Chapter 529.5 - Interlude Tim 3

The deepest level of Oakenhollow Manor was cold and dusty. Tim descended the spiral stone steps, holding a single oil lantern high in his left hand. Its flickering orange light was weak beneath the arched brick ceiling, but it was just enough for him to see. Claudius walked a pace behind him, his wooden staff clicking softly against the stone.

At the end of the narrow corridor, an iron-banded oak door stood shut, secured by three enchanted deadbolts and guarded by two soldiers he was sure hadn’t suffered as much as the others under her rule.

Tim set the lantern on a sconce jutting from the wall as the men slid the bolts back, one by one. The clack echoed loudly in the silence.

At his nod, they pushed the door open.

Candra sat in a straight-backed chair in the center of the windowless room. Thick null-iron chains bound her wrists and ankles to the wood. She wore a simple, undyed linen shift, so very different from the opulent clothes she’d once preferred, and he couldn’t help but think it was poetic justice, even if she couldn’t see it.

Tim stepped into the cell, and as always, the witch did not stir.

Her chest rose and fell in a slow rhythm. Once-perfect hair hung in limp, greasy strands around her pale face. Her eyes were wide open, staring blankly at the mortar between the bricks on the opposite wall. A thin line of drool gathered at the corner of her slack mouth, dripping down her chin to stain the collar of her shift.

Just to be sure, Tim focused his mana, enhancing his senses far beyond what even a trained mage could perceive.

It hurt to peer this deeply into the truth of things, to see the System’s shadow hang over them all, but he couldn’t afford to take risks.

When he first returned to Oakenhollow, Candra’s presence had been a blinding array of high-tier buffs and passive charm auras, a pink miasma obscuring her true form.

Now, even as he delved deeper than ever, the readout was stark and chillingly brief.

Target: Candra. Class: [Null] Status: [Mana Void] [Soul-Death]

The Great Work had not only washed away the scars she left on the townsfolk. Nick had used her very soul as the fulcrum of the ritual, channeling the untamed fury of a thunderstorm through her coils. The esoteric powers had burned her essence to ash, leaving a breathing husk that couldn’t quite die but would never be alive.

"She has not moved," Claudius murmured, lingering near the doorway. "She takes water if a cup is tipped to her mouth, but does not swallow food unless magic is used to force her. The body will waste within a fortnight if nothing is done.”

With a grunt, Tim dismissed the status overlay. He felt no pity. He looked at the woman who had stolen his father’s mind and nearly taken his birthright, and he felt only hollow anger.

"Let her fade," he commanded, turning away from the chair. “Ensure the guards who replace these ones are among the few who hold no grudges, and swear them all to silence. No one else needs to see this.”

He walked back into the corridor as the three deadbolts locked behind him.

"The captain asked about her this morning," Claudius noted as they climbed the spiral stairs back to the ground floor. "He wanted to know whether a trial was pending. The men are angry, my Lord. The fog has lifted, but the shame of what they were forced to do festers. They want blood.”

"They cannot have hers," Tim replied, his boots scraping on the stone. "If we drag a mindless vegetable into the plaza and cut off its head, it will not bring closure. It will just look like butchery. We’ll tell them she is sealed away, awaiting judgment by our superiors. By the time anyone comes asking, she will be dead of natural causes.”

Claudius let out a hum and nodded. "A shrewd plan. You are learning.”

If only I didn’t need to. But it’s pointless to cry over spilled milk. It is what it is.

Soon, they reached the ground floor and stepped into the main corridor. The manor was quiet, lacking the almost manic energy that had marked Candra’s reign.

Servants moved with downcast eyes, going about their duties in silence. The town was recovering, but the hangover from the ritual lingered as a nagging ache in Oakenhollow's collective psyche.

"The captain is loyal," Tim said, walking toward the lord’s solar. "But he is afraid. I can see it in his eyes; no magic needed. They are all afraid.”

"They possess good sense, then," Claudius rasped, his grip tightening on his staff. "I am an old man, my Lord. I have studied the arcane arts for six decades. I have even been granted access to the scrolls describing the Prestige tier and have seen Archmages demonstrate their power. But to witness such a thing... to watch a young man invoke and wield so much power, warp the ether across a thousand minds, and scour a town clean with lightning..."

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The older mage shivered, pulling his woolen cloak tighter around his shoulders. "We owe Nicholas Crowley our lives and our freedom. But do not mistake your men's sentiment. They are grateful, yes. Above all else, though, they are terrified of drawing his ire. House Crowley wields absolute power.”

"I know," Tim said quietly. I can’t forget what I felt. What my friend truly is.

He pushed open the double doors of the solar, as sunlight poured in through the tall glass windows, lighting up the majestic oak desk that belonged to his father.

Magistrate Stane stood beside the desk, sorting through a stack of papers.

He was a thin, rat-faced man with a receding hairline and a penchant for fine velvet doublets. Under Candra’s influence, Stane had been blatantly corrupt, redirecting town funds and ignoring Tim’s authority. When the charm shattered, he was driven to his knees by guilt, like all others, even though Tim suspected he hadn’t been wholly captured by Candra, and that some of his actions had been of his own volition.

But Stane was a survivor. Once the horror subsided and the realization set in, the magistrate immediately assessed the new political landscape and firmly aligned himself with the winning side.

"My Lord," the man said, greeting him with a sweeping bow that bordered on obsequiousness.

Tim walked around the desk and sat in the high-backed leather chair. “Tell me.”

"The troops returned at dawn, as you know," the magistrate began, nervously fiddling with the hem of his sleeve. "Two hundred men, battered but victorious. The quartermaster is currently housing them in the outer barracks and ensuring they have uses for the coin awarded by the Crown for their victory.”

Stane leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "The news they bring is staggering, my Lord. The royal army took some losses, but Lord Eugene Crowley personally broke through the gates of the dwarven city. The man is said to be a terror on the battlefield, and word among the officers invited to the private festivities in Floria is that his eldest son, Devon, is rapidly approaching the boundary of Prestige himself.”

Stane wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, his eyes darting to the north-facing window. "The Crowleys are ascendant. The Duke favors them, the Crown calls for them, and the younger son... well, we all know what the younger son can do.”

"Make your point, Magistrate," Tim demanded. He would never have thought to speak so to such important people, but his patience had long since run thin.

"My point, Lord Timothy, is that we must ensure Floria understands that Oakenhollow is a faithful, unquestioning servant," Stane said smoothly. "We must never overstep, send the grain shipments late, or offer unfavorable prices on the lumber. If House Crowley asks us to jump, we ask how high, lest they decide our town requires another... cleansing.”

Tim studied the magistrate. The man was a coward, driven entirely by self-interest, yet his assessment matched Tim’s. Living in Floria's shadow would require a lot of work.

“See that the next caravan is prepared," Tim ordered. "I will sign off on the price reductions this evening. Now, tell me about my father.”

Stane’s obsequious smile faded. "Sir Armand is... difficult, my Lord. He refused to leave his quarters in the guest wing and, in a fit of rage, broke a mirror and some furniture this morning. The servants are frightened and may hesitate to bring him his meals if he doesn’t calm down soon.”

Tim rubbed his temples, a dull ache pulsing behind his eyes.

When his father rode through the gates of Oakenhollow that morning, the confrontation was tense and fraught with peril. Armand had expected his beautiful wife to greet him and a parade to be prepared. Instead, he found an armed guard and his estranged son, both regarding him with suspicion.

Only Tim’s promise to take his father to see her had prevented things from turning bloody. He then forced Armand to look at the drooling, empty husk chained to the chair.

As expected, the shock had shattered his composure, requiring several of the burliest soldiers to contain his rage, but it had not broken the magic. Armand had not been within the bounds of Nick’s Great Work. The scars Candra’s charm inflicted remained lodged deep in his brain.

It had taken some time, but now Armand knew Candra was a traitor. He had seen the accounts and heard the testimonies of Claudius and the guard captain, as well as those of a dozen other people he trusted. Logically, he understood that she had enslaved his people.

But the magic, overriding his logic, compelled him to love her. The cognitive dissonance was tearing him apart.

“Go deal with the matters of trade," Tim told the magistrate. "I will handle my father.”

It took him several minutes to gather the courage, but he eventually walked across the manor grounds to the guest wing. He paused outside the door to his father’s temporary quarters and listened. The sound of pacing boots echoed from within, a restless, caged rhythm.

The four guards he’d assigned to watch him shook their heads at his questioning look. With a sigh, he pushed the door open.

The room was a mess. A washbasin lay shattered on the floor, water soaking into the woven rug. His father stood by the window, staring out at the courtyard. He still wore a rumpled linen shirt and riding breeches. His hair was unkempt, and deep lines on his face betrayed profound exhaustion and grief.

"Father," Tim called softly.

Armand turned. His eyes were bloodshot, but he looked at his son, an improvement over the glassy glare he’d given before.

“You’re sure she betrayed me,” he muttered.

"She did," Tim confirmed, keeping his voice steady and calm.

"Then why," Armand whispered, his voice cracking, "why does the thought of her make me want to draw my sword and carve a path through my own men to free her? I have always known she was ambitious and dangerous, but to go this far. And the feeling... it burns in my chest. It tells me to save her.”

Tim closed his eyes, summoning his mana once more in a configuration that was becoming familiar. His brain itched as more information than he dared to comprehend flowed around him, ever-changing yet final. With a wrench of will, he did his best to focus on a single detail.

Status: [Charmed] [Deteriorating]

Nick had been right. With Candra burned out, the magic lacked fuel and would slowly fade as the brain’s natural processes took over. But 'slowly' meant months, if not years, maybe even decades. If Armand succumbed to the compulsion before the magic starved, he would commit an act of violent madness that might destroy their House.

Suppressing a grunt of pain, Tim dropped the overlay. He stepped over the shattered washbasin and approached his father.

"It is a sickness, Father," he explained, resting a hand on Armand’s shoulder. "A poison she slipped into your mind. It is fighting to survive, trying to make you act against your own honor. You cannot trust your heart right now. You must trust me.”

Armand let out a shuddering breath, his hands clenching into fists as he fought the urge to strike him. "I am losing my mind, boy. Every time I close my eyes, I see her face.”

Tim had anticipated this. He reached into his tunic and pulled out a rolled piece of parchment stamped with Honeyton's wax seal.

It was a forgery, penned by Tim’s own hand an hour ago, but it looked official because he’d carefully lifted the seal from an old letter and refreshed it with magic.

“I think you need to distract yourself," he said, pressing the parchment into his father’s chest. “And Oakenhollow needs your sword, Father. The northern campaign displaced dozens of bandits and monsters. The scouts even report a goblin raiding party massing in the southern crags, pushing toward our lumber camps.”

Armand took the parchment and scanned the false report. The seasoned commander within him, buried beneath the magical grief, clutched the familiar request like a drowning man grabbing a rope.

"The crags," Armand muttered, his posture straightening slightly. "The terrain is treacherous. The militia will be slaughtered if they try to force a shield wall through those narrows.”

"Exactly," Tim agreed. "We need a veteran to lead the sortie. Take fifty of the men you brought back from the north and ride out to clear the crags.”

But his father wouldn’t meet just goblins there. He’d either break through the compulsions… or die.