Chaos settled in like a fog. Garrick's men, distracted by the blaze and by the fear that the fire might spread to the brothel—where stores of alcohol and silk were abundant—hesitated for one crucial moment. The Cathedral Merchant barked confused orders, more concerned with the gold and with the Inquisitor's wrath than with discipline.
Kaelen saw his opening. Malphas would emerge from the church at any second, and when he did, death would come with him.
While the thugs struggled to control the panicked horses, Kaelen did not run toward the fire. He ran the other way, intercepting the path between the carriage and the side entrance of the Black Rose Lupanar.
His mother and sister were now being dragged by only two guards; the rest had rushed off to save the flammable merchandise.
Kaelen drew the short infantry sword. The rasp of steel against leather was swallowed by screams and the crackle of burning wood. He felt none of the exhaustion from two days of pursuit. The sour wine and hatred had sharpened his senses.
He burst from the shadows like a vengeful specter. The first guard—a brute who reeked of gin—never had time to release the chain binding the Baroness's wrist. Kaelen drove the sword point up beneath the man's jaw, piercing palate and brain. It was a clean, mechanical strike, exactly as the Academy's master-at-arms had taught for swift executions.
The second guard's eyes went wide as he dropped Elara and reached for the axe at his belt.
— Kaelen? — his mother's cry was a whisper of horror and hope.
— Don't look! — Kaelen roared, kicking the first body aside to free his blade.
Confrontation in the Firelight
The second guard charged with the axe, but he was slow—a brothel mercenary accustomed to beating women and drunks, not a cadet trained to kill. Kaelen slipped past the downward swing, feeling the wind of the blade brush his shoulder, and answered with a horizontal cut that split the man's belly open.
The guard's entrails spilled into Ostrava's mud. He fell, gurgling wetly.
Kaelen grabbed his mother's wrist and his sister's shoulder. They were shaking, deep in shock.
— We have to go. Now! — he said, dragging them into the maze of alleys behind the burning stables.
But in the distance, beneath the church portico, an ebony silhouette appeared. Malphas was not running. He walked calmly through drifting embers. He looked at the ruined stables, then turned his armored head toward the alley where Kaelen stood.
Even at a distance, Kaelen felt the crushing pressure of the Nephilim's aura.
Malphas knew.
The Inquisitor's shout was not a matter of lungs—it was a vibration that seemed to rattle Kaelen's teeth. The name Valerius left Malphas's mouth as a sneer, turning the ancient surname into a curse.
— You're there, aren't you, boy? — Malphas's voice cut through the crackling flames as he walked over the coals, the metal of his boots not merely crushing the charcoal, but drinking in the heat. — I've smelled your trail since the Iron Hills. Sweat, desperation, and… failure.
Kaelen froze. He felt the weight of the Inquisitor's gaze before seeing him clearly again. The air thickened, heavy with the stench of ozone and rotting flesh. It was the Aura of the Abyss—the mark of the Nephilim. To a trained soldier it was oppressive; to an innocent mind, lethal.
Elara let out a broken sob. Her legs, already weakened by two days of captivity, gave out beneath that supernatural pressure. She collapsed into the foul mud of the alley, burying her face in her hands.
— No… please… he's inside my head… — she whimpered, her body shaking with pure terror.
The Baroness tried to lift her, but her own hands trembled so violently she could barely grip her daughter's arm. The girl's despair was a black hole, swallowing every attempt at escape.
— Elara, get up! — Kaelen shouted, dropping to his knees beside her, shaking her shoulders. — He wants you to stop! He feeds on this!
The Predator Toys with Its Prey
Malphas halted at the mouth of the alley. The fire behind him turned him into a vast, black silhouette, steam hissing from the seams of his helm as if he were boiling from within. He slowly sheathed his longsword—a gesture of deliberate contempt.
— I could have killed you on the road, little Valerius — Malphas said, taking one slow step forward, metal striking stone: clank… clank… — But the slaughter of an exhausted lamb has no flavor. I enjoy watching hope struggle before it suffocates. Watching you try to protect these scraps of family while realizing that every effort you make is just another nail in their coffin.
The Inquisitor extended his gauntleted hand. The sacred scriptures engraved in his armor flared with a sickly crimson glow.
— Feel it, boy. Feel the weight of the heresy your father planted when he failed to pay what he owed to God.
A sudden nausea seized Kaelen. His vision dimmed. He looked at his sister and saw her beginning to lose consciousness, terror tightening around her young heart. If they stayed another minute, fear would kill her before Malphas ever laid a hand on her.
The Choice of Blood
Kaelen rose. He stood between the monster and the women. The short sword in his hand looked like a toothpick before the mountain of iron that was the Inquisitor.
He understood then: Malphas did not want only the slaves. He wanted to break the last heir of House Valerius. The fire in the stables was spreading to the wooden houses of the port, and the chaos of screams and bucket lines was the only thing keeping the city guard from sealing the alley.
— They are not scraps — Kaelen hissed, his voice forced through clenched teeth as he fought the aura trying to drive him to his knees. — They are all that's left. And you'll have to step over my corpse to touch them again.
Malphas laughed—a dry, metallic sound, utterly devoid of joy.
— That's the spirit. Let the hatred flow, boy. Hatred is an excellent seasoning.
Time seemed to stop for Kaelen.
He had only seconds to act, while Malphas savored their fear.