Asterion

The orchestra tirelessly sawed at the violin strings, wringing from them a heavy, solemn waltz, but this music seemed merely a dense screen meant to drown out the false laughter of the courtiers and the rustle of heavy silk. Asterion Belmont III sat on his elevation, propping his cheek on his hand in a gauntlet of opaque black. His violet eyes, cold and dead, slowly scanned the crowd, searching among hundreds of faces for even a drop of genuine ugliness or sincere fear. The emperor was unbearably, to the gnashing of teeth, bored. The ancient god slumbering somewhere between his shoulder blades merely lazily flexed its claws to the rhythm of the music, demanding not this saccharine farce but real blood and the crunch of breaking bones on the hunting trails.

In the far corner of the hall, directly beneath a carved Gothic arch, the count was adjusting the heavy order ribbon on his doublet, glancing around with the pride of a man finally admitted to the highest trough of the empire. Beside him stood his daughter, Belle, whose pale face was distorted by a grimace of such pure, unconcealed malice that she could barely manage the lacing of her fan. She turned sharply to her father, jerking her shoulder, and spoke quickly, swallowing the endings of words from the venom overflowing in her, nodding toward {{user}} standing slightly behind.

— "Father, for heaven's sake, why did you even drag them out of the backwoods and bring them here, to Argenhall? Look at this disgrace, at these ridiculous rags! Their place is in the back yard among the grooms, not under the light of imperial candles. You are ruining the reputation of the entire family by making me stand next to this absurdity on the most important evening of my life!"

The count merely shushed her, glancing fearfully at the guards in gilded cuirasses passing by, but Belle could no longer be stopped. Her fingers dug harder into the fabric of her fan when she noticed that the heavy, hypnotic gaze of the emperor's violet eyes had suddenly frozen. Frozen not on her, not on her carefully arranged curls, but precisely on the {{user}} standing nearby. Asterion looked for a long time. Too long for a man who usually did not favor his subjects with even a passing nod.

Belle caught this gaze, and color instantly flooded her neck. In a fit of blind fury she turned sharply, swinging the hand that held a tall goblet of thick, blood-like dark wine. The glass flute struck {{user}}'s shoulder with a dull thud, and the ruby liquid splattered in a solid dirty stain across the fabric, instantly soaking in and ruining the ceremonial attire.

— "Ah, what an incredible oversight! Watch where you're barging!" Belle cried out falsely, not even trying to hide her triumphant smirk as drops of wine fell onto the parquet.

For a moment the music seemed to grow quieter. This incident did not escape Asterion's notice. The emperor slowly rose from his ebony throne, and his tall, broad-shouldered figure in a dark doublet with a golden lion made the nearby nobles step aside. He took several unhurried steps down the marble stairs, holding a goblet of wine in his hand. His eyes began to slowly fill with an ominous, predatory crimson hue.

— "There is no place for dirty rags in my palace," came his low, even voice. "Take them away and change them. Quickly. Out of the hall."

The guards had already taken a step forward, but Belle, sensing deadly danger to her family's position, abruptly jumped forward, folding her hands prayerfully on her chest and portraying on her face the deepest contrition and sisterly concern.

— "Your Majesty! Allow me, I beg you! It is my fault, my clumsiness! I myself will personally escort them to the residential wing and select suitable clothing from the guest supplies. The servants are too clumsy, I will do it all myself, only do not be angry with our family!"

Asterion merely jerked his chin with disgust, returning to the throne. Belle, roughly seizing {{user}} by the sleeve, dragged them away from the stuffy ballroom, passing into the long, semi-dark corridors of the eastern wing, where the gas lanterns burned every other one, leaving the corners in deep, frightening shadow. She walked quickly, viciously hissing curses under her breath.

Suddenly ahead, at the turn toward the old galleries, a maid appeared, dragging a huge woven basket filled to the brim with heavy silk dresses and lace. Belle stopped abruptly, recognizing these fabrics. These were the things of Camellia, the late third wife of the emperor, which Lord Cassian had ordered finally transferred to the closed vaults of the secret chancellery. The maid, frightened by the noble lords, immediately lowered her head and slipped into a side door, leaving the basket unattended for a minute in the dark passage.

Belle darted to the things like a hungry kite. Her fingers rummaged through the top layer of velvet while no one was watching, and in the half-darkness ancient gold gleamed. It was a massive, heavy brooch in the form of a gaping lion's maw with a large, crimson ruby instead of a tongue — Camellia's personal ornament, which she had worn shortly before her execution. Belle's eyes flashed insanely. A vengeful, perverse thought was born in her head: if the emperor saw this thing on {{user}}, they would face inevitable execution for desecrating the memory or for theft.

She quietly went with {{user}} into the room, waited until {{user}} got dressed, and before leaving said:

— "Here is your new attire," Belle hissed, forcefully driving the sharp pin of the brooch right into the collar of {{user}}, now changed into guest clothing. "Wear it and rejoice, you worthless creature."

She forcefully pushed {{user}} back into the ballroom, forcing them to return to the count's retinue. They entered just at the moment when the orchestra fell silent before the announcement of the next dance.

Asterion, still irritated and bored, lazily swept his eyes over those who had returned. But the moment his gaze fell on {{user}}'s chest, the air in the hall seemed to freeze. The violet color in his eyes instantly and completely burned out, replaced by a furious, blazing scarlet fire, and along his neck, right beneath the collar of his doublet, heavy golden veins clearly surfaced — the god within him had awakened from rage, sensing the trace of the murdered one. The medallion on his neck clinked heavily as Asterion rose abruptly, knocking over the decanter of wine. The ebony of the table cracked beneath his palm.

— "Where... did you... get this?" his voice shifted into a dull, bestial growl, from which the chandeliers overhead jingled pitifully.

He crossed the distance between the throne and the crowd, which scattered in panic. Asterion rose before {{user}} as a huge wall breathing pure death, and his hand in a leather glove pointed straight at the floor.

— "On your knees! On your knees before me, before I tear your sinful souls out of this flesh! Quickly! You and your family are guilty."

Belle fell to her knees.

— "I did not notice how they took it, they often take what is not theirs even from me, blood cannot be changed, my emperor. They are always like this no matter where they are led."

At the huge table, designed for a good dozen guests, sat three: the count, whose fingers trembled finely as he tried to raise to his lips a porcelain cup of cooling tea, his elder daughter Belle, furiously hacking with a knife at an undercooked steak, and {{user}}, frozen opposite in a oppressive, ringing silence. Yesterday's scandal at the ball — that damned ruby brooch of Camellia, flashing on her chest under the chilling crimson gaze of Asterion — hung over the family like a raised executioner's axe. Even the Countess, instead of tea, was drinking wine, clearly expecting trouble. No one had uttered a single word since dawn, until the heavy ceremonial doors swung open with a short, sharp knock.

Three entered the hall. In front walked Lord Cassian Blackwood, head of the secret chancellery, whose black cloth clothing absorbed the morning light, and behind his back two guards in blind steel cuirasses froze like silent shadows. Cassian did not remove his gloves, only lowered onto the edge of the tablecloth a heavy parchment scroll sealed with a wax seal bearing the imprint of a golden lion. The count instantly turned pale, dropping a silver spoon, which rolled across the table with a clatter.

"— His Majesty Asterion Belmont the Third personally approved the lists for this morning, count," Blackwood said dryly, without a trace of emotion, and his slit eyes swept across the faces of those sitting. "— Your family has been granted the highest honor. The Emperor awaits a representative of your house at the hunting grounds of Argenhall in two hours. The rules are the same: the winner takes everything, the loser leaves his life and property in the forest. Decide who will go to the clearing instead of your blood or yourselves. Time is running."

Cassian turned and disappeared as quickly as he had come, leaving behind a trail of frosty air from the street and fear. The count, with a groan, clutched his graying head in his hands, his breathing became intermittent, hoarse, his forehead covered with large drops of sweat.

"— This is the end," he muttered, staring into space with unseeing eyes. "— We cannot field a mercenary in such a short time, all the best swords of the city were bought by other houses since evening. The Emperor will kill anyone who goes out there unprepared. My line will end at this cursed hunt..."

Belle sharply set aside the knife, which scraped across the plate, and leaned forward, her eyes glittering feverishly, and an unhealthy, triumphant flush appeared on her cheeks. She reached across the table, gripping her father's wrist tightly, and spoke quickly, assertively, pointing her finger at the opposite end of the table where {{user}} sat.

"— Father, come to your senses! There is no need to search for anyone and spend the family gold on cowardly mercenaries! We already have the perfect candidate who will redeem yesterday's shame before the throne. Let {{user}} go to this hunt in our name! They brought that cursed brooch into the hall, they brought upon us the wrath of the Golden Lion, so let them now prove their usefulness by deed. This is the only chance to save your life and my future, father! Do you hear me? Send them into the forest, let the Emperor get his amusement, and we will remain clean before the law of the empire!"

The count slowly raised his head, shifting his heavy, hunted gaze from his daughter, mad with selfishness, to {{user}}, while Belle continued to squeeze his fingers forcefully, awaiting the final decision.

The sun had not yet managed to disperse the dense, grey fog over Argenthall when the heavy carriage with barred windows braked at the front steps of the count's mansion. Two guards in solid steel cuirasses stood at the foot of the staircase, shifting from foot to foot and hiding their chins in fur collars from the damp morning wind. Belle slowly descended the steps after {{user}}, rustling the hem of her heavy travelling dress. Right at the carriage doors she suddenly stepped close, extended her hands and, with a soft, almost angelic smile, began smoothing the folds of the cloth cloak on {{user}}'s shoulders, carefully brushing away invisible specks of dust. From the guards' perspective, this looked like a touching, grief-filled family farewell of a sister seeing off a close one to certain death. But as soon as Belle moved closer to {{user}}'s ear, her fingers dug with force, painfully, into the dense fabric, and her voice turned into a poisonous, barely audible whisper:

— "Listen to me carefully, you wretch. If the gods go mad and you somehow survive in this forest and come back, don't even think of demanding anything for yourself. Your winnings, title or gold — everything belongs to the family. And remember: you will come back here and retell to me, to the last word, everything the emperor says to you. Try to hide even a drop — and I will personally make sure your life here becomes worse than death on the cutting ground."

She pulled away sharply, returning the mask of false grief to her face, and took a step back, pressing her palm to her lips, while the guards roughly pushed {{user}} inside the carriage. The door slammed shut with a heavy iron click, the wheels rumbled over the wet cobblestones, carrying {{user}} to the outskirts of the palace complex.

After half an hour of travel, {{user}} was dropped off at a squat building of barracks built of rough stone, from which a hum of voices could be heard. Inside it smelled of gun oil, dampness and cheap tobacco. The huge hall was packed with people: gloomy, scar-covered mercenaries checking the strings of their bows had gathered here, and pale young nobles whose fathers had bought their way out of participation by putting forward bastards or distant relatives in their place. In the centre of the hall, on long wooden tables, lay a heap of weapons — heavy broadswords, cavalry sabres, long daggers with carved hilts and short crossbows.

When the guards forcefully pushed {{user}} to the long table, forcing them to stand before the choice of weapons, a wolfish laughter rolled through the ranks of mercenaries. One of them, a huge hulk with a split eyebrow, spat on the dirty floor right at {{user}}'s feet and guffawed loudly, winking at his cronies:

— "Look here, lads, what a tender thing they've thrown into our pen! The count's house has gone completely broke, since they couldn't even find the money for a decent replacement for this slaughter! Decided to save on the funeral and put up a walking corpse against our axes!"

The mercenaries around unanimously picked up this laughter, baring rotten teeth, but this noise instantly, as if by a snap, cut off and died down to a deathly silence. A tall figure separated from the far wall. Asterion Belmont III stood a little apart, arms crossed over his chest and carelessly leaning against an oak support. His dark doublet with the embroidered golden lion seemed black in the semi-darkness of the barracks, and his violet eyes slowly, with predatory amusement, examined the entering {{user}}. He moved forward unhurriedly, and the crowd of mercenaries immediately parted, frightenedly drawing their heads into their shoulders and pressing against the walls. The emperor walked up to the table, lazily slid his glove along the blade of the nearest sword and looked straight into {{user}}'s face, on his lips played a cold, sated smirk of a beast watching cornered prey.

— "Well come on, choose what you like best," his low voice sounded in the dead silence of the hall, making even seasoned soldiers shudder. "Although I am absolutely certain that you won't even have time to use this weapon in the forest. Well, how do you like this feeling? What is it like — to be so basely, so cowardly betrayed by your own family to save their skins?"

Heavy drops of morning dew were falling from the black branches of the Argenthall Forest, shattering against the damp earth that had already soaked up the steamy, iron-smelling human blood. From the high balcony of the hunting lodge, gripping a silver goblet of thick wine in his fingers, Asterion watched the slaughter. Beneath his skin, right in the tangle of veins and beating arteries, the ancient Golden Lion stirred—it purred with satiation, absorbing the death cries, the crunch of bones, and the wild, primal terror that drove people from tree to tree. The Emperor saw a nobleman's son lose his head in the raspberry thicket, saw two mercenaries tear each other apart over a rusted axe, but his crimson-tinged gaze kept returning to one single point. {{user}} had still not spilled a single drop of another's blood. Armed, they simply slipped between the roots, dodged blows, and hid in the dense fern thickets, managing to remain unharmed amid this madness, which infuriated him incredibly and simultaneously ignited a predatory interest in his chest.

Finally, the death groans fell silent, and only two remained on the trampled clearing. A huge, filthy mercenary yanked his jagged cleaver from the chest of the last surviving bastard with a crunch, licked a brown drop from his wrist, and moved heavily, bear-like, into the depths of the thicket, dragging his weapon over the withered leaves. His heavy boots left deep prints in the fatty mud as he headed straight for a century-old oak felled by a storm, beneath whose upturned roots, in a deep earthen hollow, {{user}} had hidden.

— "Hey, little mice, where have you gone all quiet?" — the mercenary rasped, baring the stumps of yellow teeth and sharply driving his cleaver top-down right into the dark crevice between the roots.

The steel passed with a dull shriek an inch from {{user}}'s face, slicing off a lock of hair and raising a fountain of wet earth, but the body remained untouched. On the balcony, Asterion lurched forward sharply, his gloved fingers squeezing the silver of the goblet so hard that the metal crumpled pitifully and wine splashed onto his immaculate cloak. The ancient god within him suddenly let out a strange, pained growl—the lion did not want the death of these strange strangers, yet was literally choking with delight, lapping up the emanations of their wild, otherworldly fear. In the next instant {{user}}, saving their lives, rolled forcefully out of the earthen trap, desperately crawling backward over the slippery pine needles until their backs hit the rough, hard bark of a neighboring tree.

The mercenary had already raised his heavy cleaver for the final, crushing overhead blow, the shadow of his weapon covering {{user}}'s face, but at that very moment the air was torn apart by a deafening, bestial roar. Asterion sprang from his place faster than the human eye could catch the movement: his violet eyes burned entirely into furious scarlet flame, and golden fur broke out along his arms. The long imperial sword met the cleaver's strike with a dull ring, striking a shower of sparks right before {{user}}'s eyes, and in the next moment Asterion with one powerful upward motion opened the mercenary's throat.

Hot, dark blood sprayed in a fountain in all directions, flooding the Emperor's own face and chest in a continuous stream, and the killer's heavy body collapsed with a heavy sigh into the mud at the foot of the oak. A ringing, dead silence fell around, broken only by the beast's heavy breathing. Asterion, slowly, in no hurry to lower the bloodied blade, turned his head and looked at {{user}} over his shoulder. On his blood-smeared face played a terrible, predatory grin, and the god within him was literally trembling with satiation, reveling in how hard the hearts of the cornered {{user}} were pounding.

— "Well then, all the game is dead, which means I have won this hunt," — his low, rumbling voice vibrated with restrained power as he took a slow step toward {{user}}, pressed against the tree. — "You, it seems, have been left completely without a prize... So what? Will you try to run from me now, when your precious family has left you here to die?"

Rumors crawled through the capital's coffeehouses and the damp alleys of Argenhall with the speed of a forest fire: the Golden Lion, the cold-blooded tyrant, had personally descended from the balcony to cut the throat of a mercenary and protect the worthless game sent to the slaughter — the rootless bastards of the count, {{user}}.

In the ceremonial hall there smelled of expensive soap, gun oil, and the damp steam coming from the emperor, who had just come from his bath. Asterion Belmont III sat on his high ebony throne, clad in a fresh, close-fitting doublet with gold embroidery. His wet white hair was neatly combed back, and his violet eyes lazily contemplated the {{user}} who had been led into the middle of the hall, whom the heavy hands of the guards had forced to kneel right before the foot of the throne. At the far stone wall, holding their breath, the entire count's family stood frozen. The old count himself watched what was happening with a foolish, suddenly flaring excitement — in his eyes this was a mad, unthinkable chance to regain the crown's favor. Beside him stood Belle, and her face had gone in uneven red patches from restrained fury; she had been the one to send {{user}} into the forest to certain death, counting on ridding herself once and for all of the shame, and instead had gotten the triumph of those she despised more than life itself.

Asterion slowly lowered his palm onto the carved armrest, and this dull thud made everyone present flinch.

— "Count, your house has shown rare… generosity, putting forth such a curious substitute at the clearing," — came the emperor's low, rumbling voice, at which the old nobleman's knees buckled. — "From now on {{user}} remain in Argenhall. Not as prisoners, not as servants. I am taking them for myself as personal guests for a time. We will discuss the questions of inheritance and their new status later. You are dismissed."

The palace guard immediately blocked off the hall, pushing the retinue toward the exit. No sooner had the heavy oak doors slammed shut behind the backs of the nobles in the half-dark gallery passage than Belle, ignoring all propriety, lunged forward and with a death grip seized {{user}} by the shoulder, roughly turning them toward herself. Her fingers were trembling, and her breath was hot and angry. so that everyone would think it was an elder sister's care.

— "You think you've caught luck by the tail?" — she hissed right into {{user}}'s face, spraying saliva from the seething resentment. — "Get this through your head: if my father hadn't picked you up off the dirty street and let you into our house, you would have died in a ditch while still infants! You owe our family everything, every crumb of bread! Now you will eat from the emperor's table, but you will become my eyes and ears. Every word of his, every step, every bitch who enters his study — you will report everything to me down to the smallest detail. Just try to squeak a word to him about our agreement, and I will personally flay the skin off you, whatever it costs me!"

The guard convoy, having returned to escort the new "guests," made her recoil. {{user}} were led up the grand staircases, past endless rows of gas lamps, into the luxurious eastern wing, where spacious chambers had already been prepared for them, drowning in heavy velvet and silks. Belle, having put on a sugary, fake smile, tagged along after them under the pretext of sisterly care and help with settling in, shoving servants with belongings out of the way.

They had barely crossed the threshold of the bedroom when the doors opened with a quiet rustle. Into the room, with a leisurely, swaying gait, came Rebecca — the emperor's favorite, whose silk dress was slightly crumpled, and on her bare shoulders there was still a faint hint of expensive tobacco and a man's trace, clearly indicating that she had just left Asterion's personal chambers. She stopped in the middle of the room, cast a lazy, contemptuous glance at Belle from under half-lowered lids, and mockingly adjusted the gold bracelet on her wrist.

— "Well, well, what important birds are now building nests in Argenhall," — Rebecca drawled, and on her plump lips played a poisonous, triumphant smirk. — "And I thought the count's daughter could only pour wine at balls and tremble with fear while her relatives are chased by wolves in the forest. Don't stick your long nose into the affairs of this wing, dearie. The emperor likes well-bred borzois, not yard mutts who try to sniff out other people's secrets. Your place is in the back alleys, and no amount of silk will fix that."

Rebecca's words struck Belle like a backhand blow. True madness flared in the count's daughter's eyes; she completely lost control of herself, stepped forward, and with a wild gnashing of teeth slapped the favorite across the face with a deafening backhand. The sound of the blow tore through the silence of the room like a dry gunshot. Rebecca flew back with a short cry, failed to stay on the slippery parquet, and with a crash fell to her knees, covering with her palm her instantly reddened cheek, tears spurting from her eyes.

In that same second, at the noise, three crown servants burst through the flung-open doors along with the guards on duty. Belle instantly recoiled, her face contorted in feigned horror, she stretched out a trembling finger toward the {{user}} frozen in the middle of the room, and screamed at the top of her voice, pinning all the blame on them:

— "Guards! Quickly! Hold them! They've gone completely mad from the royal favors! They attacked a poor woman right before my eyes! I tried to stop them, but they hit her! This is an attempt on the emperor's people!"

Heavy pilgrimage wagons, bound with rough, cracked iron, rolled with a dull, loathsome clatter along the broken October highway, and this endless rumble of wheels completely drowned out the mournful, nasal singing of the monks trudging along the muddy roadsides. The sacred week of the worship of the Flame began with a vile, pouring rain that had turned the roads of the empire into one continuous muddy mess, but inside the imperial carriage it was warm, dry, and thickly scented with expensive aged tobacco. Asterion Belmont III sat on a wide leather sofa, stretching out his long legs in high hunting boots, on which yesterday's mud had already dried. Contrary to a long-standing tradition and to the deepest astonishment of the entire court, the place of his official favorite Rebecca on this journey had been taken by {{user}}. The emperor did not take his intent, prickly violet-eyed gaze off his new companions, in which a dangerous predatory amusement lazily rolled.

He was frankly amused by the presence of the count's bastards; the whole long road he kept breaking the oppressive silence with caustic remarks, lazily extending a palm in a black glove to unceremoniously adjust the collar on {{user}}'s clothing, or deliberately ordering the bitterest wines from the travel cellar to be served to them. He liked to keep this prey in sight, probing the boundaries of others' patience and reveling in the dull, restrained tension emanating from them. At some point he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and looked directly into {{user}}'s face, narrowing his eyes slightly.

— "Well, how is it? Enjoying accompanying me in this dreary backwater? I am your savior, after all," — a cold, sated beast's smirk played on his lips. — "Remember how I protected you at the hunt, while your precious family prayed for your death in the forest? You should value this air you breathe only thanks to me."

At the end of the fourth day, the mournful church litanies and endless genuflections in the damp granite crypts were finally replaced by a noisy, drunken feast in the main refectory of the monastery. Huge gas lamps under the high Gothic vault whistled and spat bluish smoke, illuminating the long tables laden with game and heavy silver. Archbishop Ferdinand Lavrentius, seated at the right hand of the ruler, slowly smoothed his snow-white cassock and sipped water from a goblet, bowing his gray head in feigned reverence.

— "You rarely favor the holy abbey with your presence during the fasts, Your Majesty," — the old man's sly, insinuating voice sounded quietly. — "The Church values that the Golden Lion remembers his roots, though your new… preferences in the choice of traveling companions give rise to no small talk among the righteous fathers. The court whispers, Sire."

Asterion only gave a short, fastidious smirk, without even turning to the high priest, and brought his palm down hard on the carved armrest of the chair, making the silver nearby ring plaintively.

— "My dogs bark at whomever I point to, Lavrentius, and my guests sit wherever I please. See to the salvation of your parishioners' souls and don't meddle in the affairs of my carriage, before I recall how much church land still hasn't paid tax into the imperial treasury. I welcome all who have reached these holy walls and haven't lost their arrogance along the way. Drink, gentlemen, while the wine flows free."

At that moment a slender figure separated from the flank of the attendants. Celestia Moore walked between the tables with emphasized modest, pious grace, carefully holding a heavy golden pitcher in both hands. She wore a simple gray dress, but her perfect posture and eyes lowered in feigned humility instantly drew the attention of those present. She approached the imperial dais, smoothly sank into a deep curtsy, and, raising a pure, shining gaze to Asterion, filled his goblet with dark, sparkling wine.

— "Accept this offering from a pure soul, faithful to the holy flame and to your greatness, Sire," — she said quietly, proffering the cup.

Asterion silently took the goblet, his fingers brushing her slender hands for a moment, and he drained the wine to the very bottom in a single gulp. And in that same second the world around him seemed to turn upside down. The ruler's violet eyes suddenly glazed over, losing all interest in his surroundings. He turned sharply away from {{user}}, as if they had never existed in this room, completely ceasing to notice their presence beside him. All his boredom, all the interest in the foreigners accumulated over the days of the journey evaporated, giving way to a completely different, dark and suffocating feeling. Asterion stared fixedly after the retreating Celestia, and his jaws clenched to a dull gnashing of teeth. His gaze was dead-set on the figure of the young paladin Evander, who stood frozen by the column in shining armor and whose hand involuntarily twitched toward the hilt of his sword as soon as the girl passed by. A wild, inexplicable, and searing jealousy of this holy man overwhelmed the emperor's mind, forcing the ancient god beneath his skin to furiously unsheathe his claws.

All the following days turned for {{user}} into a solid wall of icy ignoring. Asterion no longer looked in their direction, no longer teased or showered them with commanding barbs; he spent every free minute exclusively with Celestia, as if succumbing to an imposed haze, while the retinue and servants whispered quietly in the corners of the monastery corridors.

Finally, late in the evening, when the storm with renewed force drummed against the pointed windows, the emperor stood on the high stone balcony of the chambers assigned to him, gazing at the dark treetops. Heavy raindrops shattered against the stone railing when behind him the balcony door creaked quietly. Celestia appeared in the half-darkness, her hair was loose, and in her eyes burned a fanatical, insane gleam of power. She took a step forward, closing the distance, and reached out her slender hands to him.

— "I am the one, Asterion," — she whispered, and this insinuating voice made the emperor flinch. — "The prophecy is coming true. I have come from another world, from a country, to save your sinful soul and cast out the beast."

Somewhere deep inside, Asterion resisted desperately. The ancient god beneath his skin growled dully, warningly, sensing falseness in this whole scene, a vile catch and a sticky lie, so much like Camellia's betrayal. His entire being screamed that this wench was lying for the sake of the throne. But his body seemed to stop obeying his mind. His muscles grew heavy as lead, his will crumbled, and against his own desire his hands slowly rose, descended onto Celestia's waist, and pressed her firmly to himself. He believed this was the only salvation, and she was that salvation.

— "Save me…" — Asterion exhaled hoarsely, breaking his own voice, looking at her with a mad, unseeing gaze.

Celestia smiled triumphantly, her face was some inch from his lips, she was about to fasten her lips to his in a kiss to finally cement her victory, when suddenly the heavy oak doors of the chambers swung wide open with a terrible, resounding bang. On the threshold, breathing heavily after a rapid run up the dark monastery staircases, stood {{user}}.

Paladin Evander Silvercroft had been shifting from foot to foot by the heavy oak doors of the chambers allotted to the emperor for over an hour, feeling the cooling fitted metal of his armor begin to press on his shoulders, while his hand in its heavy gauntlet rested motionless on the hilt of his long sword. He had kept his watch while Asterion prayed in the monastery temples, and he continued to stand here, in the half-dark corridor smelling of damp, when he noticed {{user}} approaching along the carpet. Evander remembered all the dirty gossip that the servants whispered to one another: these outsiders had arrived in the ruler's carriage instead of the favorite Rebecca, but no sooner had Celestia Moore handed the emperor a goblet — of course, a blessing — than Asterion had completely erased them from his life, ceasing to notice them at all these past days. From behind the slightly open door of the chambers there suddenly came the emperor's sharp, imperious shout, ordering the guard to leave him and Celestia alone. Evander instantly stepped forward, blocking {{user}}'s path, and his broad palm came to rest lightly on the outsiders' shoulder, holding them in place.

— "Stop," — the paladin said quietly but firmly, peering into {{user}}'s face with his pale eyes. — "You cannot go in now. You would do well to be careful within these walls. The game the Golden Lion has drawn you into is becoming too dangerous, and the emperor's memory is short when it comes to those who no longer entertain his boredom. Think of your own safety before it is too late."

Noticing the growing confusion and alarm in {{user}}'s gaze, Evander turned sharply, pressed the bronze handle, and resolutely flung open the heavy door, stepping into the chambers and drawing {{user}} along with him. On the balcony, right under the splashes of slanting October rain, Celestia was already pressing herself to Asterion's chest, her arms twined around his waist, and her lips were an inch from his face, ready to snatch a kiss. The emperor stood pale, with a clouded, glassy gaze, his body gripped by a strange paralysis. The paladin's appearance crudely shattered the intimate scene. Evander froze on the threshold, saluted with his steel-clad hand, and spoke in an even, icy tone in which a hidden seething could be sensed:

— "I beg your pardon for the intrusion, Your Majesty. Archbishop Ferdinand Lavrenty urgently requires his ward to come to him for evening prayer. Lady Celestia, it is time for you to go. I will escort you."

Celestia recoiled from Asterion, her face for a moment contorted with frantic fury, but she immediately restored her mask of pious modesty. Gathering up the hem of her gray dress, she headed toward the exit with quick steps after the paladin, who before leaving cast a long, heavy look at the emperor.

No sooner had the doors slammed shut than Asterion abruptly became unwell. The effect of Celestia's drugged wine began to weaken rapidly, giving way to a wild, suffocating fit of divine wrath. The ancient god within him had awakened, demanding an immediate outlet for the accumulated excitement and anger. The ruler began to breathe heavily and unevenly, his violet eyes instantly filled with a frantic, predatory crimson, and pulsing golden veins clearly ran along his neck and arms. He turned sharply, noticed the {{user}} frozen at the entrance, and in one inhumanly fast leap covered the distance between them.

The emperor's heavy palm in black leather gripped the collar of {{user}}'s clothing with a death grip, and with a dull thud he pressed them against the cold stone wall, looming fully over them with his huge, broad-shouldered frame. A palpable, feverish heat emanated from him, and his fingers trembled with restrained force. Asterion yanked the collar down, baring the skin, and with force pressed his hot lips to {{user}}'s neck, leaving painful, scorching marks.

— "I want you…" — his low, rumbling voice turned into a dull animal growl right at {{user}}'s very ear, while the god beneath his skin furiously demanded the submission of this prey. — "You will not leave these chambers. Just try to push me away..."

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