An Eminence? No, I am just a reaper (OC story)

Winds of change -4

Speech = ''...''
Thoughts = [... ]

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The master was dead..

Fenrir...had fallen.

Where, how and who was responsible he did not know...nor he wanted to. Anyone capable of putting down the nightmare of Midgard could not be someone to trifle with, but the matter of his now apparent lack of command had turned from a possibility to a bitter reality..

Fenrir was truly dead and with it his dreams for promotion into the rounds.

Anger flared inside of him at the shame, at the impotence and the sheer dumbstruck feeling he felt at how all his deeds, all his sacrifices all his works had been laid bare and crushed into powder before tossing aside what was left on a garbage bin, setting it on fire before finally tossing the damn thing into the depths of the ocean.

There were no words to correctly give voice to what had happened, nor he believed he would have been able to find the strength and patience to do so, because he truly had no idea of how his world could turn upside down in a heartbeat.

The false black knight fought back the urge to grimace, keeping up the facade of calmness as he walked past a group of servants in one of the corridors of the castle.

The walls had ears and eyes, and not all of them were of the cult.

He was sure that no one truly knew who was part of who inside each and every cell of the cult of Diabolos but those who were chosen to act as commanders by their respective Masters of the Rounds.

And with most of them gone..., that left everyone else below rather confuse about what was going to happen now.

Would their cell disappear? More than probable. Without Fenrir it was probable that the other clans would try to absorb whatever assets they had into their own, like vultures preying on carrion they would feast on their remains.

The thought that the group he had dedicated himself to would burn out into a puff of smoke in less than a day would have been inconceivable had anyone dared said that to his face.

Now he could only feel the sting of his past self hubris coming back to him at full force.

But sting or not, that did not change the situation he was in.

What was he suppose to do now...? To be honest that had been a question that had vexing Zenon since the bloody storm had quick off its feet into his playground and taking a piss into his food.

Everything Zenon had done had been for the sake of his own ambitions, but with the direct path to the rounds now closed...it would leave quite the wrench into his neatly made out plans.

But it mattered little..., at this moment in time it was too late to turn back, why not double down on it..? He was, after all..patient if not flexible.

He would only have to reinvent himself a little. Instead of following orders, taking instead the reins while the carcass of his former master was still warm.

To take the power for himself while the power vacuum was still there and everyone else was still too afraid to dare.

It would not last..., not nearly long enough for his liking and that was the least of his worries.

Without his patron to cover for him his plans may not get to see the light of day, they may even get him killed, be it by the hand of the other clans and their masters or his fellow members of faction as they like him would soon enough fight for the scraps that their master had left behind.