The city of Coverford loomed in the distance, its skyline a jagged array of towering brass spires, iron bridges, and looming clock towers, their hands frozen in time. The air carried the thick scent of coal and damp stone, a suffocating mix of industry and decay. Steam hissed from rusting pipes embedded in the cobblestone streets, releasing bursts of heat that coiled like specters in the cold night air.
Once, Coverford had been the heart of Pilturia's cultural heritage—a city of scholars, poets, and artisans. Grand theaters had stood proudly alongside intricate brass-lit cafes, where philosophers once debated the cycles of history over cups of spiced coffee. But that was before the war. Now, the streets pulsed with an eerie, artificial glow from gas lamps that flickered uncertainly, struggling against the ever-present mist that swallowed the city whole. The cobbled roads, slick with oil and rain, reflected the dim golden light like veins of molten metal running through a corpse.
The people who once breathed life into this city were gone. The Pilturians—its poets, its artisans, its families—had been slaughtered. Their bodies had long been discarded, but their presence still lingered in the silence of abandoned homes, in the dust-covered bookshelves of wrecked libraries, in the red stains seeping between the cracks of the pavement. Kseradyn had made sure of it. The few that had survived had been taken—prisoners, servants, playthings . Those who resisted had been left to rot in the city square, their remains hung like grotesque ornaments upon rusting lampposts.
Gargoyles perched atop the gothic facades of forgotten cathedrals, their hollow eyes watching as soldiers in Ilisarian uniforms patrolled the streets below. Kseradyn's presence had transformed Coverford into something else—something twisted. Banners of deep velvet bearing the Ilisarian sigil draped over the balconies of mansions that once belonged to Pilturian nobles. The old Pilturian flag, once displayed with pride on city halls and universities, was nowhere to be seen. In its place, the Ilisarian standard loomed high above every government building—a serpent coiled around a blooming rose, its fangs bared, a symbol of beauty entwined with destruction.
At the city's heart, past the narrow alleyways where shadowed figures whispered of rebellion and desperation, stood the grand fortress Kseradyn had claimed. A former governor's estate, now a bastion of terror, its wrought-iron gates bore deep scratches, as if something—or someone—had tried to claw its way out. The once-ivory stone was stained with dark streaks, remnants of past executions washing down the walls like ink bleeding through paper.
Coverford had always been a city of history, but now, its history was being rewritten in blood.
Sylvain moved like a ghost through the ruined streets of Coverford, his footsteps barely making a sound against the wet cobblestones. The air carried the putrid stench of decay, but he had long since trained himself to ignore it. The Ilisarian patrols were everywhere—groups of armored soldiers, their red capes fluttering as they stalked the alleys, rifles in hand. He kept to the shadows, slipping past broken fences and through crumbling buildings, his every breath controlled, every movement calculated.
His destination was the charnel house—a place where the dead were discarded like trash before being burned in the pits outside the city. Kseradyn had a habit of killing his own servants, the rumors whispered of his unpredictable moods, of how a single misstep could mean a slow, artful death at his hands. That was Sylvain's advantage. If luck was on his side, one of those corpses would still be wearing their uniform.
The building reeked of rot. He pushed open the rusting door and stepped inside, his boot sinking slightly into something wet. The darkness was suffocating, the only light coming from the cracks in the wooden beams above. Bodies were piled in the corner, limbs twisted unnaturally, some barely recognizable as human. Maggots wriggled through open wounds, the flesh of the dead peeling like wax. Sylvain swallowed down the bile rising in his throat and forced himself forward.
He stepped over bloated torsos, his fingers searching through stiffened fabric, peeling away layers of death and ruin. He was running out of time. The stench burned his nostrils, the heat of decay clinging to his skin like a second layer.
Then, finally—luck.
A servant's uniform. Bloodstained, but mostly intact. He ripped it from the corpse, shaking off whatever filth clung to it. His hands were steady, but his heartbeat thundered in his ears. He needed to get out.
Slipping out of the charnel house, he made his way to an abandoned building. It was crumbling, half of its walls torn apart by war, but it was shelter enough. He doused the uniform with whatever clean water he could find, scrubbing it down, ensuring no disease lingered. The fabric was still damp when he slipped it over his own clothes, the scent of death lingering despite his efforts.
Now came the true test.
With measured steps, he approached the governor's estate, its towering iron gates standing like the maw of some great beast. He moved with purpose, blending in as though he had always belonged there. But just as he neared the entrance, a soldier stepped forward, blocking his path.
"Un se ko di, shee'gal?" The soldier's voice was firm, his grip on his rifle tightening slightly.
Sylvain forced himself to remain calm. He mastered the major languages of the world at his time in the Flamesworth estate, his Ilisarian was flawless. He had studied their language for years, learned their inflections, their dialects.
"I was throwing the trash, sir," he answered smoothly.
The soldier stared at him for a moment, then gave a short nod. "Carry on."
Sylvain exhaled silently and walked past, merging into the flow of servants entering the estate.
He was just in time.
Servants were aligning in rows for a routine check-in, their heads lowered, their movements mechanical. He took his place among them, keeping his gaze neutral. But then—a shift. A presence.
A hush fell over the hall as Prince Kseradyn himself entered.
Tall, broad-shouldered, his long golden hair cascading down to his neck like spun silk. His beauty was undeniable, but there was something wrong about him. His eyes—pale, empty, lacking the spark of a living soul. He moved like a predator, his mere presence suffocating.
Sylvain didn't flinch, but he felt it. The weight of something unnatural pressing down on the room.
Kseradyn walked slowly down the line, his fingers tracing the edges of a silver ring on his hand. Then he stopped before a young woman.
Leaning down, he whispered something into her ear.
The words were too quiet to hear, but her reaction said everything.
Her face drained of color, her lips trembled, but she did not resist. Without a word, she stepped forward and followed him toward his quarters. The other servants did not react—they merely stood in place, eyes forward, as if this were nothing new.
She was already dead.
Sylvain knew it.
And yet, as cruel as it was, she wasn't his concern. He couldn't afford to think of her, couldn't afford to mourn someone who had already stepped into the abyss.
What mattered was the opportunity.
Kseradyn had taken her to his quarters. If Sylvain could get close to him—if he could gain even a fraction of his attention—he could follow. A servant in his chambers, in the prince's most vulnerable moments…
A perfect opportunity for assassination.
The moment the check-in ended, the servants dispersed like clockwork, each hurrying to their designated duties. Their movements were mechanical, hollow—like they had long since abandoned any sense of self-preservation.
Sylvain, blending in seamlessly, moved with them. His mind remained focused, his senses heightened, but his thoughts were interrupted by a sound.
From deep within Kseradyn's quarters, the air trembled with unsettling moans—agonized, guttural, inhuman. Then, just as suddenly as they came, silence.
A thick, suffocating silence.
Sylvain stopped in his tracks, his muscles tensing, listening. Then, a sickening crack.
The unmistakable sound of bones shattering.
His breath hitched.
"What the actual hell is going on in that room?" he murmured under his breath.
Before he could dwell on it, a voice snapped him back to reality.
"Hey, new guy, you're up to clean the Prince's bath."
Sylvain turned to see one of the older servants, a frail-looking man with hollowed-out eyes and an expression that was a mix of fear and relief. They were pushing the task onto him—not just out of cowardice, but out of a subtle sense of superiority. The hierarchy among servants was clear: let the weak or new take the worst tasks.
But to Sylvain, this was an opportunity.
He gave a slight nod, suppressing any outward emotion, and turned toward the staircase.
The estate's interior was grand yet eerie, the long corridors lined with ornate yet fading tapestries. Ilisarian furniture that was placed instead of the local Pilturian decoration bore a haunting beauty—carvings of mythical beasts, stories of conquest immortalized in silver and black. But there was something else here, something wrong.
The closer he got to Kseradyn's quarters, the more he noticed the details—faint streaks of red smeared toward the door.
He exhaled softly, steadying his nerves and knocked, heartbeat of silence.
Then—"Come in," Kseradyn's voice rang out, smooth yet carrying an undercurrent of something… dangerous.
Sylvain pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside.
The scene before him nearly stopped his heart.
Kseradyn was in the bath—no, a blood bath. The water was crimson, swirling with the remnants of torn flesh. The trail of bodies he had dragged in still marked the floor, leading to the bath like a grotesque offering. The scent of iron was thick in the air, mingling with steam.
And the balcony—dear god, the balcony.
Limbs. Severed limbs, stacked like discarded firewood. They swayed slightly with the breeze, their skin pale against the cold night air.
Sylvain had seen death. He had lived with it, bathed in it, lost himself in its embrace. But this—this was something else.
Something purely monstrous.
Kseradyn leaned back lazily in the bath, his golden hair damp, his physique exuding a terrifying blend of beauty and brutality. His copper eyes glowed faintly through the steam, locking onto Sylvain the moment he entered.
"Closer," he commanded, his voice carrying an eerie weight.
Sylvain hesitated for only a second before stepping forward. He grabbed a towel from the rack, keeping his movements smooth and deliberate. Kseradyn stood, the blood cascading down his sculpted body, streaking along the defined curves of his muscles. He was completely bare, unbothered by his own nakedness, his confidence that of a man who had never once in his life been made to feel lesser.
Sylvain quickly extended the towel, averting his gaze just slightly, playing the role of an obedient servant.
Kseradyn wrapped himself in it but made no effort to move away. Instead, he tilted his head, studying Sylvain with those hollow yet seeing eyes.
"You're new here… interesting," he mused.
Sylvain bowed his head slightly, then turned to begin his task—cleaning the mess Kseradyn had left behind.
The moment he did, he felt it.
A heavy presence, the prince's massive hand on his shoulder.
It was instinct—Sylvain's body reacted before he could think. His reflexes took over, his muscles tensed, and he swiftly stepped forward, creating space between them.
A slow chuckle filled the air. "Hahahaha… interesting trash."
Kseradyn's voice carried amusement, but there was something else beneath it. Intrigue. A predatory curiosity.
"You were Azur, right?" the prince continued, his lips curling into something almost a smirk. "You might be a type of useful trash , if you keep up with this little performance."
Sylvain swallowed, steadying his breath. But then—a whisper.
"End him… end him… please end him… Brother."
His blood ran cold, it was his sister's voice. Again.
He inhaled sharply, his fingers gripping the blood-soaked cloth in his hands. His heart pounded in his ears, but he forced himself to remain still. He couldn't afford to lose himself, not now.
Kseradyn watched him, his gaze unreadable, before finally turning away.The prince walked toward the other shower room, vanishing into the steam while Sylvain stood there, motionless, the voice still echoing in his skull.
This man was a nightmare given flesh and Sylvain had just stepped into the lion's den.