She lets the silence stretch — luxuriates in it. When she finally speaks, her tone is honey and silk.
Valthrix: “How fascinating you all are. A necromancer who whispers to the dead, a priestess who argues with the divine, a ranger with a bleeding heart, a soldier without a cause, a dwarf who drowns his guilt in ale, and twins who forgot they were royalty.”
Her eyes flick across them, one by one, with a cruel sort of affection — as though each were a precious instrument in her orchestra of sin.
Garruk breaks first, growling:
Garruk: “Watch your tongue, snake. You don’t know us.”
Valthrix (smiling): “Oh, but I do. Shall I tell you the name of the one you left behind in the Borderlands? The one who still waits for you every night by the ruined gate?”
Garruk’s jaw locks. He looks away.
The others exchange uncertain glances, but no one speaks.
Valthrix: “Ah, perhaps another time.”
Her gaze slides to Borin, who’s halfway through muttering a curse under his breath.
Valthrix: “And you. Still forging weapons to forget the one that broke your clan’s oath?
I wonder if they’d forgive you if they knew what you buried under those mountains.”
Borin’s hand tightens around his tankard until the metal groans. He doesn’t look up.
Valthrix: “No? Pity. Secrets are such heavy things for small shoulders.”
She turns next to Arden, whose holy symbol is already glowing faintly in defense.
Valthrix: “Oh, my radiant cleric. Tell me—how many times have you begged your god for a sign and heard nothing in return?”
Arden’s lips part, then shut. Her hand shakes slightly as she lowers her holy focus.
Valthrix: “Faith without answer is a delicious kind of suffering.”
Her gaze flickers to Kaer, who hasn’t moved a muscle. His expression is unreadable.
Valthrix: “And you, stoic knight... still hearing his voice in your dreams? The one that whispers you failed him?
Tell me, when you look at a blade, do you see your reflection... or his throat?”
Kaer’s jaw flexes once, but he doesn’t answer. The twins’ eyes dart toward him, wide with something like pity.
Then Valthrix turns to Sereth. The smile she gives is almost gentle.
Valthrix: “Ah, little heartstring. So much guilt, so much love — so little courage to speak it aloud.
Do you think he doesn’t know?”
Sereth freezes. Every heartbeat feels deafening in her ears.
Valthrix’s smile widens as she gestures lazily toward Elaris without looking at him.
Valthrix: “You dream of him. You picture a life you’ll never have. Even your bow hums with longing. How… touching.”
Sereth opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. Her face flushes crimson, and she grips Heartstring tightly, as if it could hide her from the world.
The room is silent again.
Valthrix (sweetly): “And so we return to you, Pale Shepherd.”
All eyes turn to Elaris, who has not moved since the moment she began speaking. His hands are folded neatly before him, eyes steady on her — like a scholar observing a specimen in a jar.
Her tone changes. The playfulness fades.
Valthrix: “You... intrigue me. You’ve mastered the art of pretending.
But tell me—how long can you keep your daughter’s voice in your head before it becomes your own?”
A ripple of something dark passes through the room — not just sound but sensation, like every shadow leaned closer.
The others glance between them, confused, unsettled.
Elaris doesn’t flinch. He simply tilts his head slightly, expression unreadable.
Elaris (quietly): “That’s a dangerous question to ask a man who speaks to the dead.”
There’s a pause — a single, sharp heartbeat of silence — and then he adds:
“You of all creatures should know, Valthrix: some contracts… aren’t meant to be rewritten. They’re meant to be broken.”
Valthrix stares at him. For a moment, there’s no smile. No laughter. Just the faint, unsettling curve of admiration.
Valthrix: “Oh... I do like you.”
The candles flicker, and for an instant, the tavern seems to breathe — every flame bending toward Elaris as if drawn to the cold gravity of his will.
Then, Valthrix claps her hands lightly.
Valthrix: “Well then, my little Pale Company. Shall we make this official?”
The table bursts into golden light again. A new parchment unfurls between them — blank, waiting.
“Your move.”
The tension in the tavern now is absolute — even the fire seems afraid to crackle. The air hums with an unholy pressure, that thick, suffocating stillness before lightning strikes.
Valthrix’s crimson eyes glitter as she leans forward just enough that the table’s candlelight dances across her features. Her lips curl in that serpent’s smile — the one that makes every word sound like it’s being wrapped in silk before the blade beneath cuts.
Valthrix (softly): “Violence? No, no, dear necromancer. You know better than that. I wouldn’t dirty your lovely floors with blood. We are creatures of words and will, not claws and fire.”
Her gaze drifts lazily over the twins.
“Though, if you wanted a little show, I’m sure the children remember how to scream.”
Vex’s jaw tightens. Laz’s hand curls around hers beneath the table — unseen by all except Elaris, who notices the faint tremor.
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
Elaris’s tone stays level.
Elaris: “Enough. You’ve made your point. What is it you want?”
She feigns thought, tapping her painted nail against the table once. Twice. Then smiles.
Valthrix: “Simple. A choice.”
Her voice slides through the room like smoke.
“You always think you have one. It’s what mortals live for, isn’t it? The illusion of choice.”
Elaris: “Speak plainly.”
Valthrix: “Gladly. They either return to the Hells and resume their duties—”
Her grin widens, sharp and hungry.
“—or I take what’s mine. Their luck, their charm, their free will… and leave them as empty as the husks they were meant to create.”
A faint hiss escapes from Garruk’s throat.
Garruk: “You’ll have to go through all of us.”
Valthrix (without looking at him): “Yes, yes, I imagine that’s what you’ll say. You, who couldn’t save the one at the gate.”
His growl dies mid-throat. The room stills again.
Elaris (quietly): “You mentioned choice.”
Valthrix: “Indeed.”
Her eyes gleam. “They may choose to fight fate. Enter a wager of my making. Win — and their souls are unbound. Lose — and you all join them in service. The Hells can always use another shepherd, after all.”
Sereth steps forward, fists balled, voice trembling between fury and fear.
Sereth: “You’re vile.”
Valthrix turns her head slightly — almost tenderly.
Valthrix: “And you’re in love.”
(A beat.) “Let’s see which of us suffers more for it.”
Sereth’s breath catches. Elaris’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t move.
Valthrix straightens, the shadows bending with her, smile softening into a mockery of politeness.
Valthrix: “So, little Pale Company. You’ve heard my terms. Speak wisely now.
The next word you utter may be the one that decides whether they walk free… or kneel forever.”
The room has become a cathedral of silence. The light from the hearth trembles as though the flames themselves want to back away.
Each of them sits locked in place, every heartbeat loud enough to echo off the wood.
Valthrix leans back in her chair, fingers tracing lazy circles in the air, studying the effect of her presence the way a cat studies a caught bird.
Valthrix: “How the quiet grows when truth enters the room,” she murmurs, her tone almost affectionate.
“So delicate, this mortal need to keep your secrets wrapped tight. Fear not, I can taste them without unwrapping.”
Her gaze slides over Garruk again—he looks like he’s about to growl but forces his mouth shut, muscles trembling.
“Still clinging to the hope she forgave you,” Valthrix whispers. “Adorable.”
Borin takes a breath to speak; she tilts her head, smiling.
“Careful, little tank. You speak, and I might start reciting names.”
He shuts his mouth hard enough to click.
Arden’s holy symbol glows faintly again, her lips moving in silent prayer.
Valthrix: “No, no, my shining one. Your god’s ears are turned away tonight. You wouldn’t want to embarrass yourself by asking again, would you?”
Arden’s fingers still. Her eyes close, forcing herself to breathe.
The twins sit like statues, hands clasped together under the table. A tiny spark of infernal light jumps between their palms.
Valthrix: “My little royalty,” she coos, eyes glinting. “Don’t look at me like that. I only gave you what you begged for—chance, freedom, fun. A pity you used it so poorly.”
Her focus finally returns to Elaris, and the weight of her stare is a physical thing. He can feel it pressing at his chest, tugging against his composure, searching for cracks in the calm fa?ade he’s built.
Valthrix: “And you… so careful.
The others scream and squirm, but you sit so still. Tell me, necromancer, does it exhaust you? Carrying the dead, their whispers, their grief—pretending it’s not your own?”
Elaris doesn’t answer immediately. He’s watching her just as closely, measuring cadence and word choice, the exact pattern of her spellcraft, the rhythm of her manipulation. Every syllable she utters leaves a faint trace of infernal resonance in the air, like a signature.
He finally says, quiet and deliberate:
Elaris: “If the quiet bothers you, Valthrix, we can always return to the subject of contracts. I assume you brought one?”
For a heartbeat her smile flickers—too brief to read as weakness, but enough for him to note.
Valthrix: “Of course I did. The Hells are nothing if not punctual.”
The parchment on the table shivers, a golden quill materialising beside it. The ink is black and shimmering, like oil on water.
Elaris: “Then let’s stop talking in circles. You want a wager. State the terms.”
Valthrix’s smile reforms, slow and deliberate.
Valthrix: “Clever. Careful. I do like those traits in a mortal. Very well.”
She taps the parchment with one long nail.
“Three challenges. No blades, no spells of harm.
Win two of three, and I dissolve their bond myself. Lose, and the contract—and their souls—belong to me.”
She pauses, eyes narrowing.
“You will, of course, stand as their advocate. The shepherd guiding his little flock.”
The faintest ripple of cold crawls down Elaris’s spine. She’s baiting him again, testing how much control he’ll give up just by accepting.
He looks around the table.
Each face reflects the same unease: restrained fear, anger, disbelief.
The air is so dense with tension it feels almost liquid.
Then his eyes lift back to her.
Valthrix smiles — not a human smile, but something practiced in the mirror of a thousand lies, wide enough that the light seems to bend around it.
Valthrix: “So?” she purrs, voice soft as ash. “Do you agree?”
Elaris straightens, the chair creaking slightly beneath his weight.
Elaris: “I want to consult my friends.”
The smile widens, exposing too-perfect teeth.
Valthrix: “Friends, are they? Nothing more, nothing less?”
She lets the question hang just long enough to sting, then glances at Sereth — a single, deliberate look sharp enough to melt titanium.
Valthrix: “Are you sure?”
Sereth flinches before she can stop herself. Garruk’s hand twitches toward his sword hilt, but one look from Elaris halts him.
Valthrix: “Very well,” she says finally, her tone turning whimsical, almost bored. She waves a hand as if brushing away dust.
“Ask your friends.”
For a heartbeat, relief flickers through the group — until they realize she means it literally.
The fire snaps in the hearth, and every single head in the room twitches at the sound — the only sound.
No breath, no rustle of fabric, no scrape of chair. Just the flames and that slow, wicked hum of Valthrix’s pleasure as she rests her chin upon her hand and watches him.
The silence isn’t simply quiet; it’s absolute.
Magic, infernal and ancient, clamps over their throats like invisible hands.
Garruk’s jaw muscles strain as he tries to speak — nothing.
Arden’s lips move in prayer — nothing.
The twins’ hands grip each other’s tighter, the light between their palms fluttering like a dying spark.
Sereth’s eyes are the loudest thing in the room — wide, panicked, pleading at Elaris with words she cannot voice.
Valthrix savors it.
Valthrix: “See? Isn’t it peaceful, Pale Shepherd? No chatter. No objections. Just that lovely sound of your own mind turning in circles.”
Her tongue slides against her teeth when she smiles. It’s not flirtation; it’s consumption.
Valthrix: “You wanted to consult them. You never said they needed to answer. Words are funny little things, aren’t they?
So fragile. So binding.”
She sits forward, resting her elbows upon the table, her eyes glowing faintly — an inner furnace behind that practiced calm.
Valthrix: “Now, come then. Decide. Or shall I start deciding for you?”
A soft crackle of brimstone dances across her shoulders. “I am ever so curious to see how long it takes before one of your ‘friends’ starts praying to be heard again.”
Elaris stares at her a long moment — not flinching, not blinking.
The candlelight warps against his face; the faint necrotic shimmer beneath his skin responds to her power, faint but there.
His mark — the one left by the Fey — glows faintly, silver bleeding into green as he clenches a hand.
He realizes the trap for what it is. Every word he utters will be binding if he’s not careful.
But silence, here, is just another chain.
He exhales slowly and says, low, deliberate:
Elaris: “Then I’ll play your game. But on my terms.”
Valthrix’s grin widens — a predator scenting blood.
Valthrix: “Oh, how delicious. You think you have terms to offer.”
Elaris: “I do. If I win, you dissolve the twins’ bond — in full, no loopholes, no echoes of obligation. And you leave this realm.”
Valthrix: “And if you lose?”
He doesn’t look away.
Elaris: “Then you take what you came for. But only from me.”
Her laughter is a sound like glass breaking underwater — beautiful and awful.
Valthrix: “Ahh… the shepherd offers himself for his flock. You mortals and your heroics.”
She licks her lips, the gesture obscene in its elegance.
“Very well. Three trials. Three truths. No harm, no lies, no retreat.”
The parchment flares. Three crimson runes burn into it, glowing faintly.
Valthrix: “Sign it,” she says, extending the quill toward him, “and the games begin.”
The air around the quill hums like a wasp nest — pure infernal pact-magic.
Sereth’s eyes widen, desperate. She tries to speak — to plead — but the invisible vice around her throat tightens.
Her fingers dig into the edge of the table as she shakes her head, silently mouthing the word no again and again.
Whatever is holding them doesn’t care.
Her scream never reaches him.
Elaris doesn’t see — or pretends not to.
He looks only at the quill, at the smiling devil across the table, and the promise already taking shape in his mind.