Chapter 136
Secret meeting
A man stepped into the dimly lit office, his boots making soft thuds on the thick rug that swallowed most sound. The air was stale—stifling even—and carried a metallic tang that clung to the tongue like rust.
A handful of candles burned in wrought-iron sconces along the walls, their flames swaying in a draft too faint to feel. Each wick was on the verge of guttering out, yet they seemed to cling stubbornly to life—perhaps out of fear of what the darkness here might hold.
He didn't need to glance around to know what waited for him. He had been here many times before. Yet, his eyes were drawn, as they always were, to the grotesque arrangement that covered the walls.
Heads.
Human heads, perfectly preserved, mounted in neat rows. Each one was locked in the same eternal moment—their faces frozen in the instant they understood they were about to die. The tension in their muscles still tugged at the corners of their mouths, eyes wide and bloodshot, glassy with fear. Their expressions were not just of pain but of—anguish stripped bare. That unfiltered terror, that final understanding, had been captured and displayed as though it were priceless art.
The preservation was masterful, though the man found no beauty in it. Some faces were still streaked with dried blood; others had been cleaned with obsessive care. Every head was positioned at the exact same height, each spaced evenly apart, as if their owner took pride in their arrangement.
Every single one of these trophies had been handpicked by the owner of this office, hunted down, killed, and placed here as a personal collection.
The desk that dominated the centre of the room was massive and carved from dark, heavy wood—so dark it almost seemed to be part of the shadows.
The man in the room now stood in the middle of the room. Watching the massive chair behind that desk, facing away from the door and toward a wide window that overlooked the darkness outside. Beyond the glass, hooded figures could be seen moving, each performing strange and meticulous tasks in the compound below. Their actions were silent and synchronised—almost ritualistic.
The back of the chair was tall enough to conceal its occupant completely, seemed like an impassable wall.
A voice rolled out from it.
"Oh… you are finally here."
It was a deep, slow voice—smooth and thick, like warm caramel. It was almost hypnotising.
The man bowed instinctively, keeping his head lowered. "Yes, sir. Forgive the intrusion, but I have come with… some information that may be of concern to you."
There was a long pause. Then, in that same slow, steady tone, the man in the chair replied,
"Hm… There is nothing to be concerned about… not during these times of celebration."
The visitor didn't respond immediately. His plain brown eyes flickered briefly, betraying a thought he wisely kept to himself. Straightening, he let his gaze wander over the mounted heads once again.
A low chuckle drifted from behind the chair. "Do they interest you? I mean, after all, they are often called… distasteful by the others—claiming they don't match my demeanour."
The man hesitated. "Yes… it is quite shocking that someone of your status engages in such hobbies."
"Hobby?"
"I apologise." The words left his mouth quickly.
"No," the voice said with the faintest amusement, "it is fine to call it that. However… to me, it feels more than that. I don't know when it began… but somewhere along the line I became… obsessed. Obsessed with life and death. With that desperation—our endless struggle to keep living, knowing we will all die regardless."
The man in the chair shifted slightly, and though his face remained hidden, his voice carried a subtle heat.
"That expression… when they realise that death is so close. That moment when the truth finally pierces them. It gives me… a quiet pleasure. To watch their pupils shrink, to see their thoughts race through every memory they ever clung to… and then, to frame that moment forever."
It was spoken like an artist describing a masterpiece, not a killer recounting a cruelty.
The visitor kept his eyes down, careful not to interrupt, as the voice continued.
"Many say it is beneath me to dabble in such… lowly things. But the way I see it, I am the only one who truly understands the beauty of life and death. There is only one way to be given life… yet there are infinite ways to perish. Isn't it fascinating how close death is to life? How they are one and the same? At any moment, you could cease to exist—here, now, inside the fragile shell of life itself. You could list countless ways to die without even standing up. It's so simple… so deeply embedded in life."
The visitor's composure began to strain. Finally, he cleared his throat softly. "Sir… the information I came to deliver."
A quiet sigh. "My apologies…"
He did not sound sorry.
"Our most recent massive operation," the visitor began, "the harvest of the Hold and the Ironclaw—which had proved very successful—has encountered… a complication."
A dose of silence.
"Someone from the Hold… survived. Without a doubt, according to our intelligence, they have already provided… crucial information."
There was no loud or shocked reaction. Just a pause that lazily trickled by.
"Interesting." The voice was calm—amused even—as though the news was nothing more than just a curiosity, not a threat.
The chair began to turn, slowly, the leather creaking with the movement.
The man seated within came into view at last. Long, flowing raven hair spilled over his shoulders, so black it drank the light. His eyes—deep, oceanic blue—held an impossible beauty like something royal, it had the kind of ancient stillness that made one feel small just by meeting them.
His face was handsome, almost unnervingly so, and it wore a smile that was both inviting and dangerous.
"Very interesting indeed…" he murmured.
The visitor held his breath.
It was Hise Grave.