Chapter 25: A Lesson in Courtesy

The scene opens not in the hotel, but on a balcony, a part of a tower that defied conventional architecture. The tower didn't rise from a garden; the balcony itself was integrated into the tower's structure. On the balcony stood a woman with vibrant red hair that cascaded down to her waist. She wore a golden tiara, and her skin was tanned, dotted with freckles. A golden necklace adorned her neck, complementing her flowing dark green princess gown, which was embellished with delicate petals. Her lips were a soft pink, but her green eyes held a predatory glint, reminiscent of a snake or a cat. She hummed a melodious tune as she tended to a small garden on the balcony. This location was still within the middle district of Karvas, emphasizing the opulence of the inner district that lay beyond.

The scene then shifts to the interior of the impossibly curved and bent tower. Men in full armor walked along its corridors, some walking normally, others sideways, and some even upside down, defying gravity within the tower's strange architecture. From one of the many revolving windows that punctuated the tower's walls, they had a clear view of the balcony and the red-haired woman. Sky fish—creatures resembling fish with large, membranous wings—along with other ethereal beings of various shapes and sizes, swirled through the air outside, creating an almost otherworldly atmosphere. The clouds themselves seemed to have a spiritual, almost tangible quality.

One of the armored men, observing the woman on the balcony, commented, "A wonderful melody."

There were seven men in total. They wore gleaming silver armor adorned with feathers on the chest plates. Some wore helmets shaped like skulls or predatory animal heads, while others wore rough leather masks that covered their mouths and noses. Each man carried either a spear or a sword and had a crossbow attached to one arm, crafted from metal rather than wood, with strings made of thick spider silk. They wore white capes with puffed collars, filled with cotton to protect their necks. The capes only covered either the left or right shoulder, arm, and leg, depending on which side their sword was positioned, leaving the opposite side exposed for movement. Each cape bore the same insignia: the symbol of the Grimstone family, a diagram depicting a beheaded giant.

Among the seven, one stood out. He wore black armor trimmed with fur and wielded a massive greatsword. His cape was red, and he had long grey hair and a thick black beard. He wasn't wearing his helmet, which hung at his back—the skull of a deer with enormous antlers. Skulls also protruded from his armor at various points, and his face and hands were covered in scars. His cape bore a different insignia: the giant's severed head.

He was clearly their leader.

As these men moved through the tower, the ethereal creatures outside, which glowed with an ethereal blue or green light, scattered and fled. The armored men emanated a palpable miasma, a dark aura that suggested they had been near or even in Hell. Their presence seemed to corrupt the very air within the tower, causing the strange architecture to subtly shift and darken as they passed.

The tallest of the men, the one in black armor, spoke in a deep, resonant voice, imbued with a medieval tone, "The King is going to be here. Truly, this is fate."

Then, before them, a door wrought of glass, crackling with unseen energies, did open in a spiraling fashion, each division receding as though in anticipation of their coming. And lo, before them sat the King. He was a man with a beard of light hue and hair of brown, his jaw strong and his brows thick, though lighter than was common. Dark circles lay beneath his eyes, and he reclined upon his throne, one hand clenched as a fist, obscuring his face from view as he rested, his gaze fixed upon some unseen point beyond. A crown rested upon his head. The floor was polished to a mirror sheen, reflecting the light and bearing ancient runes and circles of magic, not wrought by natural means, but as if this place had been pieced together from disparate parts.

Before the King stood sixteen men, still as statues, clad in armor of metal, each clutching their swords as though poised to strike. Eight stood parallel to the other eight, forming two ranks. Beyond them lay a line of crimson hue, and beyond that, the Grimstone warriors entered. The chamber was richly adorned; great chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, and upon the walls were wrought intricate designs of golden serpents.

The King, in a voice laced with weariness and a hint of sarcasm, did utter, "What would ye have?"

The Grimstone warriors entered, their leader noting the circles and their spread across the chamber floor. He marked also the crimson line, as though it were a starting mark, or perchance a finishing line, betokening the end of some matter. With a prideful air, he cast down his heavy sword, which had rested upon his shoulder, letting it fall with a resounding clang upon the polished floor. He then dragged it across the surface, scraping the stone, intentionally doing so to disrupt any magical spells or rune activations that might be in place. He whispered to his men, "Mark well my words. Look only to me." Then, speaking aloud, he said, "These circles and runes may yet hold power, judging by the mana and spirit I perceive here." He then looked closer at the King and let out a short laugh. "Using an illusion to veil thy face? How then am I to know thou art the true King?"

One of the armored guards before the throne shrieked in fury, "How darest thou speak such blasphemy against the King! I shall have thy head!" He reached for his sword, but a faint scent of bloodlust reached his nostrils, causing his hand to tremble.

The King raised a hand, his voice booming and echoing through the chamber, "Enough!" He then reached to his face, tearing at it as though warping his very flesh. Suddenly, a metallic mask was ripped away, revealing his true face. He then spoke, his voice now clear and strong, "I am the Duke of this domain . There is no need for such concealment."

The Duke's face was now revealed: black hair, long and flowing, framed a face with piercing blue eyes. He possessed a commanding presence, though his features were not overly masculine. He wore fine black gloves and was clean-shaven, his ears possessing a subtle, almost elfin point, yet still within the bounds of human form. His jaw was well-defined, lending him an air of authority. He was clad in a suit of all black.

The Grimstone leader, with a newfound grace that belied his rough appearance, addressed the Duke. "My Lord," he began, his voice smooth and respectful, "it is an honour to be graced by thy presence. Yet, I must entreat thee to keep thy men from our lands, and especially from our hunting grounds, the No Man's Isle."

The Duke rubbed his gloved fingers together, his gaze distant and disinterested. "But thou dost squander the bounty of these lands," he replied. "They could be tilled, bringing forth crops and enriching our coffers. Dost thou not understand? We require all hands to the task."

The Grimstone leader's face hardened, and a low chuckle rumbled in his chest. "Boy," he said, a hint of condescension in his tone, "thou art yet green in the ways of governance. Allow me to impart a lesson in courtesy."

The Duke shifted his posture, ceasing to recline upon his throne. He straightened his back, his gaze now fixed directly upon the Grimstone leader, a cold intensity in his blue eyes. "And what," he asked, his voice now sharp and edged, "would a barbarian such as thee know of courtesy?" He paused, then continued with a firm tone, "I shall be taking these lands, and thou shalt be managing them. Is that understood? Thou hast wasted them, spilling the blood of giants for far too long."

The Grimstone leader's chuckle deepened into full laughter. He raised a finger to his temple, tapping it repeatedly. "Think," he said, his voice now laced with amusement. "The blood of Gaia flows back into the earth. That is why the land is so prosperous. If thou desirest this land, thou shalt have to do more than merely speak."

The Duke paused for a moment, then looked up at Kallavan, his blue eyes narrowed. "Tell me," he said, his voice regaining its sharp edge, "what do you know of the world beyond? Thou hast been so immersed in that barren land of giants that thou believest thyself some demigod. Thou art but a man, hunting for yet another trophy. The world beyond is much the same—filled with men like thee, and this kingdom is the trophy they seek. I refuse to become part of any man's collection. With these lands under my control, we are one step further from their grasp. The giants can be put to work, and the land can be used for harvest. Enough of this senseless hunting. I desire a civilized accord. We must agree upon this now. We must forge a future worthy of boasting."

The Grimstone leader, Kallavan, smiled, a predatory gleam in his eyes. "What is thy name, son?" he asked.

"Gregorus Martinelli," the Duke replied, a hint of impatience in his voice.

Kallavan's smile widened. "Boy," he said, "thou wouldst make a fine crown."

Martinelli hissed, a flicker of anger crossing his face.

Kallavan then raised his greatsword high, the gesture signaling the end of discourse. As he did so, one of his men, concealed by his cloak, raised a hand, revealing a crossbow of intricate metal design, its string spun from giant spider silk. His finger tightened on the trigger, and a thick, metal rod shot forth, plunging into the Duke's shoulder. Martinelli cried out in pain, the force of the impact sending him crashing back into his throne. The polished green tiles of the floor, which had moments before reflected the light of the chandeliers, now began to reflect the spreading pool of his blood.

As the Duke struggled against the impaling rod, the sixteen guards before the throne drew their swords, and the chamber erupted into chaos. The Grimstone warriors, with practiced efficiency, engaged the guards in fierce combat.

Amidst the clash of steel and the cries of battle, a young woman in peasant clothing, her garments stained and worn, appeared in the doorway. She looked exhausted and sickly, on the verge of fainting or vomiting, yet she remained, her eyes wide with horrified fascination. Suddenly, an arrow, split by another in mid-flight, sent splinters of wood scattering across the room. One such splinter, a small, sharp shard, pierced the woman's left eye. A moment of stunned silence followed, her eye widening, turning crimson. Unable to scream or even close her eye due to the lodged wood, she clamped a hand over her mouth, a muffled, agonizing scream escaping her lips.