Beast Gacha System: All Mine-Chapter 148: You Will

The dark of the night in the Iondora capital was arguablly more illuminated than most places in the world, although, you could argue all night in the world would be dark. Yes, it did still masked most of things. But of course, it should not cover all things, right?

Some things should’ve been too large to be swallowed by mere shadow.

That was why the guard stationed at the inner eastern parapet of the Edengold estate nearly suffered a heart attack when he almost failed to recognize something in the dark.

One moment, he was tracing the familiar, elegant silhouette of a tree against the lesser black of the sky. The next, that patch of star-specked emptiness was occupied. He thought it was the clouds or something.

Nope.

A shape coalesced on top of the twenty-foot-high estate wall, a deeper darkness against the night. It was lupine, that much his panicking brain registered, but it warped every scale he knew.

Werewolves in their beast-forms were formidable, yes, as large as the heaviest war stallion. This was something else.

It was three, perhaps four times that mass. It perched on the broad, flat top of the stone wall, its immense weight seeming to exert no pressure at all.

H-how did it get there?! No—when?!

The silhouette was clean and lethal, all sharp angles and dense, impenetrable fur that seemed to drink the scant ambient light. Its head was turned toward the heart of the estate, the main residential wing, and even from this distance, the guard could feel the aura radiating from it.

Displeasure.

The half-beast lion guard’s lungs filled, his diaphragm tightening to unleash a horrified scream. It would surely shatter the calm of the noble district and bring every guardsman running...

But he hadn’t even gotten to open his mouth yet when the massive head swiveled. Two points of molten crimson light ignited in the shadowed face, fixing on him.

Then, it spoke.

Strangely, the voice did not come from a muzzle. It vibrated directly in the guard’s skull, a basso profundo rumble that bypassed his ears and shook his very teeth.

Like granite grinding.

"Show me the main chamber."

He remembered now. He was told to expect him. This was Arkai Dawnoro. The Black Wolf King. A sovereign whose displeasure could mean more than just a lost post, it could mean perpetual winter for the entire continent.

Wordlessly, his body moving on autopilot, the guard gave a jerky, terrified nod. He turned and scurried along the parapet walkway, not daring to look back, feeling the weight of that displeased, gargantuan presence moving silently along the wall behind him.

A shadow of a falling moon.

CLICK—

Arkai stepped into the chamber naked. He’d transformed in his haste, discarding the beast to cross the final threshold as a man. He saw Cecilia lay on the vast bed alone. Still. But he knew that she wasn’t sleeping. The dull ache resonating in his own chest was no lullaby.

Before he could take another step, a bundle of fabric was thrust into his hands. Eastiel had sensed his approach through the mansion. The lion had prepared simple trousers and a linen shirt before Arkai had even cleared the doorway.

"You made it for dinner," Oathran’s voice came. Though his eyes remained closed. He sat in a deep armchair pulled close to the bed.

Seeing the three of them like this, somewhat normal that was anything but normal, made him terrified. Asking ’what’s wrong’ now wouldn’t be a good move.

"Then, let’s have dinner," Arkai said. He shrugged into the borrowed shirt. "Please. I’m starving."

Oathran turned his head, opening his eyes, and offered a small smile. An approval.

It made perfect sense. Cecilia, in the grip of whatever horror had seized her, would have refused food, drink, or comfort. Since the morning, she had likely taken nothing.

They needed to move her, to care for her, to restart the basic mechanics of life before they could address... anything, really.

"Saintess," Oathran said, his voice softening into a gentle command as he rose from the chair. "Let’s have some soup."

He moved to the bed, his movements fluid and sure, leaning down as if to gather not just her body, but the scattered pieces of her soul.

Meanwhile, Eastiel guided Arkai with a firm hand on his shoulder, steering him back out of the chamber and into the dining hall. Arkai’s gaze was a barrage of silent questions. What happened? What did you see?

Eastiel met his look. He simply shook his head.

Only when they were further down the corridor did Eastiel speak. He tapped the center of Arkai’s upper back, a brotherly gesture that was also a push to keep moving forward.

"She said she’ll tell us," Eastiel murmured, "after you arrived."

Arkai nodded.

Behind them, the chamber door reopened. They turned, expecting to see Oathran carrying her. Instead, they found her walking. Her steps were slow, measured, but she was upright.

Oathran was a half-step behind and to her side with a steadying hand at the small of her back that never quite touched her.

She hadn’t said a word. But at least... she looked composed. She had, by sheer will or through the dragon’s fortitude, regained enough of herself to stand and walk.

They moved to the grand dining table.

Protocol would have placed Oathran, the eldest and most mythic, at the head. He did not argue. But before sitting, he pulled one of the heavy, ornate chairs from its place along the side and positioned it directly beside the head chair, close enough that their arms would brush.

He would sit at the lead, and she would sit within his immediate orbit, where he could monitor, and, if necessary, enforce.

Perhaps in all the world, only one person could compel Cecilia Araceli to do anything against her will. And that person was Oathran Alicei.

That was, of course, if his own heart was strong enough to bear the weight of imposing on her grief.

Today, it was.

A bowl of creamy tomato soup was placed before her. Oathran dipped a spoon, lifted it to his own lips to test the temperature with a fleeting touch, then turned to her.

When she only stared blankly at the bowl, he brought the spoon to her mouth. She turned her head away once, weakly refusing. He waited, the spoon hovering, and tried again.

She pushed at his wrist with trembling fingers, her eyes pleading. He did not withdraw. On the third attempt, she parted her lips helplessly. And through it all, even as she swallowed the food meant to fortify her, she looked impossibly sad.

So. It was that heavy. Whatever she carried was.

When Oathran finally judged she had taken enough, which was impressingly, a lot, he set the spoon aside. He pressed a crystal goblet of cool water into her hands, guiding it to her lips until she drank.

Only then, as the silent servants moved in to clear the dishes, did he speak.

"Now tell us," he said, "or I’ll start killing."

"These two will also start killing. You don’t need to tell us anything. We’ll just start without knowing why."

Cecilia’s hand shot out, grasping Oathran’s where it rested on the table. Her grip was tight, her knuckles white. She held on and nodded.

Then, she sighed.

"I think I know," she began, "why you wanted to die by my hands, Oathran."

Eastiel went rigid. Arkai’s breath caught.

She grasped Oathran’s hand tighter, her gaze locked with his.

"And I’ll make sure you will."