What Makes a Monster

♱Twenty♱

Third Person P.O.V

Soran sits across from a bored Reiner Movell and frustrated Silva Connte. The office is silent, save for the flutter of the curtains when a breeze comes in from the open terrace doors. A letter sits innocently on the coffee table between the couches, a letter Silva sat down earlier and Soran refuses to acknowledge.

The royal seal, a golden crown encircled by vines with red roses, is pressed into the paper. Seeing it puts Soran on edge. He is in a foul mood, somehow worse than when he woke up that morning.

"Don't be like this, Soran. You had to have seen this coming, you did murder eleven people," says Reiner with a sigh yet still wears a smile. Soran would argue that is the priest's most annoying trait, which is saying a lot since he has plenty more.

Soran snorts. "Eleven that stole and would not have faced the consequences had I sent them to trial."

"You always say that yet I've never seen you attempt a trial," Silva spits, only to be shot down immediately with a quick retort.

"In your lifetime, no, but perhaps I should grab a history book to remind you of all the times I tried in the past." Soran rests one leg elegantly over the other, hands folded atop his knees when Silva growls.

"It seems the Grand Knight has forgotten her history lessons. Does she truly only care about how fast she can swing her sword around? How unfortunate."

Silva reaches for her blade, lurching forward as she does. "You rotten bastard!"

Reiner grips her wrist, pressing gently as a command to sit. Silva's brow is furrowed, eyes flickering with rage when she reluctantly returns to her seat. With an annoyed grunt, she turns her nose up while Reiner speaks calmly, "Now, now, let's play nice children."

"Says the most childish one of all," Soran tacks on. Now it's his turn to smirk and Reiner to scowl.

Finally, Soran takes the letter, but doesn't even read it over when he says, "If the king wishes me to pay a fine, so be it, but know that your request will be denied by doing so."

"Who says we have a request?" hisses Silva, but Reiner is already pressing his fingers into his temple. His gold eyes travel the room as if he's looking for an escape from their tedious discussion.

"You always act so shocked, Silva. By now it should be obvious I am always one step ahead of you." Soran waves his hand through the air. A trail of red light glistens at his fingertips, dancing through the air to shimmy a roll of parchment loose from the shelves. That parchment floats to the table, stretching out flat to reveal a world map.

"First, there is Karsissia." Soran taps a pointed nail against the map, right over top the red castle encircled by a shadow in the Empire of Yvlacna. "There are rumors she's been acting up, although that is by no means odd for her. She does like her dramatics."

"If dramatics is what you wish to call her slaughters," says Silva. Her eyes darken at the mere mention of the eldest vampire.

"But she has never paid us any mind, however, there is a chance that might have changed, isn't there?"

Soran smirks at how the two stiffen. A cold chill hangs in the air. The breeze has stopped, as if the weather itself sensed the tense atmosphere.

Soran drags his nail slowly to Aberia, now tapping against Gaeling Woods in the furthest northern territory resting along the Dead Zone; a once plentiful land fought over between the kingdom of Aberia and empire of Leschandeal. Now it sits as a wasteland from the countless battles, misuse of magic and, quite recently, a new home to The Unborn.