The chamber was thick with tension, the air itself seeming to vibrate with the Aguir Patriarch’s barely restrained fury. The vast hall of his private council chamber, normally a pce of quiet deliberation and decisive command, now felt like the heart of a brewing storm. Lord Valtheris Aguir sat rigidly upon his high-backed chair of dark-stained ironwood, his piercing silver eyes abze with cold anger. His long, white hair, always immacutely bound, was only slightly out of pce—a subtle but telling sign of his agitation.

  Before him stood two figures who knew better than to speak until permitted—Illyria, Captain of the House Guard, and Kulven, his right hand and master strategist. They had served him for decades, loyal and unwavering, yet tonight they stood under the weight of his scrutiny.

  “Expin,” Valtheris said, his voice a quiet bde of ice.

  The Guard Captain inclined her head, her silver armor reflecting the candlelight with a dull sheen. “My lord, we believe it was an attempted break-in.”

  Valtheris’s eyes narrowed, his fingers tapping once against the polished wood of the table. “An ‘attempted’ break-in?” he repeated, his voice deceptively soft. “What I saw was a fugitive escaping our fortress after evading my guards, shattering the stained gss of the western spire, and taking flight into the night. Do correct me if I’m mistaken.”

  Kulven, ever the diplomat, stepped in smoothly. “With respect, my lord, the truth remains that as far as we can tell, nothing was taken. The vaults remain untouched. The archives are intact. The inner sanctum is secure. What we had was a brazen but ultimately futile intrusion. The wretch failed to penetrate our defenses where it truly mattered.”

  The Patriarch exhaled slowly, his jaw tight. “And yet he escaped.”

  Illyria’s lips pressed into a firm line. “Yes, my lord. That is regrettable.”

  Valtheris leaned forward, his hands steepled before him. “It is unacceptable,” he corrected. “We are Aguir. Our House does not suffer intrusions, let alone intruders who walk freely from our halls.”

  Kulven gave a small, measured nod. “That is why it is imperative that we control the narrative.”

  Valtheris’s gaze shifted to him. “Go on.”

  Kulven’s mind was already at work, the angles and repercussions forming as he spoke. “The other Houses will be watching, my lord. If they sense weakness, they will move to exploit it. We must ensure that when the tale spreads, it is not one of failure but of strength.”

  Illyria caught on, her sharp mind aligning with Kulven’s. “We tell them that our forces repelled an unknown infiltrator,” she said. “That our defenses held. The enemy sought to breach the heart of our domain and failed.”

  Kulven nodded approvingly. “And if anyone questions why the intruder escaped, we make it clear that pursuit was secondary to securing our holdings. We did not chase a shadow at the cost of our greater vigince. We are not reckless.”

  Valtheris considered their words. It was not outright deception—there was truth in it. The intruder had failed in their goal, assuming they even had one beyond escape. The archives and vaults were secure. The perpetrator had left empty-handed. Spinning it as an attack thwarted, rather than a fugitive slipping through their grasp, was a far more patable alternative.

  “And this intruder,” Valtheris said after a moment. “Who was he?”

  Illyria’s expression darkened. “We are still working to determine his identity. He left little evidence.”

  “A mercenary? An assassin?” Valtheris’s fingers curled against the arm of his chair. “Or an agent of another House?”

  Kulven’s lips pressed together thoughtfully. “If he was sent by another House, they will be hesitant to reveal it now. Not when we can publicly cim he was turned away by our might. If they push the matter, it will be an admission that they were behind it.”

  Illyria’s voice was crisp. “We have already set our spies to listen for whispers, my lord. If another House is responsible, we will know soon enough.”

  Valtheris sat back, his expression contemptive. “And what of the city? Have the guards begun their search?”

  Illyria’s mouth tightened. “Yes. But I do not believe they will find him. He knew our defenses too well, moved too efficiently. He had a pn. That suggests experience—or outside help.”

  “Then root out the help,” Valtheris ordered. “Find whoever aided him and make an example of them.”

  Illyria bowed her head. “It will be done.”

  After a moment, Valtheris exhaled sharply, his fingers drumming against the arm of his chair" And find the intruder. Now. I do not care how."

  Kulven, sensing something ominous in his tone, narrowed his eyes. "And if our current methods prove insufficient?"

  Valtheris stood up to face his two subordinates, his posture rigid and unbending. "Then you will seek assistance from the old man."

  A tense silence fell over the chamber. Illyria kept her expression carefully neutral, but Kulven stiffened visibly. His jaw tensed, his fingers ceasing their restless movement. "That is unnecessary. We still have resources—"

  "Do you presume to tell me what is necessary?" Valtheris’s voice was soft now, almost delicate in its lethality. "I give you leave to handle this as you see fit, but you will bring him into this, Kulven. Do not make me repeat myself."

  Kulven exhaled through his nose, a barely contained grimace flickering across his face before he inclined his head stiffly. "As you command."

  Valtheris gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "Go. Do not return without results."

  Without another word, Kulven turned on his heel and strode from the chamber, his boots striking the marble floors with sharp, measured steps. Illyria lingered only a moment longer before following, though she gave Kulven a sidelong gnce as they walked through the twisting halls of the manor.

  "You disapprove," she observed, her voice neutral.

  Kulven let out a humorless chuckle. "Of course, I do. That thing should have been left to rot. Instead, it festers beneath our feet, indulged in it’s... experiments."

  "Valtheris trusts it."

  "Valtheris tolerates it," Kulven corrected. "Because it’s knowledge is useful. That does not mean it is safe."

  The Guard Captain said nothing. They both knew better than to openly question their Patriarch’s decisions. And so they continued their descent in silence, deeper into the mansion, past corridors that grew colder and less adorned, their grandeur fading into shadowed austerity.

  3 days ter, Kulven descended much deeper into the bowels of the Aguir estate, the air growing colder with every step. The polished marble and finely wrought iron sconces of the upper mansion had given way to damp stone walls, the torches sputtering against the thick, oppressive darkness. Each flicker of fme cast grotesque shadows on the passage, twisting the stairwell into something out of a nightmare. The deeper he went, the more the faint, unnatural hum of necrotic energy prickled at his senses, like a phantom touch against his skin.

  He hated coming down here.

  By the time he reached the heavy iron door at the lowest level, his nerves were stretched taut. He knocked once, then twice. The response was not an invitation, but a creaking groan as the door swung open of its own accord. The hinges emitted a shrill wail, like the scream of something long dead.

  Inside, the chamber was vast and oppressive, its walls lined with shelves of ancient tomes, bone fragments, and vials of strange, pulsing fluids. The air smelled of formaldehyde, decayed flesh, and something else—something deeper, fouler, an undercurrent of raw, unfiltered corruption. At the center of the room stood the old man.

  Or rather, the one they called the old man.

  He appeared as he always did—stooped, draped in tattered robes that had once been of fine make but were now stiff with age and filth. His hands were gnarled like ancient roots, fingers too long, nails bckened. His skin had an unhealthy pallor, stretched thin over his frame, as though something within him barely fit the shape of an elf at all.

  And then there was the thing beside him. His test project.

  Kulven’s breath hitched. A wave of raw, visceral disgust cwed up his throat.

  The creature was an abomination, something that should not exist in the realm of the living. Two humanoid torsos melded at the waist, its pale, translucent skin clinging tight to its grotesque frame. Each end had a head, its mouths filled with jagged fangs, its eyes flickering with an inhuman, predatory intelligence. One set of arms was positioned for movement, the other free to grasp, to tear. Its long, sinuous tongues twitched, tasting the air, as though sensing his presence.

  It was watching him.

  His stomach churned. He had seen the dead raised, had witnessed horrors beyond imagining in his service to House Aguir—but this? This was worse. This was something unnatural, something born not just of necromancy but of twisted, alien design.

  The old man’s lips peeled into a smile that did not reach his eyes.

  “You look unwell, Kulven.” His voice was soft, dry as dead leaves rustling in the wind.

  Kulven swallowed hard, forcing himself to breathe, to steady himself. “What… is that?”

  The old man tilted his head, the motion too fluid, too serpentine to be natural. “A tool. A marvel. A creation beyond anything your limited imagination could conceive.” He gestured toward the thing. “My Encephalon Gorger. And it will be very useful to you.”

  Kulven could not tear his eyes away from the creature. His skin crawled under its scrutiny, as though its very gaze was peeling him apart yer by yer. “I requested your help in tracking down the intruder,” he said, his voice sharper than he intended. “Not… whatever this is.”

  The old man chuckled. “And you think this isn’t help?” He stepped closer to the monstrosity, running one withered hand along its smooth, hairless skin, his fingers lingering just a little too long. The creature made a low, gurgling sound—something between a purr and a rattle that made Kulven instinctively take an involuntary step back.

  “This beauty,” the old man continued, “possesses a most intriguing gift. It can track a mind the way a hound tracks a scent.” He tapped a cwed finger to his own temple. “Wherever your intruder has been, whatever lingering psychic imprint they have left behind… this will find it.”

  Kulven's horror deepened. “A psychic trail?”

  The old man nodded. “A thief, an assassin, a spy—it does not matter. Their thoughts, their very essence, leave echoes in pces they have touched. This one,” he gestured to the Gorger, “will drink of those echoes, savor them, and follow them back to their source. All it requires is a taste.” His smile widened. “And a willing guide.”

  “And…what does it need?” Kulven asked warily.

  The old man clucked his tongue, as though amused by his hesitance. “A remnant of the intruder’s presence. A scrap of fabric, a fingerprint on a doorknob, a pce where they stood long enough to leave an imprint. This one will take care of the rest.” He patted the Gorger as one might a loyal hound.

  The abomination twitched, its tongues slithering out, tasting the air in anticipation. Kulven suppressed a shudder.

  “The Patriarch will expect results,” he said stiffly. “If this… thing fails—”

  “Oh, it won’t,” the old man interrupted, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. “But if you’re still skeptical, I suggest you hurry. The longer you wait, the fainter the trail becomes.”

  Kulven clenched his jaw, forcing himself to look at the Gorger without flinching. The abomination stood upright on one pair of hands as it blinked at him—both heads, out of sync, as though it were trying to see him from two different angles at once. He exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to push past the revulsion.

  This was just another tool. Another weapon. That’s all it was.

  “Fine,” he ground out. “I’ll get what it needs.”

  The old man’s smile was all teeth. “Good boy.”

  As Kulven turned on his heel and stalked out of the chamber, the creature let out a low, rattling sound—something between ughter and hunger.

  He didn’t dare look back.