The Sinful Young Master

Jolthar sighed deeply, feeling the corruption pulse beneath his skin in response to his frustration. Until now, he hadn't truly concerned himself with the chaos spreading through his system. But seeing its accelerated effects after felling Lodawg had made the threat impossible to ignore.

"I will try."

Johamma nodded, seemingly satisfied. "Then I will take my leave. If you won't come to Kaezhlar lands, then may I come to the Barony to see you from time to time?"

Jolthar considered the request—another small step in their complicated reconciliation.

After a minute of thought, he nodded his consent.

In a gesture that surprised him, Johamma reached out and gently caressed his face, her fingers cool against his fevered skin.

"I really am sorry for all the pain I caused," she whispered. "For everything."

Before he could respond, she turned and departed, leaving Jolthar alone with his thoughts and the corruption that pulsed through his veins.

-

Far from barony, the heart of Avyaburgh pulsed with decadence and intrigue—a city where power and coin flowed like twin rivers through its streets. A city famous for all kinds of trade and commerce.

Especially renowned as a land of opportunities.

People come here to make a fortune and try their luck at becoming rich by adventuring.

The adventure guilds are all over the city, plenty of them to fill.

And they call this the City That Never Sleeps—not merely for its beauty or the clamour of trade but for the ever-burning flame of danger and desire that courses through its veins.

Yet nowhere was this opulence more evident than in the crimson-roofed mansion nestled in the city's noble quarter. Its marble façade gleamed in the afternoon sun.

Within the mansion's most private chambers, Myron reclined upon silk cushions of deepest azure. His torso—bare and sculpted with the perfection that came from divine heritage—rested in the lap of Elara, whose delicate fingers traced idle patterns through his hair.

"You're brooding again," Elara murmured, her voice carrying the subtle musical lilt of her homeland. "Still thinking of him, aren't you? Of Jolthar?"

After he left the county, he called Elara to the city of Avyaburgh, and with her help, he bought the mansion in this city, and then he brought his mother to the mansion.

After his talk with his father, Myron realized his mistake, and he didn't want to leave his mother alone anymore, so he brought her here. Though she insisted that she wanted to stay in that village only, he didn't listen to her and brought her here.

Myron's golden eyes—a mark of his father's bloodline—narrowed at the mention of the name.

A sharp intake of memories flashed in his mind, the ones which he wanted to forget.

Jolthar!

He stood like a giant before Myron, who could crush him like he was some insect, and he wouldn't even bother to look at.

"He wields too many powers," Myron replied, voice tight with subdued jealousy. "The telekinesis alone should be the limit of any mortal's capability, yet he commands the Beast King's energy as well. And there was some mysterious power within him..."

He trailed off, remembering the silver energy that had erupted from Jolthar's palms during their confrontation in Godeylet County.

And he couldn't forget just how he killed that thing and how he continuously kept on fighting. He was astonished at the ability of Jolthar's resilience to go on that long.

In that moment, he had felt true fear—something a deivruta should never experience when facing a mere mortal.

Elara's eyes flashed with an emotion Myron could not quite place—something between fascination and hunger. Her fingers stilled in his hair as she gazed toward the chambers' arched windows, where the twin moons had begun their nightly ascent.

"It's the sword he wields," she said, her voice taking on a dreamlike quality. "It was the sword of our ancestor, a powerful man during his prime. He was able to tame the sword of such a man.

And he never stopped growing—nor did he stop surprising us, again and again."

From the corner of the room, where he reclined upon a high-backed chair of blackwood and gold, Orimus cleared his throat. He was sitting there, drinking his wine, immersed in his own thoughts.

The sound brought both Myron and Elara back to awareness of his presence—something they had, perhaps intentionally, allowed to slip from their consciousness.

"You speak of him with too much admiration," Orimus observed. "He is chaos-claimed now, regardless of whatever other powers he possesses. A walking corruption. A blight upon order itself."

"Don't you know what happened to the man who wielded that sword before?"

Elara's laugh was like crystal shards—beautiful and dangerous.

"Order?" she repeated, mockery evident in her tone. "Always your concern, isn't it, Orimus? The natural order of things. The proper place of power. The sanctity of divine hierarchies."

Orimus stiffened, his jaw tightening. His pursuit of Elara had been relentless these past months, despite—or perhaps because of—her obvious fascination with Jolthar Kaezhlar. That she entertained Myron's presence while spurning his own advances only deepened his resentment.

"The natural order exists for a reason," he replied stiffly. "The deities above, their offspring among us, and mortals below. Jolthar defies that order. He must be contained—or destroyed."

"He isn't a Deivruta—which casts serious doubt on the source of his powers. He must have forged a contract with some dark deity to wield such strength."

Myron sat upright, moving from Elara's lap to face Orimus directly.

The deivruta's movement carried the liquid grace inherent to his bloodline, his bare chest now illuminated by the moons' light streaming through the window. The silver-white radiance revealed intricate markings across his skin—birthmarks in the pattern of his father's constellation.

"I don't care what he did. It's his power, and he is the one who wields it, and I just have to kill him."

"Destroying Jolthar would require power beyond what any of us command," Myron said, frustration evident in every syllable. "I've trained since childhood in the martial arts. I have seen all kinds of fights there are to it. Yet what I saw in the Godeylet, his power..."

His voice faltered as he recalled the humiliation of that encounter. How Jolthar had barely acknowledged him before turning away, as if Myron—son of Deity King Inadrys—were beneath his notice.

Elara rose from her cushioned dais, her silk robes flowing around her like water. She moved to a crystal decanter positioned upon a table of polished obsidian, pouring amber liquid into three goblets of beaten gold.

"You left that encounter alive," she reminded Myron as she handed him a goblet. "Unlike many who've faced him."

Her eyes now glowing with hidden curiosity, not about Myron or Orimus but about Jolhar. Her fascination had only increased as time passed, and it was fuelled by what she learned of him.

Her fingers lingered against his as she passed the drink, her touch sending a familiar warmth through his divine blood. This had been their pattern for months now—her attention divided between fascination with Jolthar and physical entanglement with Myron. It was a complicated arrangement that served both their needs while satisfying neither completely.

Lately, Orimus had joined this arrangement.

"I would have died if I faced him in the county," Myron admitted, the confession bitter on his tongue. "And that Count Hamen, if he hadn't been in the way, maybe I would have killed him."

Orimus accepted his goblet from Elara without comment, though his eyes followed her every movement as she returned to her seat. The complicated relationship between the three of them had evolved over months.

All of them shared the same purpose – Jolthar – but the two men wanted to kill him while the woman wanted to make Jolthar her possession.

The conversation halted abruptly as a sudden pressure descended upon the chamber—a weight of power so immense that even the air itself seemed compressed.

Myron felt it first, his divine blood responding to the approaching presence with instinctive recognition. He rose swiftly to his feet, golden eyes widening.

"Something comes," he warned, reaching for the ceremonial blade he kept nearby.

But it was already too late for preparations.

The room's heavy double doors swung open without a sound, as if the very wood itself dared not protest the entrance of what approached.

A woman stood in the doorway—tall and imposing, with the same golden eyes as Myron but bearing power that made his seem like a candle beside the sun. Her hair cascaded down her back in waves of midnight black interspersed with strands of pure white that seemed to glow with their own light.

She was wearing a robe, called a peplos, which clung to her like water gliding over marble—light, flowing, and impossibly smooth. It shimmered with subtle hues of rose-gold and soft pearl, shifting under the light like the ocean under a setting sun.

The fabric seemed almost translucent in motion, revealing just enough to stir longing, yet always maintaining a divine modesty, as if nature itself obeyed her command. Golden threads were embroidered along the hem in delicate patterns—shells, doves, myrtle leaves, and waves—each symbol representing a part of her dominion.

Around her waist, she wore a girdle—an enchanted sash rumoured to contain irresistible magic, causing all who gazed upon her to fall under her spell. It was fastened with a clasp shaped like a blooming rose, the petals encrusted with the tiniest rubies.

Over her shoulders hung a flowing veil of sheer fabric, as pale as mist and held in place by pins shaped like swans. Her arms and ankles were adorned with golden bangles and anklets that chimed softly like a lullaby with every step. Her long earrings dangled at every movement she made.

Her sandals, made of soft leather and laced with fine threads of gold, bore no dust, no wear—they were untouched by the soil, as if the ground itself bowed beneath her stride.

Myron frowned, as he could sense the familiarity of aura from her, like that at the tavern where he had met his father.

Elara and Orimus remained frozen, sensing the newcomer's power but unable to fully comprehend its magnitude.

The woman strode into the chamber with the confidence of one who had never known an equal. Every step she took left momentary impressions in the fabric of reality—small distortions that healed themselves in her wake. Her attention was focused entirely on Myron, and she barely acknowledged the mortals present.

"Hello, little brother," she said, her voice carrying harmonics that made the crystal decanter vibrate in sympathy.

"Playing with mortals again, I see."