Lords Of The Realms

The snowstorm raged, blanketing the land in an endless sea of white. Lightning split the dark sky as towering thrashed back and forth in the howling wind. 

Thorne sat on a stone slab, arms crossed, his unblinking gaze locked onto the broken carriage. Bastian hummed to himself as he worked, hands steady despite the cold, fixing the broken wheel.

Thorne exhaled, his breath curling in the frigid air as he muttered to himself, "The world is nothing but a sphere of uncertainty, filled with starving souls clawing their way toward whatever they foolishly desire."

Zephyr shot him a sceptical glance.

"You always sound so wise with... whatever you think you're saying," she said, folding her arms. "But look at this mess." She faced toward the carriage. "This is what happens when you refuse to transform. The damn thing didn't last minutes under your weight."

Thorne pushed himself to his feet, ignoring her entirely.

Zephyr clicked her tongue. "Tch. You damn oversized bear," she muttered, turning away.

A shadow fell over her.

The next bolt of lightning struck, outlining the hulking beast looming behind her. Even without turning, she felt it—that crushing, suffocating presence. 

Ever since she had met Thorne, there had been something… off.

His eerie calm. His measured words. And worst of all—his absolute mastery over his own lifeforce and gift.

Her breath caught in her throat. A chill far colder than the storm slithered down her spine. The blizzard howled louder as if it, too, answered the call of his rising fury.

She swallowed.

"Sorr—"

"I apologise."

His voice was deep, measured, and devoid of hostility, yet as his hand settled on her shoulder, the oppressive aura around him faded into nothing. "Still," he continued, his gaze piercing, "choose your words more carefully next time."

Zephyr clicked her tongue again and walked away without another word.

Bastian chuckled, strolling forward with a hammer in hand. "Well, boss, she's ready to go," he said. "And don't worry, this time she'll hold your weight." His grin widened. "From here to Pyrovile, no more issues."

Thorne didn't respond. His eyes remained locked on the swirling storm, watching, waiting.

"Before Darius faces the swordsman," he murmured, a low growl rumbling in his chest, "I'd like to meet him personally first."

#

At the circular table, the Nine Lords of the Realms sat, each flanked by well-armed guards who watched the room with wary eyes. At the centre stood Bloodborne, draped in a striking red jacket adorned with medals, his hat bearing the emblem of a rose. His glasses caught the glow of the chandelier as he unrolled the scroll in his hands and began to read.

"The recent separation from our esteemed lord and dear friend has deeply affected us. The conflict at the southern bay underscores the significant importance of the current situation between each realm and the concerning rise of hunters and adventurers from our lands and beyond the grand ocean. As a lord of the realm, I implore your support in confronting this threat. Our goal is to prevent further bloodshed and maintain the peace that binds our lands. I speak with sincerity, and I ask you to consider the countless innocent lives entangled in this predicament. Thank you."

With a quiet sigh, Bloodborne closed the scroll and set it upon a pillow held by the butler at his side.

A sharp fist slammed against the table.

"Ridiculous! Absolutely ridiculous!" Lord Kabi of the Ninth scoffed. "Cooperation? Support? How dare he make such an atrocious suggestion? Even gathering for this meeting leaves a bitter taste on my tongue."

"Calm yourself," Lord Mikah of the Seventh said, resting his chin on his hand. "Bloodborne was merely asked to read a message. There's no reason to bark at the messenger."

Kabi clenched his teeth, his irritation manifesting in the steely glares of the guards behind him. Before tensions could escalate, a lone figure stepped forward from Mikah's side.

 A massive sword was strapped across his torso, two small dragons floating lazily around its handle. He stood like an immovable fortress, his fiery hair and unwavering gaze sending a chill down the spines of Lord Kabi's guards.

Mikah chuckled, watching the reactions around the room. He couldn't blame them. Bloodborne's proposal was bold, and uncharacteristically uncertain. The nine realms had thrived for decades without relying on each other. Each realm had its own resources, its own traditions. Though trade agreements were commonplace, lingering resentment from past conflicts still festered beneath the surface, an unspoken grudge passed down through generations. Even Mikah himself was not exempt from such history. But something was clearly uncertain. The enigmatic lord could be anyone in this room. No realm was spared from the atrocious acts of the hunters and there were also preparations for a peace treaty as well. In the end the request could either bring them together or cause an uproar.

Lord Dvalin of the Fourth tapped his fingers on the table. "Say, Bloodborne, are you willing to reveal the writer of the scroll? Surely, he must be seated at this table. If he spoke directly, his words would carry more weight."

Bloodborne bowed slightly. "I am merely a reader of the scroll, my lord. I was given no knowledge of its author."

His voice was rich and soothing like that of a loving grandfather. The tension in the room melted away, the corners of the lords' lips curling into reluctant smiles. They understood now why he had been chosen as the speaker.

Bloodborne was a neutral force—a man raised in the jungle near the kingdom's shores, untouched by noble feuds. Despite being the oldest among them, he remained humble. He was not only the Guild Master of the kingdom but also the most formidable figure in all the realms. The Loving Lord. The Helper of All. Bloodborne.

Lord Dvalin exhaled a laugh. "Your voice is as magnificent as ever. Dare I say, I should steal you as my right-hand man."

Bloodborne smiled. "Your compliments are worth their weight in gold, my lord. If I gather enough, I may even be spared a few more years."

The room rippled with soft chuckles.

Bloodborne turned to leave, but Lord Missui of the Second halted him. "Before you go, Guild Master… I've heard rumours of an attack on our envoy. Would it not be wise to assign him a capable guard?"

Lord Kabi scoffed. "Ah, yes. The matter of the flaming town. Rumours claim an external force has taken root there. If true, they pose a threat to all the realms."

"Their vision of creating a Tenth Realm is as intriguing as it is dangerous, considering the forces they've managed to align with them like the swordsman," Lord Kinna murmured, leaving the room in silence.

Lord Missui of the Second leaned forward and broke the tension. "Speaking of powerful forces… we might have some in our midst. Wolves in sheep's clothing, hiding among us while working with them."

"So it's decided," Lord Dvalin declared. "We shall send our men to purge the land of flames."

Bloodborne's smile remained unwavering. "There's no need for that."

The room quieted.

"A friend of mine is already in that town," he said, adjusting his glasses. "The matter has already been resolved—before it even began."

Lord Richard of the First Realm folded his arms. "And you trust this man so much?"

"I do."

The lords exchanged glances before settling back into their seats, the discussion shifting toward the uncertain future of the kingdom and whether unity was truly an option.

Bloodborne, however, was already making his way toward the exit, his red jacket swaying gently with each step.

He had no doubts.

For the man in the flaming town… was not one to fail.

#

The meeting room had been meticulously arranged, the maids and butlers carrying out their duties with silent precision. Once their tasks were complete, they took their positions at the corners of the room, standing alongside the stationed guards.

Tony, Hack, and Sparrow entered, each taking their respective seats. 

Tony poured himself a morning glass of wine, while Sparrow idly tapped the table, his gaze flitting toward the open window, awaiting the arrival of his feathered companion. Meanwhile, Hack sat rigidly, bowing his head and clenching his fists.

"Today is the day," Hack muttered, his voice laced with frustration. "And yet, you all sit there, completely unfazed by what's about to unfold."

A flutter of wings signalled the arrival of Sparrow's companion. The bird swooped into the room, landing gracefully on his tall hat. Sparrow smiled, stroking its soft feathers.

"There's no use letting tension ruin the mood," he said lightly. "If disaster is inevitable, we may as well enjoy the moments leading up to it."

"Sparrow has a point," Tony added, taking a slow sip from his glass. "There's no sense in brooding over what we can't control. We have more pressing matters at hand—such as the arrival of the noble."

Hack's grip tightened around the edge of the table before he abruptly slammed down a plate of food. The impact sent shards scattering across the floor.

"Damn it! I nearly forgot about that!" he growled. "How has he remained hidden for this long?"

"He's not hiding," Tony replied, swirling his wine lazily. "My sources tell me a certain mysterious man arrived in town not too long ago. I suspect it's him. To ensure his movements remain contained, I had all entrances to the city sealed off." He smirked. "Used the Weeping Swordsman's attack as a cover. The townspeople think it's just a precautionary measure."

Hack leaned back in his chair, exhaling sharply. With a flick of his fingers, he gestured for one of the maids to clean up the shattered plate, while another swiftly replaced his meal.

"You might be onto something," he admitted.

Sparrow finally shifted his attention back to the conversation. "Speaking of the swordsman, I hear the mercenaries captured his accomplice."

"Yes," Tony confirmed. "He's being held beneath the mansion. I wouldn't dare let the authorities get their hands on him. To keep things discreet, I had some of the mercenaries take care of him."

"Lester will handle the interrogation," Hack murmured. "That poor bastard is going to experience the depths of hell before the night is through."

"Then it's settled." Tony raised his glass. "Now, let's have breakfast, shall we?"

#

Down the winding halls of Tony's mansion, the workers exchanged hushed whispers and furrowed brows, stealing glances at the bizarre sight lumbering past them.

A massive hunk of armour, draped in an oversized fur coat, clanked down the corridor with exaggerated nonchalance. Beneath this clever disguise, Pasta trudged forward, his only mission: escape. Unfortunately, that was easier said than done. He had been wandering these halls for what felt like an eternity, yet the mansion's labyrinthine design had turned his grand escape into an impromptu endurance test.

His stomach grumbled, loud and petulant. He placed a hand over it, whispering, "That's right... I haven't eaten yet."

Before he could mourn his empty belly, a piercing, manly scream erupted from the kitchen, making Pasta flinch. The sheer terror in that scream was enough to send chills down his spine—until an intoxicating aroma hit him square in the nose. His feet moved of their own accord, drawn by heavenly meal.

Using every bit of will power he could muster, he slapped himself and stopped in his tracks. "No. Focus, Pasta. Getting out of here is the priority… not a quick snack or two…" He hesitated, rubbing his chin. "Or maybe three… depends on the portion sizes."

A strong hand clamped onto his shoulder.

"Hey, buddy, what're ya doin' here? Let's go."

"Huh?" Pasta blinked.

More guards appeared, grabbing him by the arms, their faces alight with purpose. They lifted their swords high and, in unison, began chanting, "MEAT! MEAT! MEAT!"

Pasta, realising resistance was futile, shrugged. "Well, who am I to fight destiny?" He joined in, pumping his fists. "MEAT! MEAT! MEAT!"

Their joyous march toward the kitchen came to an abrupt halt when they encountered a towering figure standing in their path.

A huge man in an apron loomed over them, arms crossed, a glinting knife in one hand. His sharp eyes bore down on the guards, silently judging their life choices.

"Where do you all think you're going?" he asked, voice dangerously calm.

One of the guards chuckled nervously. "Come on, Gordon, don't be like that—"

Gordon wasn't amused. His gaze shifted toward the fur-coated 'guard' among them. "And you? Who might you be?"

Pasta stiffened. Slowly, he turned and pointed to himself. "Me?"

Gordon sighed heavily. "No, my left butt cheek."

"Would you give it a rest?" a voice chimed in as Mary strode past.

She barely spared Gordon a glance as she addressed the group. "You boys can go in. And Gordon, sir, were you not expecting them? If not, then what exactly were those meals you prepared? Because Lord Tony's breakfast was already done."

Gordon scowled at her, but the guards took that as their cue, erupting into cheers as they stormed into the kitchen, dragging Pasta along with them.

Pasta locked eyes with Mary as he was swept away, silently wondering if this moment of indulgence was a mistake.

...Nah.

#

The kitchen was a lively, chaotic paradise, filled with the rich aroma of sizzling meat and fresh-baked pies. The scent alone was enough to make a man weep—Pasta almost did. Perhaps he was exaggerating, but after spending the entire night without food, even stale bread would have tasted like a royal feast.

The guards sprawled across their usual table, shuffling a deck of cards and laughing between rounds. Some attempted, with varying degrees of success, to charm the maids and chefs, while others focused on what truly mattered—food. Naturally, Pasta joined the latter group. There was no greater bond than the one forged through the shared love of a good meal.

Plates of meat, golden pies, and frosty mugs of beer were passed around—a questionable but undeniably tempting combination.

"Thank you for the meal," Pasta said, clapping his hands together before diving in. He ate at lightning speed, stuffing meat through the opening in his helmet as if his very survival depended on it.

New plan, he thought between bites. I'll escape after breakfast. If Hudson could do it, so can I. Can't be that hard.

"You seem quite comfortable," one of the guards remarked.

"Yes, the food is amazing," Pasta replied, barely pausing as he shoved another piece of meat into his helmet.

His enthusiasm was rudely interrupted by the cold touch of steel against his neck.

"Do you take us for fools?" The guard's voice was calm but sharp, his sword hovering dangerously close.

Pasta's chewing slowed. The kitchen had gone eerily silent. He glanced around—every guard had drawn their weapon.

I'm dead, he thought, staring at the ceiling. I was too careless, why? Why do I have to die in the hands of good food? I haven't even fought a dragon yet.

"You killed the mercenaries at the prison and escaped," the guard continued. "A follower of the Weeping Swordsman, huh? Quite the reputation. Lucky for us, the other inmates weren't too thrilled about your little getaway. Their screams told us everything we needed to know."

Pasta exhaled through his nose. So those bastards ratted me out. And worse… I didn't even get to finish my meal.

"It's simple," the guard said. "You either go back to your cell, or I kill you right here."

"Hey, hey, not in my kitchen, you brute!" Gordon barked, hoisting a hot pan. "Take your business outside before I smack you and that imposter into the Fifth Realm."

"There's no need for that," Mary interrupted, stepping forward.

"We can handle this, Mary," the guard assured her.

Mary sighed, shifting her gaze to Pasta. "What are you doing in Pyrovile? Tell me the truth."

Pasta hesitated, then removed his helmet, meeting her eyes. For the first time, he got a proper look at her. She had an air of authority—calm, calculating. She must be Hudson's partner- the one he's always talking about, he realised.

"I can't say."

Mary raised a brow. "Then you don't mind being executed."

Pasta's shoulders slumped.

"You don't seem like a bad person," she continued, "so I'm giving you a chance to redeem yourself. I suggest you take it."

Pasta sighed, rubbing the back of his head. "How do I put this…"

"I'm listening," Mary said, checking the time. "Make it quick. The morning meeting will be over soon."

Taking a deep breath, he said, "I'm a friend of Hudson."

The kitchen fell dead silent. Every eye was on him.

Mary's expression flickered with something—shock, perhaps—but she quickly schooled her features.

"You know Hudson?"

"Yes. We met a few days ago. He was badly injured," Pasta explained. "My sister and I, along with a swordsman, helped him."

"This better not be a joke, boy," Gordon warned, cracking his knuckles. "If it is, you'll be getting more than a pan to the face."

Pasta quickly recounted his encounter with Hudson, omitting any classified details. He didn't explain why they were in Pyrovile—Hudson could handle that part.

Mary and Gordon exchanged a look before turning to Pasta, their eyes shimmering, dangerously close to tears.

"Take us to Master Hudson," they said in unison.