Bala
The tavern was alive with the low murmur of conversation and the clinking of mugs. The scent of roasting meat mixing with the musty air. At one of the weathered oak tables, two men sat hunched over their tankards of ale, their faces lined with suspicion and the weight of too many winters spent in turmoil.
"The new lord's a generous one, I'll give him that," one of the men said, his voice thick with a mixture of skepticism and a touch of admiration. "Donated all the grain Waladr had hoarded. Said it was for the people."
His companion sneered, his fingers tapping restlessly on the table. "A trick, mark my words. Benevolent my arse, don't be fooled if it's free there's always something you pay."
He took another long swig of his ale, the bitter taste washing away some of the tension that had built up in his chest. His voice dropped to a low mutter, eyes narrowing. "He could handout all the shit he has, but it still won't wipe the blood of our fucking people....they are responsible for what's happening to this land."
The first man glanced around warily, his gaze falling on the others in the tavern, before leaning closer. "Lower your voice, fool!" he hissed, his expression darkening. "This is not some merchant lord."
The cynic shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "He'll ruin this town, mark my words. I hear he has a thing for witches too." His tone was dismissive, "It's bad luck i tell ya..."
His friend's gaze flickered uneasily for a moment, but he said nothing. The mention of the witch made him uncomfortable, though he wasn't sure why.
As the night countinued, the moon cast a pale glow upon Llyn Tegid, this lake in size was 6.4 km in length and up to 0.75 miles (1.2 km) in width, with a maximum depth 138 feet (42 meters). It was surrounded by rolling hills and dense woodlands. A cloaked figure moved through the shadows, steps silent upon the windswept path. The figure paused before a house by the lake, its windows aglow with the warm flicker of candlelight. The breeze carried the faint sound of voices from within.
Inside, a man sat at a worn wooden table, his hand wrapped around a cup of ale. His brow furrowed, eyes dark with unease. His wife, a crippled woman with a determined expression, stood by the hearth, chopping vegetables with steady hands.
"The priest is dead," the man muttered, his voice low and rough. "Simon's gone, and Waladr's met his end. Something's amiss."
The woman nodded, her knife slicing through the vegetables with precision. "Aye," she replied, her tone measured but wary. "These events be no coincidence."
The man took a long draught from his cup, then set it down with a heavy thud. "We are compromised," he said, the weight of the words pressing down upon him.
The woman paused, her knife hovering above the chopping board. She gazed into the flickering flames, her face shadowed with doubt. "I'm a cripple," she whispered. "How can we dare betray the crown....they'll find us."
The man rose, moving to her side. He placed his hands on her shoulders, pressing a tender kiss to her neck. "Then we shall go far," he murmured, his voice soft but resolute. "Far enough that they'll never catch us."
In that instant, the candles sputtered, their flames snuffed out by an unseen force. Darkness enveloped the room, The couple stilled, hearts pounding in the sudden silence.
"What is this?" the woman asked, her voice trembling.
"Just the wind," the man answered, though his words lacked conviction.
Before he could take another breath, a shadow emerged from the darkness—a figure cloaked in black, face hidden beneath a hood.
The figure stepped forward, slow and deliberate, The couple gasped, their blood turning to ice as they held each other.
---
Ethan returned to his manor in silence, the recent interrogation weighed heavily on his mind. The spies had been difficult to break, but in the end, they had revealed everything. Killing had become his routine now, like the ticking of a clock, somehow it still gave him a strange comfort. Each kill had its purpose, and with each step he took, he grew further from his humanity.
Ethan paused before the window, his gaze distant as he stared into the darkened world outside. He stood there for a long moment, the quiet of the night stretching out before him.
It's strange, how the world opens up when your senses sharpen, he thought, the thought forming in the back of his mind like a quiet whisper.
His heart beat steadily, yet there was no surge of emotion. "This isn't me....that's why i spared Callwen, Beca...to lie to myself....that I'm still human," he whispered, the words barely audible over the silence.
The faces of those he had killed flickered before him, but they were mere silhouettes, faceless. He thought back to his latest victims—how easily the couples lives drained from their eyes. And yet, he felt nothing.
Ethan racked his brain, searching for the remnants of guilt or grief, but there was only a void. The nanobots coursing through his veins were doing their work well, too well. When emotions flared—fear, anxiety, even empathy—they had responded with ruthless efficiency. Inhibitors suppressed cortisol, dampening the fires of stress. Adrenaline was regulated, keeping panic at bay, ensuring that he remained composed, unshaken.
The mechanisms within him modulated neurotransmitters, carefully balancing serotonin and dopamine, stripping away the peaks of joy and the depths of despair. His emotions had been mastered for him. His body no longer betrayed him with trembling hands or a racing heart. Each response was measured, calibrated for efficiency and control.
But in this mastery, he had lost something vital—something that once made him human. The echoes of laughter, the warmth of a tear, the tremor of fear—suppressed beneath a veneer of cold.
Ethan's hand fell from his chest, fingers brushing the windowpane. He watched as the rain began to fall, droplets tracing jagged paths down the glass. A reflection stared back at him, eyes hollow, a man who had become more machine than flesh.
As the rain pattered against the window, Ethan turned away to the underground room, the weight of his actions pressing down on him, even as his body refused to feel it.