Moonlit Vows Of Vengeance-Chapter 30: The Chill Of Varos

The next day...

The gates of Varos opened under a sky bleached grey by cold wind and gathering clouds. The city bustled in its upper circles, guards at their posts, merchants calling out wares, nobles cloaked in furs and indifference. But the moment we crossed into Genrik’s estate, everything felt different.

The guards didn’t question us.

They already knew our names.

Someone had clearly sent word of our visit ahead.

"Are we sure he doesn’t suspect anything?" Lucas asked under his breath.

"Genrik might be many things," I replied, "but a mind-reader shouldn’t be one of them."

Still, my fingers twitched near the hilt at my side. I didn’t trust the quiet. I didn’t trust the estate. And most of all, I didn’t trust Genrik.

The main doors opened before we could knock.

And there he was.

Lord Genrik of Varos.

Tall with huge broad shoulders. Hair pale gold streaked with steel. His robes were clean-cut velvet, lined with fur, and he wore them like armor. His eyes were pale and an unreadable grey. They lingered on each of us as though taking full measure.

"Well, well," he said smoothly. "Visitors from the king, coming to my home unannounced. I suppose I should be flattered."

We bowed.

"Apologies, my lord," I said. "We didn’t want to trouble you with formalities. The King requested we pass through on our way to a posting in the north."

"A posting?" His eyebrow lifted. "That sounds dreadfully vague."

Lucas offered a practiced smile. "It is. We’re not allowed to share details. You know how the Court is."

Genrik gave a soft, amused chuckle. "Indeed. More secrets than swords in that place." He turned on his heel. "Well, come in. I would want to be remembered for my generosity than anything else."

We followed him through arched hallways and echoing chambers, the walls adorned with worn tapestries and old weapons mounted in pride. It smelled faintly of cedarwood, dust and old papers.

"I must admit," Genrik said as he led us into a lounge lit by tall windows, "I hadn’t expected company this season. The passes will be snowed in soon. You’ve chosen an... interesting time to visit."

"Timing was not ours to decide," I replied carefully. "We kind of hoped you might offer us shelter for a few days."

He waved a hand. "Of course. You’ll have a wing to yourselves. There are rooms still untouched by anyone else. The staff is a bit thin these days, but they’ll manage."

"Thank you," Lucas said. "We won’t overstay."

Genrik studied us a moment longer than was polite. "I wonder," he said at last, "if you would like a tour of my estate?"

I kept my expression indifferent. "We hadn’t planned on it."

"That’s good," he said, pouring himself a drink from a crystal decanter. "Some places are kept unvisited. Especially the lower grounds. In fact, I rarely go down there myself — dust, rats, the usual mess. But it’s said, the ancestors used it as a vault. Rumors of curses, of course. That’s why the servants won’t clean it."

He looked at me as he sipped. "Superstition is powerful in Varos. Stronger than faith, most days."

I smiled politely. "We have no interest in any where other than the room you would provide for us."

He gestured to a servant. "Have rooms prepared for our guests. And bring supper."

The servant bowed and left.

Genrik turned to us again, the smile still there, but colder now. "I assume you won’t need much from me while you’re here."

"Nothing at all," I said. "We just need a place to rest, and we’ll be gone before the frost thickens."

"Okay, I really hope that’s all you want ," he said. "Because I hate politics in my house. Everyone wants something, and no one ever says what it is until it’s a bit too late to negotiate terms."

Lucas gave a short laugh. "We’re just passing through."

"Then rest while you can," Genrik replied.

Later that night, we unpacked in silence. Lucas stood at the window, staring toward the mountain’s shadow where the vault was rumored to lie — somewhere beneath Genrik’s estate, wrapped in myth and sealed magic.

The quarters Lord Genrik assigned us were far too lavish for a simple visit. Silk drapes hung from the high windows, and the bed linens were embroidered with silver thread. A brazier burned softly in the corner, perfuming the air with sandalwood and calming herbs.

Lucas stood near the window, looking out over the moonlit estate. I sat by the hearth, cleaning a nick in my blade. Neither of us spoke.

"I think he suspects us." he said.

"Probably," I whispered. "But he’s definitely going to watch our every move."

Lucas turned toward me. "We don’t have much time."

"No," I agreed, looking out into the dark. "We don’t."

The halls of Genrik’s estate should’ve been warm. The firelight flickered softly against paneled walls, and the hearth in our guest room was well-stoked. But even with the flames, the chill wouldn’t leave.

Not a cold of weather.

A cold of presence.

Lucas was pacing again, his feet silent against the carpets. I sat on the middle of the bed, sharpening my dagger more for comfort than preparation.

"Something’s off here too," he said finally. "The servants. Did you notice their eyes?"

I nodded. "Dull. In fact, it was almost mechanical."

"Like they’re walking through a dream they can’t wake from."

That had been bothering me too. They moved like robots, they were quiet, obedient, and strangely slow. No chatter, no emotion. Not even the normal curiosity when they brought our food.

"I saw one in the courtyard earlier before we entered our room," Lucas continued. "He was just... standing. He looked very terrified..."

I set the dagger down.

"I think whatever happened in Erid Hollow," I said softly, "started here."

The fire gave a low pop. Lucas’s hand went to his blade. We both turned toward the sound.

There was no one in the room.

But the shadows along the far wall were too long.

"Lucas," I said slowly. "Does it look like the fire’s... flickering the wrong way to you?"

The flame bent, but not toward the window. It bent toward the floor. As if pulled.

Then came the scratching sounds again.

It was faint and rhythmic. It wasn’t so loud but it was controlled and steady. It was not from the walls this time, but from inside the room.

Lucas drew his blade. I rose with mine.

The scratching stopped.

We froze.

Then there was a sharp knock at the door.

Lucas moved first. He opened it with a flick of his wrist, blade ready.

Lucas turned as it creaked open, revealing a boy no older than twelve balancing a tray of food—warm bread, sliced meats, and two cups of steaming tea. He bowed deeply.

"Your supper, honored guests," he said.

His voice was strained, overly polite. He wouldn’t meet our eyes.

"Thank you," I said gently.

He moved to set the tray down, but his hands trembled. A cup tipped, spilling tea across the tray. He flinched—visibly—and began muttering under his breath.

Lucas stepped forward. "Are you alright?"

The boy froze. His breath hitched.

Then... he started to twitch.

His head snapped to the side, jaw clenched, as if something inside him was fighting to stay contained. A low growl escaped his throat. Not a sound any child should make. He clutched the side of the table, his knuckles white, eyes rolling back.

"Get back!" Lucas pulled me aside just as the tray crashed to the floor.

His eyes were wide. His skin pale. And his mouth... it didn’t move when he spoke.

"They’re calling," he said.

My spine went cold. "Who’s calling?"

The boy blinked. Once. Twice. Then tilted his head slightly.

"You hear them too, don’t you?" He said then he started hitting his head with his hand.

Lucas stepped in front of me. "What are you talking about?"

The boy swayed slightly, like a puppet held by uncertain strings.

Then his nose started to bleed.

Just a slow, thin line of red trailing down to his lip.

"The ground is changing," he whispered, almost to himself. "The roots don’t remember their names anymore. And the bones beneath the house keep whispering."

He smiled faintly. "Do you think they’ll whisper to you, too?"

Lucas grabbed his shoulder gently. "You need to rest. You’re not well."

But the boy’s gaze had already drifted past us, staring through the walls.

"They’re closer than you think."

I looked toward the fireplace. The flame had returned to normal.

But the chill hadn’t left.

And from beneath the floor... I could still hear it the deep breathing.

The boy collapsed.

His body hit the ground with a sickening thud. His chest heaved once, then went still.

"Is he—?"

I knelt, checking his pulse. "Alive. Unconscious."

Lucas stared down at him, jaw tight. "This isn’t normal."

"No," I said quietly. "It’s exactly like what we saw in Erid Hollow."