A Storm of Chaos (The Hunter Legacy #1)

Epilogue

When Callidus Lecreux, Lord of Klave, finally returned to his stone manor in the heart of his city, he returned without the guards who had first accompanied him to Braveya.

He didn't see this as a loss, of course, because for Callidus Lecreux nothing ever happened that he did not wish to happen.

Let your enemies know the taste of victory, and they shall never notice the approach of defeat.

It was a saying Callidus had built his life around, and whilst all that happened in the last two months had been no surprise to him, nor outside his control, he was not so proud to deny that losing his Blue-Eyed Bloodhound had been quite the hit.

But it was not unexpected.

And it was no loss.

The doors to his manor were held open by two of his guards, while his horse was led away by another guard who had met him half-way from Brax to act as an escort. Callidus never felt as though he needed an escort, nor protection from his guards, but he knew the importance of keeping up appearances.

As Callidus crossed the threshold to his manor, he paused, his head tilting to the guard on his left. 'Send word to the Lythra. I need them to return from their posts.'

The guard's eyes widened a fraction, and then gave a short nod in obedience.

Callidus removed his riding gloves as he entered the manor, the grand foyer welcoming him home. He intended to walk the sweeping staircase to his personal chambers on the second floor, but instead he paused in the middle of the foyer, the chandelier high above him.

Callidus's gaze swept toward the doors of the dining hall, and after a moment he let out a weary sigh.

He was most definitely not in the mood for visitors.

Regardless, Callidus was nothing if not polite. He approached the doors and slid them open without a sound, finding the dining hall empty. He walked in nonetheless, sliding the door closed behind him, and then walked the length of the room to approach the head of the low table, where freshly cleaned floor cushions were awaiting guests to take a seat. Callidus was not expecting that many visitors, however, and nor was he expecting their visit to last long.

Callidus admired the two hunting knives which crossed blades where they were mounted on the back wall, a range of other swords, daggers and scimitars decorating the wall but it was the hunting knives and how they crossed which symbolised Klave.

The edges of the room darkened then, though the lanterns lining the walls continued to burn undisturbed. He imagined, however, that if there had been any sunstones in the room they would have winked out, one-by-one.

So Callidus folded his gloves through his belt, and with another weary breath he turned to greet his guest.

Because there stood a masked man at the opposite end of the table, not a hint of skin visible amongst the dark, flowing robes and leather gloves he wore. The mask, however, was of porcelain and as white as snow, with the subtle mouldings of a mouth, nose and brow while the cut-outs for the eyes were hooded to the point that the real eyes beneath could not be seen. As if only darkness lurked beneath the mask, and not a man at all.

Callidus understood why those who worked for the masked man talked with such fear-driven reverence, and why many were intimidated upon meeting him, because his presence alone seemed to consume all sound, all warmth, within the space around him until there was just silence, and darkness writhing at the edges.