wrist with one the quills he used to write.

And like molten metal, it flowed in defiance as it left his body to touch the surface of the oak desk.

His blood was the color of blackened obsidian, a thing so foul and treacherous that the light streaming through the windows trembled; it seemed to meet the very antithesis of its very being. It sought to escape the confines of the young count's room, but alas, it was being held in place.

A chill that came from the aura of his blood seemed to drop the temperature of the whole room, and yet it still felt hotter than any fire. An uncomfortable warmth that burned the soul.

Unseen by Krael was Adler, who seemed mysteriously unbothered, and it one could see his eyes, they notice an almost maniacle worship in them.

The Count had shed his first blood.

But just as one thought that they would be swallowed by the foulness and infernal nature of the black obsidian liquid streaming from his flesh, the tyrannical aura was suppressed the moment shimmering silver veins seemed to taint the black.

They came in such grace that it was reminiscent of doves and butterflies taking flight; the veins of silver were ethereal and mysterious.

They had an aura of mystifying beauty to them that explained the innate bearing of the young count. Like ethereal silver in a lake of molten obsidian liquid; they would mix but never devour the other, almost like they were in a dance for dominance and yet the harmony between the spoke of truths hidden from the eyes of fate.

This was his blood, his ichor, his lifeline; this was 'Ethereal Vale'.

The unseen blood of Count Krael Maesta.

'Was he a god...?' Krael thought to himself.

'No...' The answer came to him just as quick as these thoughts festered

'Then, what the heck was he?'