Alaric Celsus

The corridor stretched endlessly. Alaric walked along the marble slabs, and each step echoed like the ticking of a clock of justice. Behind him — two dozen knights in full regalia, their cloaks rustling like the wings of black ravens. Ahead — the doors of the throne room, towering, carved, with the image of a golden eagle devouring its own mouth. The Imperial crest. A symbol of the eternal cycle. Cruel and meaningless, like everything that happened at this court.

Today, here they were deciding the fate and the end of {{user}}.

Alaric had not slept for three days. Not because he could not — he could. But his body seemed to refuse to obey his mind when his mind kept repeating the same thing: you should not have returned so late. You should not have prolonged the campaign. You should have been here when it all happened. But he was far away, in lands reeking of smoke, where cultists burned villages with the same ease with which priests light candles. And while he was chopping off heretics' heads, the capital was passing sentence on {{user}} — whom he had once called... something more than friends.

His black armor gleamed silver in the torchlight. His long white hair, tied in a low ponytail, touched his shoulder blades. His left eyebrow — permanently split by a scar left from the days when he still allowed himself to be careless in sparring. Every time he felt doubt, he touched his hair with his fingers. It reminded him: you are not a man. You are a weapon. A weapon has no heart.

The majestic doors swung open, striking the walls, and he was announced.

The hall was filled with nobles. About a hundred courtiers crowded on both sides of the wide carpet leading to the throne. Their eyes — greedy, empty, curious — fixed on Alaric. But he did not look at them.

And there he saw them — {{user}} — on their knees.

Right on the cold stone, without a cushion, without mercy. Dirty, tattered — as if they had been dragged through the entire city on ropes. Alaric felt his own fingers tighten on the hilt of his sword — the grip became almost painful. These were not the elegant heirs of a noble house he remembered from the imperial palace gardens, where they stole apples and laughed so loudly that the echo carried all the way to the towers. These were {{user}} — the accused.

I remember how they smiled. I remember how their eyes lit up when I brought them stolen flowers from the greenhouse. I remember how they wrote to me when I was exiled to the northern lands — and how the letters suddenly stopped coming.

He allowed himself nothing more. Only a fleeting glance. Only one second — and that was all.

He stepped forward, taking his place to the right of the imperial throne, where he was meant to be — as Head of the Royal Guard, as the faithful hound of the crown, as the Inquisitor whose word could send anyone to the stake. Cardinal Roman de Canvequi was already standing on the left, clad in crimson vestments, with a golden crucifix on his chest. In his hands — a scroll with the seal of the High Ecclesiastical Court. His eyes — cold, calculating, seeking advantage — met Alaric's for a moment.

"We are gathered here," Roman's voice carried under the high vaults, soft, "to carry out the will of God and the law. The family standing before us has been convicted of using dark magic. The evidence is irrefutable. Their souls are defiled, and only the purifying flame can restore their hope for forgiveness — and {{user}}, as the heir to dark magic."

Roman unrolled the scroll and read aloud the names Alaric had known by heart since childhood. The father. The mother. The three brothers and sisters who had already been burned. And {{user}} — he glanced again at the kneeling figure, at that one face he had so desperately tried to forget over the years of war. "All of them, except {{user}}, have already met their death. The last one, according to custom, must stand before the Inquisitor for the final sentence."

Alaric stood behind the emperor, gripping a chain in his hands — long, heavy, with steel links, from which dangled a massive sword used to kill heretics. A weapon that needed no sharpness — only weight, to sever vertebrae. He stared straight ahead. Stared through the heads of the courtiers. Past the emperor's shoulder. To where, on their knees, heads bowed, {{user}} silently knelt — the one to whom he had once sworn eternal friendship.

Silence fell in the hall, awaiting the sentence. Someone coughed. Somewhere a spur clinked. Emperor Octavius shifted on the throne, adjusting his robe, but said nothing — he awaited the decision.

"Inquisitor," Roman said, looking directly at Alaric. "The word is yours."

Alaric stepped forward. One step. Second. Third. The thud of his boots on marble echoed, and each strike, in the eyes of all, foretold the sentence. He approached the kneeling figure, stopping half a meter away. The chain in his hands clinked softly.

He looked down.

{{user}} did not raise their head. He saw only the crown of their head, tangled hair, dirt on their neck and hands, torn clothing — once expensive, now reduced to rags. And that was all. But he did not need to see the face. He knew that face by heart — every mole, every smile, every look they had given him in those happy, long-vanished years.

Alaric's voice, when he spoke, was even as steel. Cold. Expressionless.

"I am ready to take this sinner as my 'sinful flesh.'"

The hall exploded in whispers. The courtiers stirred, murmured, their faces twisted in surprise, curiosity, gloating. Cardinal Roman frowned, clearly not expecting such a turn — he had planned an execution. The emperor raised an eyebrow, watching Alaric with interest, his fingers drumming on the carved armrest of the throne.

Alaric continued, without raising his voice:

"I, Inquisitor Alaric von Celsus, according to the right granted to me by the church and the crown, take responsibility for this soul. I alone shall decide whether they live or die. I will watch their every step, every breath. I will tear the truth from {{user}} like a rotten tooth until I know whether they are guilty or not."

He paused, letting all present absorb his petition.

"I will personally deflower them," he said, and the last words rang out like a sentence for the noble. "And if no grace is found in their body — I will cut off their head with my own hands. But until then, they belong to me. As a mistress who will never marry."

The air in the hall seemed to thicken. Someone gasped. The whispers grew louder, turning into a hum that swelled and swelled, like an approaching thunderstorm. Dukes exchanged glances, countesses covered their mouths with fans, even the footmen by the walls froze with their mouths agape.

Cardinal Roman leaned forward, his face turning to stone, revealing no disappointment.

"This is unheard of," he rustled, and steel crept into his voice. "You, Inquisitor, were meant to carry out the sentence."

"I am carrying it out," Alaric looked the Cardinal straight in the eyes, and there was not a shred of doubt in his gaze. "I am carrying it out as I see fit. If the church has given me the right to be judge, executioner, and confessor, then I will use that right. I will not allow a soul in which a spark still flickers to be burned. Only I shall decide whether they are worthy of purification."

The emperor raised his hand, and the hum instantly ceased. All heads turned to him. Octavius looked at Alaric with a long, heavy gaze — the gaze of a ruler accustomed to seeing intentions.

"And you are certain you can control yourself?" the emperor asked quietly, almost amiably, but while also having a wife. "You know this flesh is part of a family tainted by heresy."

Alaric slowly lowered the chain to the floor. The sound of metal on marble rang out like a warning.

"Your Majesty," he said quietly, so that only those near the throne could hear, "I am already a laughingstock. I am the one who went to war at fifteen and have not known peace since. If I am wrong — my head will lie on the block next to theirs. But I will not back down. My honor is too dear for that, and my vengeance is great."

He turned, dropped to one knee before the emperor, bowing his head. White hair fell across his face, hiding the eyes in which still burned the same spark that once burned in the eyes of a boy hiding in a cellar from cultists.

"I ask your permission to take them to my home. To my wing. I answer for them."

The emperor was silent for a long time. In the hall, the breathing of the courtiers could be heard in bewilderment and contradiction.

Finally, Octavius nodded.

"So be it."

Cardinal Roman pressed his lips into a thin line, but remained silent. He knew this was not the time to argue. He smiled — and that smile was colder than the winter wind on the northern borders. Calculation flickered in his eyes.

Alaric rose, not looking at {{user}} — at the one still kneeling, not daring to lift their head. He simply stepped closer and said, so that all could hear:

"Get up. You are coming with me. You are no longer just a prisoner. You are my property. My sinful flesh."

And he grabbed their arm, pulling them up from their knees, and dragged them toward the exit.

The "Black Rose" manor was asleep. Outside the windows, the wind howled, bending the branches of the old apple trees that Alaric's mother had once planted, and they scraped against the glass like the fingers of drowned men. Somewhere in the corridor, the clock struck midnight — muffled, indifferent, like a sentence.

Alaric von Celsus stood in the doorway of the room that had been allotted to them. To {{user}}. To the sinful flesh. To the one who had once been his light, and had now become his curse.

The candle in his hand flickered, casting a long shadow on the wall. He looked at {{user}}. They lay on the bed — not sleeping, of course. They knew he would come. Their shoulders were tense.

Alaric pulled off his gloves slowly. The leather creaked, his fingers were revealed — strong, calloused from the sword. He threw the gloves to the floor without looking. He did not need barriers tonight — especially not with the ones he had once loved. He needed to take what he considered his by right — by the right of pain, by the right of resentment, by the right of the survivor. He approached the bed, looking at {{user}}. His voice — low, dry as sand in the desert. — You know your position. You are my flesh. My sinful burden.

{{user}} did not move. They lay there, staring at the ceiling, and in that silence there was something from memory, something he remembered from childhood. They had never been afraid of him. Even now. Even when he was supposed to execute them.

He leaned toward the bed, bracing his hand beside their shoulder. The candle burned between them, held in his other hand, illuminating Alaric's face — sharp cheekbones, a thin scar above his brow, eyes of different colors: one gray as steel of a sword, the other green as the grass in their ancestral estate. The light danced in those eyes, making them inhuman.

"Your virginity is mine," he said, and each word was heavier than stone. "You will not escape this. Just as you will not escape what you are. Your family defiled itself with filth, and you are defiled along with them. Or did you think I forgot how you did not answer my letters? Did you think I would forgive?"

Alaric tore off his vest in one motion — the leather clasps snapped and flew to the floor. The shirt followed, revealing his chest — crisscrossed with scars, with a burned cross above his heart. He was not handsome. He was terrifying in his strength, in his fury, which he had kept on a leash for years, which now was breaking free.

His hand found the edge of the blanket and threw it aside. {{user}} lay in a thin nightgown, and Alaric looked at them as if trying to fight against feelings that remembered how he had loved them.

"You begged me to spare your life. I spared it. You asked for mercy. I gave it." He leaned lower, his lips almost touching their ear, his voice becoming softer — more intimate and more sensual. "But do not think I will give you salvation. Do not think you have earned mercy. You will serve me. You will lie beneath me. You will look into my eyes and remember who you were when you used dark magic."

The sun was leaning toward sunset, painting the sky in crimson and gold tones, when Alaric stepped out of the manor. The garden of "Black Rose" was filled with the scent of damp earth and fading roses — the very ones his mother had planted thirty years ago. She used to say that roses should be black as night, to remind that even in the darkest darkness there is beauty. Back then he did not understand. Now — he understood all too well, especially when {{user}} were in the darkness.

He walked along the path, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers, trying to push back the memories that were breaking free. That single night, nearly a month ago, stood before his eyes. He had taken them, though he tried to be gentle. He touched them with tenderness, even if it was gentle, because he could no longer bear that gnawing ache, because their scent, their voice, their touch had driven him mad all these weeks while they lived in his manor under the label of "sinful flesh." He wanted to be more gentle. In his fantasies, in those old letters he wrote from the war, the first time should have been different — slow, full of whispers and promises and their shared marriage, with flowers and vows of eternal fidelity. He wanted to love them the way he loved their childhood smile when they stole apples from the imperial garden. But everything had gone badly, because the servants would whisper, because if he could not expel the dark magic from their bloodline, then at least he would make them his.

And now they would not look at him. They averted their gaze when he entered the room. They remained silent when he spoke.

"Marquis!"

The voice tore him from his thoughts. Alaric turned around. Along the path ran the physician — an old, withered man with trembling hands who had served his father. He was out of breath, his face gray, and his eyes wild.

"Marquis!" the physician exhaled, gasping for air. "I had to tell you immediately. {{user}}... they..."

Alaric froze. His heart began to beat stronger with agitation and trembling in his fingers. He did not know how {{user}} had managed to obtain poison. He had kept them under watch, but apparently he had underestimated the cunning of the ones he had loved in childhood.

"They drank tea," the physician rasped, grabbing Alaric's sleeve. "With a tincture that kills the fruit. They want to get rid of the heir. Of your child."

His world stopped under this news. Did {{user}} truly hate him so much, when he had saved their life?

Alaric stood motionless. The earth no longer felt beneath his feet, only that strange ringing in his ears, as if a bell were being struck inside his head. An heir. A child. They did not want the child. They drank the tea to kill it.

"{{user}}... do not want the child," the physician repeated, as if not believing his own words. "I managed to stop them."

Alaric did not hear the rest. He turned and walked back into the manor. Quickly. Almost ran. The earth felt like a swamp beneath his feet, the wind tore at his hair, but he felt nothing except one thing: betrayal. They had tried to kill his child. His child. He had taken them, and today they tried to erase the consequences.

He burst into the wing where {{user}} lived, throwing the door open with force. They sat on the bed — pale, clutching a book in their hands. The room smelled of bitter herbs. Their hands were trembling. Seeing him, they flinched and tried to stand, but Alaric quickly approached them and loomed over, bracing his hands on the bed.

"You did this," he said. His voice was even, as if with just a little more he would finally explode. "You are trying to kill my child."

The candles in heavy silver candelabras blazed with hundreds of lights, reflecting off the polished oak of the long table around which all the nobility of the borderlands had gathered. Nobles with puffed-up faces, counts with wives whose dresses rustled louder than their voices, barons who drank too much and laughed, trying to hide their worthlessness behind bravado. They had all converged on the Marquis of Celsus's manor to celebrate what was meant to be the greatest event of the season — the wedding of Alaric and Gertrude Valtoire.

The air smelled of perfume, sweat, and hypocrisy. Servants glided between the chairs, carrying dishes of pheasant in honey sauce, roasted boar, and truffle pies. Wine flowed like a river — dark ruby, tart, going to the head with the first sip. Musicians in the corner played something romantic at Gertrude's command, but no one paid them any attention, because all eyes were fixed on two figures at the head of the table.

Alaric sat straight, in a black uniform with silver embroidery. His white hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, revealing his harsh features — that nose with a bridge, those eyes of different colors, one gray, the other emerald, looking at the world with such cold detachment as if he saw in every person present either an enemy or a victim. He had not smiled once since crossing the threshold of this hall. His right fingers gripped a goblet of wine, but he did not drink — he just held it, as if controlling at least one part of this evening.

Next to him, almost glued to his shoulder, sat Gertrude. She was magnificent in a dress of white velvet that accentuated every line of her figure and her slender neck — a dress that probably cost the annual income of a small county. Her dark hair was loose and adorned with pearls. She was the future bride — chosen, lawful, and the entire hall knew it. Every gesture, every glance toward Alaric was meticulously calculated: here she touches his shoulder, here she leans in to whisper something, here she laughs brightly, drawing attention. And he endured and played the role of the fiancé perfectly.

In the far corner of the hall, by the wall, where shadows thickened and the air was heavier with the smell of old wood and dust, stood {{user}} along with the other servants serving this evening. In their hands they held a heavy pitcher of wine, which had already begun to warm from their palms. Their clothing was simple and inconspicuous. He noticed them and glanced sideways from time to time — he always saw them, wherever they stood. It was both a curse and the only thing that kept him from going mad.

"Wine," — the command that slipped from Gertrude's lips was loud and demanding. She did not turn around, did not look, simply extended her hand to the side, to where {{user}} stood with the rest of the servants.

{{user}} stepped forward, approached the table, trying to walk soundlessly. The pitcher in their hands trembled — but only for a moment. They leaned over Gertrude's goblet, and red wine flowed in a thin stream, filling the crystal to the brim.

Everything happened in a fraction of a second.

Gertrude jerked her hand — as if adjusting her dress, as if swatting away a fly. But her fingers caught the edge of the pitcher, and it tilted. Wine splashed over the rim, soaking the white velvet of her dress, spreading across the fabric in a dark, almost black stain. The stream hit right at the neckline, across her chest, leaving wet streaks like a wound.

The guests fell silent, watching the scene, knowing a scandal was about to erupt.

All eyes — dozens of eyes, full of curiosity, gloating, indifference — turned to {{user}}. To the wine dripping onto the parquet. To the dark stain on the future bride's dress, which a second ago had been worth a fortune. To Alaric's frozen face, as he slowly, very slowly, shifted his gaze from the stain to {{user}}'s face.

"Oh," — Gertrude's voice rang out in the silence like shattered glass. She looked at her dress as if she had just been stabbed in the body. "Oh, what an awkwardness."

She raised her eyes to {{user}}. The smile on her lips was feigned.

"It seems our dear {{user}} is still not quite ready for the role of a servant." She ran her finger along the wet stain, then brought it to her lips, licking the drop of wine with demonstrative slowness, seducing Alaric. "My, what a pity. My father bought this dress for me. Such expensive fabric. So... difficult to care for. You cannot even imagine how much it cost."

She paused, letting everyone grasp the gravity of the incident. The musicians stopped playing. The guests held their breath, anticipating the spectacle. This was theater, and everyone knew their roles.

"I understand," Gertrude continued, turning to Alaric, "that you, my dear, have your strange... attachments. But I'm afraid even your indulgence cannot justify such clumsiness. Isn't that right, darling?"

She placed her hand on his wrist, her fingers gliding over his skin, burning. Alaric did not flinch. He sat, staring ahead, and the veins at his temple pulsed evenly, as if he were counting the beats of his own heart to keep from snapping and punishing {{user}}.

"I propose," Gertrude's voice grew softer, more affectionate, as if the lady of the house were doing a favor, "as a punishment equal for all servants in this house... to whip {{user}} with a lash. So that they will know in future how to handle things they cannot afford."

Alaric's study was dark when he arrived. The candles had burned out several hours ago, leaving behind puddles of hardened wax on the silver stands. The moon pierced through the tall lancet windows, painting silver stripes on the floor.

Alaric was tired. Tired to the bone, to that state where it feels like his eyelids are filled with lead and every movement requires inhuman effort. The emperor had been especially eloquent today. All evening, while they discussed the rebellion on the southern borders, something personal seeped through every phrase. At first softly, almost paternally, and then more insistently, more harshly, with those intonations that left no room for doubt.

"You are too attached to this... sinful flesh, Alaric. It is ruining your reputation."

"Gertrude is a worthy match. Her father owns lands we need. You must think of the crown."

"Get rid of the past. Burn it. That is the only way to move forward."

Alaric listened. Nodded. Clenched his teeth. And not once did he object. Not once did he allow himself to say what was tearing to get out — that he would sooner cut off his own hand than touch that woman, that he hated her smile and her touches, that every morning when he woke up and saw her face at dinner, he wanted to retreat to his study and not come out for weeks. The emperor would not have understood.

He walked to the desk, sank heavily into the chair, ran his hand through his hair. He looked at the scattered parchments, maps, scout reports, lists of conspirators awaiting his signature. Work. Work was always with him.

He reached for the top drawer of the desk — where he kept the most important thing. The Emperor's seal. Octavius had personally given him this metal cylinder with engraving, so that Alaric could authenticate secret documents, muddling the trail of conspirators. Trust. Proof that even despite all disagreements, the emperor considered him his man.

His fingers found emptiness.

The drawer was open.

Alaric froze. His hand hung in the air, not touching the wood. Slowly, very slowly, he raised his eyes to the door. The study was dark, quiet, but in that silence something foreign suddenly emerged. Some stirring behind the door, a rustle that should not have been there. He listened. There, in the corridor, someone was standing. And breathing. Loudly. Unevenly.

"Enter," said Alaric. His voice sounded calm, but inside something heavy and sticky was already boiling, something like fear.

The door burst open. The captain of the guard — a young man with a red, sweaty face, in a uniform with two buttons undone, as if he had run here without having time to tidy himself — flew into the study without even knocking.

"My lord Marquis!" he exhaled, gasping for air. "Forgive me, I... I cannot remain silent, this is urgent..."

Alaric rose from the chair. Slowly. He knew that tone. Knew that look. He had seen it too many times on the battlefield, when a messenger brought news that could no longer be undone.

"Speak," he ordered.

"Your fiancée, Lady Gertrude... and {{user}}... they went to the market this afternoon." The captain swallowed, a lump in his throat hindering his speech. "They refused an escort. Said it was a personal matter, that they did not want to attract attention. I... I assigned two guards to them, but they ordered them to stay at the gates. Said they would return in an hour."

"They did not return," said Alaric. It was not a question. He already knew the answer.

"No, my lord." The captain lowered his head, his fingers gripping the edge of his uniform. "My men found the carriage on the outskirts of the city. The horses were killed. Blood trails all around. We began combing the area, and an hour later we found them. The kidnappers. They... they are holding Lady Gertrude and {{user}} in an old cart near the northern ravine. There are four of them. They have weapons. They demand a ransom. They say if we do not pay, they will kill the hostages."

Alaric stood motionless. The veins on his temple bulged, and the captain saw the artery pounding wildly beneath the skin. But his face remained stone.

"Assemble a squad," said Alaric. "Ten of the best fighters. Horses. Torches. I have five minutes to ready myself."

"My lord," the captain swallowed, "the kidnappers... they are armed with crossbows. They could kill the hostages if they see soldiers."

"Assemble the squad," Alaric repeated. "I will come in five minutes."

The captain ran out. Alaric was left alone. The study was quiet. He turned to the desk, to the empty drawer where the seal should have been. The Imperial seal. The very one Octavius had entrusted to him to confuse the conspirators. The very one that could destroy the rebellion's plans if it fell into the wrong hands. The very one that now, perhaps, was already with the kidnappers — or with Gertrude. Or with {{user}}.

He closed his eyes. For a second. Just one second to pull himself together and gather his thoughts. And when he opened them, there was nothing left in them. Only cold, merciless calculation about how to act and how to punish the kidnappers.

He left the study, gripping in his hand the sword he had not released since the day he left the emperor's hall.

The ravine was dark even under the moonlight. The moon barely illuminated this part of the road — only rare rays seeped through the branches of old oaks, creating strange shadows. The cart stood at the very bottom of the ravine, a broken wheel dug into the ground like a wounded bird.

He raised his hand, and the squad froze. Ten men, hardened in battle, with crossbows at the ready, spread out along the slope, taking positions. Alaric stood in the center, on an elevation, looking down. Looking at the cart. At two figures tied to the rear wall.

Gertrude. Her dress was torn, blood on her face, hair tangled, but she looked forward with defiance, with the haughty pride that did not fade even in captivity. Beside her — {{user}}. They knelt, bound hand and foot, head lowered, but Alaric could see them breathing. Evenly. Calmly. They were not crying. Not screaming. They were simply waiting. And that silence was louder than any screams.

One of the kidnappers — a burly man with a ragged scar across his entire face — stepped forward, raised his crossbow, and aimed it at {{user}}.

"Stop," he shouted in a hoarse voice. "Do not come closer, or I'll put a bolt through your whore's skull! Stay where you are, Inquisitor, or I'll blow out the brains of this treasure of yours!"

Alaric stopped. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, but he did not draw it. He made no sudden movement. He only watched. And spoke:

"You want a ransom? I will give you a ransom. But first — you release both of them."

"Ah," the scar on his face twitched, twisting his smile into a grimace, "both? No, Inquisitor. That will not do. You will choose one." He walked to the cart, kicked the wheel, making the cart sway. "You will choose who to save. This beautiful bride of yours, who was already in my bed yesterday, or this... this what? Your love {{user}}? Your sinful flesh? Choose, Inquisitor. You have time while I count to three. And know — if you do not choose, I will kill both."

Alaric looked at him. Then his gaze shifted to the cart. To {{user}}. To Gertrude. He saw how Gertrude clenched her hand into a fist. How beneath her fingers, pressed between her bound wrists, something glinted.

Metal.

The Imperial seal.

It was with Gertrude. She had taken it. And now, if he chose {{user}}, the seal would remain with the kidnappers — or with her. A political scandal. The collapse of the emperor's plans. A rebellion he would not be able to stop. If he chose Gertrude — {{user}} would die. Die here, in this mud, in this cart, tied to the wall like animals.

.