An Eldritch Legacy: Sin & Sacrilege-Chapter 31: Shame of a Maiden...

Silence rippled like waves across an ocean, as the hearts of many seemed to lull within their chests; comprehension abandoned them all at once. What were they witnessing? What was happening? How could someone kill in the presence of the divine? More importantly, how could a noble's servant strike down his master's subjects?

How dare he?

Irrational and instinctual thoughts surged through the crowd's minds as they struggled to understand what had just occurred. One of their own had died suddenly, and those with even a shred of wisdom were more terrified than angry.

Because they had not seen the butler move.

In one moment, he had stood locked in a 'sacrilegious confrontation' with the Maiden; in the next, he was wiping his blade clean as a body crashed to the ground.

The disbelief in the victim's eyes remained fresh as blood pooled from his mouth. His limbs twitched as though still alive, but any experienced eye would recognize it for what it was—mere shock. The man had died before his body even struck the ground.

And that was the most horrifying realization for those who thought with more than preconceived notions.

They had heard whispers of Pathwalkers, in heresy and rumor, but they had never witnessed them in action.

The butler's actions awakened something deep within them—a primal terror. A reminder of the supernatural horrors that truly ruled the world.

Over the years, they had grown complacent.

But this cruel act refreshed their minds.

Of course, among fresh peas, rotting ones never fail to appear. Some failed to comprehend the gravity of the situation. Instead, they were driven to the edge by rage.

He only spoke—why kill him over innocent words? they thought.

They felt like captives in cages of iron, forced to live on the precipice of death.

Yet, even in stupidity, instinct often found a way to preserve life.

Perhaps that instinct was the only reason they still breathed.

They said nothing further, lest they provoke the butler—a man who, despite his youth, seemed more terrifying than anyone they had come to know.

If they had seen him slaughter abominations during the surge, they would have been shuddering right where they stood.

It was a strange sight: some silent in fear, others in indignation, their eyes silently screaming, If I had the power, I would do something about this.

Truly foolish mortals.

Adler, on the other hand, was unconcerned with their thoughts. He meticulously cleaned his blade with a black cloth. He refused to let his precious weapon be stained by the filthy blood of a peasant too ignorant to grasp the immensity of the sky above him.

Without sparing them a glance, he finished wiping the blade clean—and then it scattered into ash, dissolving into the air, and merging with the oppressive silence.

Even the crackling of the altar flames diminished, though no one noticed.

Adler turned his gaze toward the Maiden—the one who had dared to disrespect his young master.

She stared back with cold fury, her face now etched with indignation.

It meant nothing to him.

He honestly wondered why he was even entertaining her whims. It all felt so childish.

The back-and-forth that was about to happen bored him.

Feeling his master asleep within the carriage only made him more impatient to end this farce.

He didn't want to deal with this. So he made a decision—one that might bring problems for the young master, for the town—but at least it would be interesting. Things had been dull lately, and with his master beginning to tap into the power promised to him, it was about time he began the Lord's true training.

"You—"

"Save your breath, woman."

His voice was cold and flat, devoid of the soothing quality he reserved only for his master. To others—he couldn't care less.

Lucinda felt the world constrict around her.

Her body was bound in unseen layers of pressure, tight and suffocating. She couldn't move. Only her thoughts remained free—swimming in the quagmire of fear.

Everything around her seemed frozen—the wind, the flames, the people. Time had stilled.

A perverse aura filled the air, oppressive and inescapable, stripping her of all power.

And within that aura, a malevolence that defied comprehension.

How can someone possess such an aura? It was the only thought she could muster.

Her aura of purity was useless in the face of this monstrous force.

"Do you feel that... puny mortal?"

Adler's voice now sounded alien—something she couldn't even process.

The language was foreign, incomprehensible, yet the meaning was forced into her mind, defiling her thoughts in ways that would have revolted her—if she weren't already consumed by terror.

"Do you smell the fear dripping from your soul? The hopelessness born from inevitability? The dread that evolves from fear of higher existence?"

His presence rippled like it existed everywhere and nowhere all the same. His voice caressed her skin in tender care, but she could not master any warmth from it. All she could feel was the terror his touch sent down her blood.

"Ahhh... the scent of realization is a drug... profound and addictive. I wonder why more do not seek to savor it."

"Something as divine as this should not be ignored!"

"This is always the most satisfying part—the moment someone realizes just how much shit they've stepped in."

"You came here bouncing like a clown, drunk on euphoria. Parading yourself, thinking you owned the sky. Trying to capture attention with beauty you do not have."

"And now... look at you. Your entire existence in my hands."

"Hahaha... isn't it wonderful, Lucinda?"

"Tell me, Lucinda—hasn't this been the most beautiful feeling in a long time?"

"Don't you feel the joy I feel? ...To let go and enjoy the comfort of pain and a little madness?"

His voice fluctuated—noble, then thuggish, then noble again. It had no consistent cadence, yet she understood everything. That made it worse. Her fear had evolved into dread, then horror—multiplied beyond reason.

And still, his expression never shifted. His smile remained.

Those rare white eyes—once beautiful—were cracked like shattered glass. The intensity in them was unbearable.

She screamed in her soul:

What is this? How can something like this exist?

She couldn't move. Her very existence was in his hands.

No—this wasn't a man.

This was an abomination.

"No... please... please! Please!"

She tried to scream, beg, cry—anything.

But only her thoughts could speak.

Her soul begged on her behalf.

It bled into the abyss of dread, fracturing like porcelain.

All she could see were those cold, cracked, white eyes—so amused, so cruel, so broken.

And she realized, with finality:

This was the man she wanted to warm her bed.

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A shameful thought for someone so 'pure.'