Chapter 03: You Are A Liar

"Masym Rete! Why do you know him?" 

Arryn's tone was razor-sharp as his predatory gaze bore into Luke. Despite blood trickling from Luke's forehead, Luke's resolve did not waver. He met the intense stare head-on and replied steadily, 

"Because Masym Rete is a regular buyer, and he was the one who ordered me to lift your divine sword." 

For several agonizing moments, Arryn said nothing—the inscrutability of his expression making the silence almost unbearable. 

Luke's anxiety mounted, his thoughts oscillating between a desperate urge to flee and a plea for mercy. Yet, a small inner voice kept repeating, 

'Take the bait. Take the bait already.'

Blood pooled at Luke's feet as his vision wavered from the head injury and the lingering haze of intoxication. His consciousness flickered, and suddenly memories surged forth—memories indistinguishable from Errol Wynter's past or his own recollections of reading about him.

---

Under the same roof, beneath a chandelier that swayed lazily above shelves laden with bottles of alcohol, a different scene unfolded. 

A man lounged in a grand chair with his boots resting on an oak table. His unkempt black hair framed tired brown eyes, and his crimson shirt—stained with spilled booze—clung to his lean frame. His black trousers, dirtied at the knees, accentuated his fragile, stick-thin legs. Yet, the most ominous detail was in his boots: scuffed, worn, and streaked with dried blood. 

Errol Wynter. 

But this was not the Errol who had once bowed before Arryn. Now, his look was one of pitiful exhaustion, yet his voice cut through the air with a slurred venom as he barked at a man kneeling at the wide-open doorway. 

"How many times must I say it?! Don't you dare mention that bastard's name in my presence! I couldn't care less if Arryn roams Lestead City!" he growled. 

The messenger, unfazed by the tirade, merely lifted his gaze and reiterated the orders he had been dispatched to deliver, 

"Your sister commands you to remain hidden until Arryn departs the city. She insists you must never cross his path, Sir Errol." 

Errol's eyes flared with indignation. "What?!" 

He snapped, rising so abruptly that the chair screeched in protest. 

"I rule Lestead's underground market! And you expect me to hide like a coward because of some self-righteous prince?!" 

He roared before flinging a glass pitcher at the messenger. The pitcher whistled past its target—

Only to come to an eerie halt mid-air. 

With a subtle flick of an unseen hand, the pitcher hovered as if suspended by invisible strings, then drifted slowly back to the table. 

It was not the bowing man's doing but rather the work of another presence lurking in the shadowed hallway. 

Errol, now unsteady on his feet, slumped back into his chair with a dissatisfied snort. 

"Tch. Useless. Tell my sister that Errol will be the one to kill Arryn. Now, get out," 

He commanded, gesturing sharply as a round of applause echoed from the hallway—praising his defiant words. 

The messenger rose silently and turned away, his footsteps gradually swallowed by the darkness until they vanished completely—as if he had been devoured by the void. 

Errol's smirk deepened. It wasn't merely the sound of footsteps that had faded away… 

So had the man's life.

A ripple of dark energy surged from the corridor. Errol snatched a bottle, took a long swig, and as the shadow slithered into the room, it extinguished the candlelight until only oppressive darkness reigned. 

"Why are you here? My sister isn't even in the city," 

Errol muttered between gulps, accustomed to such trickery. His sole aim was to end the conversation swiftly. 

A soft, chilling whisper then slithered through the blackness,

"I came for you." 

Errol chuckled bitterly, the shock fading as quickly as it arrived. 

"Me? And what exactly do you want from me?" 

The whisper crept closer, its tone warm yet insidious, 

"I want you to steal Arryn's divine sword."

---

A fleeting dream—or was it a vision?—pulled Luke back to consciousness. He found himself lying on his back, staring up at the flickering candlelight on the ceiling. For a moment, he wondered, 

'Why isn't any wax dripping?' 

A sudden, sharp sting on his forehead jolted him into the present. 

When Luke reached up to feel for blood, the wound had vanished. No scar remained—only the crimson stains on his hands testified to what had occurred. 

Shaken, Luke struggled to his feet, his legs trembling, yet he forced himself to stand. His eyes scanned the room in search of his tormentor. 

Arryn stood nonchalantly by the liquor shelves, scrutinizing a bottle as if Luke were nothing more than background noise. 

For a moment, Luke's gaze drifted toward the front door—the temptation to bolt and escape was almost overwhelming. But then, steeling himself, he pivoted back toward Arryn and took a single determined step forward. 

That small movement was enough: Arryn's eyes sharpened, signaling that Luke had made the right choice by not running. 

"Ah! Weak-legs, you're finally awake!" 

Arryn exclaimed with a derisive grin as he snatched a bottle from the shelf and lobbed it toward Luke. 

"Catch!" 

The bottle's arc was feeble—it wouldn't reach unless Luke moved, but his legs refused to cooperate. Instead, he watched helplessly as the bottle shattered between them. 

Arryn's smile broadened into a silent rebuke: 

*If you can't run to catch that bottle, how will you run from me? Don't even think about escaping.*

Clenching his fists, Luke braced himself. 

Arryn advanced, his expression darkening as he unsheathed his divine sword. 

"I'm going to ask you three questions," he announced, his voice laden with authority. 

Luke's heart hammered, yet a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips—a secret thrill that said, 

'He took the bait.'

Holding the sword aloft—its hilt pointed downward and the blade gleaming with a spectral light—Arryn continued, 

"You may answer however you please. Lie if you want, speak the truth if you dare—but I alone will decide if you're truthful or a liar." 

'Here comes Arryn's selfish judgment.' 

Luke mused, recalling every word from the novel. He knew Arryn wasn't searching for truth; he already had the answers he wished to hear. 

If Luke's words aligned with those expectations, he'd be spared. Otherwise— 

The sword pulsed with an eerie light as Arryn posed his first question, 

"What do you know about Masym Rete and his identity?" 

Without a moment's hesitation, Luke replied, 

"Enough to point my finger at Masym Rete." 

Arryn's face remained shrouded behind the divine sword's radiance, offering no hint of conviction. 

The sword's glow pulsed anew, and Arryn asked, 

"Why should I keep you alive after you've revealed Masym Rete—when you've clearly lost your purpose?" 

Luke swallowed hard and spoke in a measured, solemn tone, 

"You need not. I accept any fate—as long as you kill Masym Rete." 

The blade shuddered one final time as Arryn's voice intoned the third question, 

"Why did you and Masym Rete want my divine sword?" 

This time, Luke hesitated. His mind raced through possibilities—

Money? Fame? Power?

Yet none sounded convincing. Then a long-forgotten memory surfaced, and he blurted out, 

"We stole it to kill you—with your own sword! Look at me! I run the underground market of Lestead City! And you expect me to cower in hiding because a self-righteous prince like you visits my city?" 

No sooner had the words left his lips than the divine sword loomed inches from his throat. 

In a voice as cold and unyielding as carved stone, Arryn declared, 

"Errol Wynter, you are a liar."

[The Hero's Journey continues…]