The Duke's Reluctant Bride

Chapter 28: The Night Hunter and the Dark Lord

Veylor's bronze, slit-pupiled eyes darkened beneath the shadow of his hood, though the hint of annoyance remained hidden.

"Says the one who underestimated all of this just because he doesn't age and is nearly impossible to kill." His voice was laced with quiet disdain. "You're even toying with that duke, aren't you? You should have killed him when you had the chance—yet you didn't. Instead, you let him break the seal. Tell me—am I wrong?"

Darvok scoffed, defiance flickering in his eyes. His burned flesh slowly began to regenerate—painful but inevitable. He forced himself to straighten, the dull ache fading into nothing as his usual composure returned—cold and unreadable.

"Toying with Lucien?" A low chuckle escaped his lips as he shook his head. "You always jump to conclusions, Veylor. Tell me, is that paranoia or just incompetence? You want to believe I let him break the seal because it makes things simpler for you. But maybe—just maybe—you don't understand the bigger picture."

Veylor's gaze narrowed. "Don't twist this on me, Darvok. I see through your games."

Darvok smirked. "Do you? Because from where I stand, you're still a coward when you have nothing to rely on."

The air between them crackled, the dim corridor growing even darker as tendrils of dark magic coiled from their fingertips. The very walls seemed to tremble, bending in response to their rising power.

"Enough talk," Veylor growled.

Darvok's grin widened. "For once, we agree."

But before they could strike, a sudden click echoed through the hall.

A cane.

The sound sent a sharp, unnatural chill through the air. Their bodies tensed, their hearts pounding faster with every measured step that followed. A figure approached, his dark robes shifting unnaturally, as though they were alive. His long, ghostly white hair swayed with an unseen wind, and his piercing yellow eyes gleamed—cold, unblinking.

Then he spoke. His voice was smooth, authoritative—a quiet, inescapable force.

"To what do I owe this unpleasant scene from my two useless dogs?"

Both Veylor and Darvok stiffened, their defiance vanishing in an instant. As if compelled by an unseen hand, they bowed—kneeling—because they knew what would happen if they didn't.

"Our apologies... Lord Zandros," they murmured in unison, their tones laced with pleading.

Zandros exhaled, unimpressed.

Tap.

He brought his cane down once. The sound was deceptively soft.

Then, agony followed.

Blood spilled from their mouths, the metallic taste thick on their tongues. It poured endlessly, as if drawn straight from their veins. They couldn't move. Couldn't stop it. They could only kneel, drowning in their own suffering.

A minute passed. Another.

Then—tap.

The moment his cane struck the floor again, the bleeding stopped. Darvok and Veylor gasped, their bodies trembling. Their pupils shrank to pinpricks, the horror still raw in their expressions.

Zandros watched them impassively.

"The Blade of Ashen Frost was never our goal," he said at last, his tone as cold as the blood pooling at their knees. "Wintermere itself is the prize. And yet, you waste your time chasing a legend. Tell me, do you really believe you can find that sword by sacrificing people who carry King Mulzart's blood?"