Chapter 61: The Tattooed Wrist: Traitor of Blood Feast

The smooth, resonant tone of the voice hung in the narrow space, thick with a casual malice that made the hairs on the back of Cassius’s neck stand up.

Cassius?

The name echoed like a strike against his own ribs. His mind fractured for a fraction of a second, scrambling to match the sound to a face. It wasn’t the feminine cadence he might have expected from Florianthum at this point. It was undeniably, chillingly a low-pitched male voice.

Someone who knew exactly who he was, waiting for him in the pitch-black throat of a forgotten corridor.

Cassius didn’t answer right away. He couldn’t. His lungs were still working hard to pull in the heavy, damp air, his bare chest rising and falling in sharp, jagged movements. The freezing residue of Vilucious’s magic felt like dry ice packed beneath his chest, flaring painfully against the bruise blooming across his collarbone.

The figure leaned slightly further into the weak, amber glow of the wall torch. The flickering light caught the rich, deep midnight-blue of a heavy velvet cloak, a fabric so thick it barely shifted as he breathed. Up close, the scent of expensive cedarwood cologne and sharp winter ozone was nearly suffocating, cutting through the stagnant rot of the palace underbelly.

"Look at you," the man murmured, his gaze drifting down Cassius’s form with deliberate, slow condescension.

"The rising great opponent of the house. Barefoot. Caked in the soot of a ruined storeroom. Shivering like a wet street cur."

"Whoever you are," Cassius murmured, his voice velvety and entirely devoid of fear, "it’s quite flattering to know a bastard trained an entire tunnel-visioned army just to memorize my name."

The stranger’s smile tautened, the casual insult cutting right through his smug composure.

The stranger let out a clever, wealthy laugh- a smooth, melodic chuckle that resonated with the easy confidence of old money and unearned privilege.

"Ah, hahaha... standard defense mechanism," the man purred, the rich amusement lingering in his throat as he tilted his head.

"Looks like you got upset with my honesty, Cassius. I am truly sorry if that hurt your pride."

The condescension in his tone was like a physical weight in the narrow corridor.

Sorry?

The word echoed like a bad joke inside Cassius’s head. His hyper-analytical brain instantly rejected the apology, treating it with the absolute skepticism it deserved.

There was something deeply fishy about this entire display; too theatrical, too calculated to be trusted at any cost.

Cassius knew the rules of power. A king might play fair, bound by some archaic code of honor or the theater of diplomacy. But a psychopath? A psychopath was always a psychopath. Vilucious was entirely unhinged, a creature who would employ any plan, sink to any depth, and manipulate any piece on the board just to win over the things he wanted.

This stranger wasn’t just a random investigator; he was an extension of that twisted, unpredictable malice. Cassius kept his expression frozen, his gray eyes tracking the subtle shift in the man’s weight as the rich laugh faded into the damp stone walls.

The stranger’s rich laugh dissolved into a sharp, mocking grin. He leaned forward just enough for the torchlight to slice across his features.

"What happened?" the man asked, his voice dropping into a faux-sympathetic purr that made the cold air feel even tighter.

"Oh... you think that I am some investigator who is here to bring your corpse to the King?"

He let out another short, melodic chuckle, thoroughly amused by the conclusion Cassius’s genius brain had jumped to.

Inside Cassius’s head, the gears spun with frantic speed. The psychological layers of the encounter were shifting rapidly. Every word out of this man’s mouth was a carefully placed brick in a wall of misdirection.

The stranger took a deliberate, agonizingly slow step forward, closing the remaining distance in the cramped corridor until the heavy scent of cedarwood and sharp ozone filled Cassius’s nose. He leaned in, his lips brushing dangerously close to Cassius’s ear, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying whisper that vibrated right against the bone.

"I know about the thing that you are finding."

The words were cold, sharp, and perfectly placed. Cassius didn’t flinch, but internally, his hyper-analytical mind instantly seized.

As the man pulled his head back, his movements smooth and entirely devoid of rush, the weak amber torchlight fully illuminated his silhouette. This was no regular soldier. The posture alone screamed an entirely different pedigree.

Cassius’s eyes narrowed, his gaze dissecting the stranger’s appearance as the pieces of a buried memory began to violently slot into place. He had seen this man somewhere before.

The stranger was clad in a delicate, royal-looking silk outfit of deep crimson red and polished silver, the fabric shimmering faintly despite the grime of the palace underbelly. His long, black hair was pulled back, tied neatly in a silk binding that fell elegantly over his shoulder.

But it was the stranger’s hand, casually shifting against the fine fabric of his waist, that caught the full focus of Cassius’s hyper-fixated stare.

There, etched cleanly into the pale skin of the stranger’s wrist, was a highly distinct mark. A sharp, straight black line tattooed directly across the bone.

Cassius’s breath locked in his throat. He saw him. The memory surged forward from the dark recesses of his mind: a flash of grand halls, whispers among the upper echelons, and a presence that carried the absolute weight of an elite executioner.

"Didn’t even receive your own Lord’s gift!" Cassius murmured, his voice velvety, sharp, and laced with absolute mockery. "What an insult. Pure disappointment from you during the blood feast."

The elite’s smug grin instantly tautened, the unexpected strike catching him completely off guard. For a fraction of a second, the mask slipped. The stranger quickly forced his features back into order, tightening his jaw as he controlled his smile. He turned his head sharply to his right, his dark eyes tearing away from Cassius as his attention was violently pulled toward the far end of the dim corridor.

Before the silence could settle, a clear, resonant sound broke through the background, the heavy footsteps echoing softly against the damp stone.

"Kerwon," a voice called out, cutting cleanly through the thick tension of the hallway.

"Is Lord Vilucious fine? What brings you here at this hour?"

It was Florianthum. Cassius knew it instantly, recognizing the unmistakable cadence the moment the words hit the air. Her voice was delicate and soft, yet carried an underlying, bold authority that demanded an answer.

The revelation of the stranger’s name- Kerwon and the sudden presence of Florianthum sent a hyper-analytical spark through Cassius’s brain. The board had just grown vastly more complicated.

"Oh my god! What happened to Fukuro?"

Florianthum’s voice echoed loudly in the corridor, her delicate yet bold tone pitching up in genuine alarm. Her gaze had completely bypassed the quiet standoff between Cassius and Kerwon, cutting right down the narrow path behind Cassius toward the entrance of the secret store room base.

Down the hall, just visible in the flickering, low torchlight, Fukuro was sitting like a ghost. He remained exactly where Cassius had left him, slumped beside the splintered pieces of shattered wood at the doorway, entirely unmoving and hollowed out by grief.

The moment the words left her mouth, the heavy tension pinning Cassius and Kerwon together snapped. Kerwon didn’t say a word. He simply turned, his crimson and silver silks rustling sharply against the damp granite as he and Florianthum instantly sprinted past Cassius, their hurried footsteps slapping aggressively down the corridor toward the catatone clerk.

Cassius stood frozen for a single, suspended second, the sudden vacuum of pressure leaving his hyper-analytical mind to rapidly re-evaluate the board. They had completely abandoned him for the janitor.

With his mind instantly calculating the sudden shift in the corridor, Cassius didn’t hesitate. He lunged forward, his bare feet eating up the damp stone distance as he sprinted directly toward Florianthum’s retreating form.

Before she or Kerwon could react to his sudden movement, Cassius’s pale fingers shot out. He gripped her arms in a firm, unyielding vice, the sudden heat of his hands contrasting violently with the residual chill of Vilucious’s magic still humming in his skin.

With a sharp, controlled burst of strength, he pivoted, forcefully pulling her away from Kerwon’s trajectory and dragging her into the deeper shadows of a recessed alcove along the corridor wall.

He backed her against the rough granite, keeping his frame close to cut off her line of sight to the elite. His gray eyes burned with a raw, mature intensity, entirely stripped of the panic from moments before.

"Tell me," Cassius said, his voice dropping into a low, lethal murmur that barely carried over the damp air, "is my execution what you’re after, because of your Bastard Vilucious?"

Kerwon didn’t stay with the clerk for long. The moment his sharp eyes registered the sudden movement in the alcove, he abandoned the ruined doorway. He had somehow managed to procure a small water bottle from somewhere nearby, shoving it unceremoniously into Fukuro’s limp hands before pivoting on his heel.

His approach was entirely silent, a blur of crimson and silver silk slicing through the dim torchlight. Before Cassius could even adjust his grip, Kerwon’s hand shot forward. His fingers were like iron bands, clamping onto Cassius’s wrists with a terrifying, precise strength. With a brutal, fluid wrench of his arm, Kerwon threw Cassius’s hands completely off Florianthum’s sleeves, forcing him back a step into the damp air of the corridor.

Kerwon didn’t draw his weapon. He simply stood between them, his long, tied hair shifting slightly over his shoulder as he leaned in, his dark eyes boring directly into Cassius’s gray ones.

"I would cut your fingers off,"Kerwon warned, his voice dropping into a low, vibrating purr that carried the absolute promise of violence,

"if I find a single trace of disrespect in your masculinity. Especially when it comes to the Lordess."