The chamber was thick with tension, the air itself seeming to vibrate with

  the Aguilar Patriarch’s barely restrained fury. The vast hall of his private

  council chamber, normally a place of quiet deliberation and decisive command,

  now felt like the heart of a brewing storm. Lord Valtheris Aguilar sat rigidly

  upon his high-backed chair of dark-stained ironwood, his piercing silver eyes

  ablaze with cold anger. His long, white hair, always immaculately bound, was

  only slightly out of place—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.

  “Explain,” Valtheris said, his voice a quiet blade 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 glass 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 Aguilar. 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 vigilance. 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 palatable 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 claim

  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 contemplative. “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 plan. 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."

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  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 glance 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 later, Kulven descended much deeper into the bowels of the Aguilar

  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

  flame 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 blackened. 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 latest project.

  Kulven’s breath hitched. A wave of raw, visceral disgust clawed 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 Aguilar—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 layer by

  layer. “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 clawed 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 places 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 place 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 laughter and hunger.

  He didn’t dare look back.