The Sandornen Estate hummed with the quiet tension of the night.
Lanterns illuminated the stone pathways, casting a golden glow on the sprawling grounds. Guards patrolled with practiced diligence, their eyes scanning for anything out of the ordinary. The night stillness and the sound of crickets echoed in the distance.
Inside the estate, the atmosphere was equally charged. The departure of the eldest son had caused a significant uproar in the clan. Whispers of his defiance reached every corner, from the kitchens to the grand halls.
The patriarch, ever the symbol of control, was now said to be seething over his son's antics—not only for leaving the estate but for his reckless behaviour in the city. Throwing around the family name with abandon, bolstered by the audacity of his new wife, the eldest son's actions were a stark affront to the clan's dignity.
In the midst of this unrest, the children of the clan seemed unfazed, lost in their own indulgent world. Mainly the children of the patriarch were happy that there was one less to fight for the seat of patriarch. Though the patriarch and their mother really wanted the eldest to take the seat one day.
One such gathering was taking place in the room that once belonged to Jolthar. One in which Jolthar stayed before he left for the Keep. The room had been claimed by others since his departure, its walls now bearing the marks of a new era of mischief and decadence. That was why they had given Jolthar a new room after he returned to the estate.
The air was thick with the heady scent of alcohol, and the faint glow of a single lantern illuminated the figures within.
Elara reclined on a plush seat beside Myron, her body draped against his side in a languid, possessive way. Her right leg draped over his, his left hand wrapped by her hands and pressed against her mounds. Her dark eyes glittered with a mix of intoxication and intrigue, and her lips curved into a sly smile as she took another sip from her goblet.
Myron, his shirt unbuttoned to reveal his chest, nursed his drink with an air of detached amusement. His free arm rested on the arm of the chair.
Across from them sat Orimus, leaning back in his chair with a casual arrogance. His long hair was tied back, and his sharp features were highlighted by the flickering light. He swirled his drink idly, his eyes narrowing as the conversation turned toward their shared obsession: Jolthar.
"So, Orimus," Elara began, her voice lilting with curiosity and a hint of malice, "did you find out anything about him?" She adjusted her position, pressing herself closer to Myron as if the physical contact bolstered her confidence.
Orimus raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a smirk. "As far as I know," he drawled, "he spent most of his time training in the Keep. Nothing out of the ordinary there. He read books, practiced with weapons, the usual." He paused, his smirk fading slightly as he leaned forward.
"But he did something strange. He left the Keep several times and disappeared into the mountains. Alone."
Elara's brow furrowed, and she exchanged a glance with Myron, who finally showed a flicker of interest.
"The mountains?" she repeated, her tone sceptical. "What could he possibly gain from wandering around up there?"
Orimus shrugged, setting his drink down on the table with a soft clink. "That's the mystery, isn't it? He wasn't meeting anyone. No transactions, no secret rendezvous. Just... solitude."
Elara's eyes narrowed, her fingers trailing absentmindedly along the rim of her goblet. "And yet he comes back stronger," she mused.
"Not just a little stronger, either. His aura... it's different now. More potent," the insight she learnt from Myron. He had described Jolthar upon their first meeting and felt intrigued by him.
"It's unnatural," Myron said finally, his voice low and clipped. He reached for the bottle on the table, pouring himself another drink. "No one gains that much power without doing something—something significant."
Orimus leaned back in his chair again, his expression contemplative. "I've been digging into him," he admitted, his voice softer now, almost conspiratorial. "But there's not much to go on. Whatever he did up in those mountains, he's kept it well-hidden. No one knows the details—not even the Keep."
Elara's lips curved into a dangerous smile. "That just makes it all the more interesting, doesn't it?" she said, her tone dripping with intrigue.
"A secret like that... it's worth uncovering."
Orimus met her gaze, his smirk returning. "If we play this right," he said, "we might just find out what makes him so special."
Elara had always been a woman who thrived on control, her sharp mind and manipulative charm weaving webs of influence around those in her orbit.
From a young age, she had learnt how to pull the strings of those around her, and Jolthar had been no exception. He was once just another piece on her board, and she had wielded her power over him like a seasoned puppeteer.
Now, as she observed his growing prominence within the clan, she couldn't ignore the opportunities his rise presented. He was no longer the same naive boy she had once known; he was stronger, more self-assured, and—most importantly—useful. That made him both a valuable asset and a challenge she couldn't resist conquering.
Elara rose gracefully from her seat, the dim candlelight casting a golden hue on her porcelain skin and the delicate silk of her dress. Her movements were fluid and deliberate, every step calculated to draw attention.
She walked toward Orimus, her eyes gleaming with amusement.
Orimus, leaning casually against the cushion, straightened slightly, sensing the shift in her demeanour.
"Did you bring the girl I asked for?" Elara asked, her voice honeyed yet commanding. Read full story at novel•fire.net
Orimus nodded but then hesitated, his expression hardening. "Elara," he began, his tone laced with a warning, "don't think you can control me like you do everyone else." His eyes locked onto hers, unflinching and resolute.
From his place on the cushioned seat, Myron barely glanced up, too absorbed in his drink to notice the tension building in the room. He swirled the amber liquid lazily in his glass, his lips quirking into a faint smirk as though he found the exchange amusing, even without fully comprehending it.