NOVEL WEB Chapter 53: Beasts Don't Bow
Territory of Darlayne, Province of Vyrathia
The rain had not stopped in three days. It slid in silver beads down the tall arched windows of Castle Darlayne, washing the world in hues of gray and fatigue.
The air smelled of wet stone, old paper, and something more subtle—like a fire dying somewhere deep in the hearth of something ancient. Outside, the sea winds howled through the cliffs like spirits unsettled, but inside the study, the storm was of a different breed.
Lord Aerion Virell stood behind a curved desk carved from bonewood, a wine glass dangling between two fingers. He wore his silk robes open at the chest, lounging as if the world couldn't touch him.
His black hair was neatly combed back, though strands clung to his temples in the dampness, and his violet eyes had the dispassion of a man bored by the affairs of others.
"You're telling me," he said, swirling the wine with deliberate languor, "that I should... what? Sell them? Because of a bedtime story?"
His brother, Cedric Virell, stood in the center of the study with his hands clenched behind his back, as though forcibly restraining himself. The rain had soaked his travel cloak, and droplets dripped from his gray-streaked hair to stain the rug beneath his boots.
"It's not a story," Cedric said, his voice tight, aged by worry and wear. "They're calling her the Striped Reaper in the outskirts. A tiger-kin, unshackled and maddened. She's killed five lords already, Aerion—burned two keeps to the ground."
Aerion sighed as if he were being lectured by a particularly dull schoolmaster. "Beast-kin are always mad. That's their nature. It's why we collar them. Tame the fury and all that."
"And the pleasure dolls?" Cedric snapped. "Is that taming, Aerion?"
There was a pause.
Aerion tilted his head slowly, his gaze narrowing. "Ah. So that's what this is about. Morals, is it? Guilt rotting you from the inside after all these years?" He set the glass down with a soft clink. "You were there when Father gave me this land. You saw what it was built on. The chains came with the walls."
"They're not property," Cedric said. "They're people."
"Pets," Aerion corrected. "Servants with teeth." He walked to the tall windows and looked out across the courtyard, where pale torchlight glimmered against the rain-slick stones. "I don't beat them, if that's what you're implying. I feed them well, dress them finer than most of your baronial wives. Some of them like it."
He turned back with a sharp grin. "Hell, Mira licks my boots every morning before I even ask. You should see her tail wag."
Cedric's lips curled. "You're a monster."
"No, dear brother. I'm practical. And this—this tiger of yours—is not my problem. The Knights of the Gale are already sniffing around the eastern forests, aren't they? Let the crown's dogs chase him. That's what we pay taxes for."
"There are whispers she's not alone," Cedric said. His voice was quieter now, almost pleading. "Some say she sie being supported by the Prosperous Hand of cult Luminous. That she's building something. That she has names. And that Darlayne's on her list."
Aerion let out a theatrical yawn. "Then let her come. We'll collar her like the rest. I'm curious how much she'd be able to take before I break her."
Cedric's jaw twitched, but he said nothing. There was an old wound there—something tangled in blood and shared boyhood that neither of them spoke of anymore. It sat between them like a third sibling.
From below, a scream tore through the courtyard.
Aerion blinked. "That's odd," he said softly.
The scream was followed by shouts, the clash of steel, and the deep, wet thud of something hitting flesh.
Aerion moved first, snatching his sword from the rack by the hearth. "Stay here," he said. "Or don't. I don't care."
But Cedric followed him. He had no weapon, only an old soldier's instincts and a heart that had been screaming warnings for weeks.
They descended the stairs just as the main hall erupted into chaos.
A guard crashed against the banister in front of them, his throat opened from jaw to ear. He gurgled something, finger reaching out toward Aerion before he fell limp.
Aerion didn't flinch.
He stepped over the body with a calm that bordered on indifference, blade held low and eyes sharp now—not with fear, but focus. He wasn't a stranger to blood. Not in Darlayne. Not in the Virell line.
Cedric, on the other hand, knelt beside the man, pressing a hand against the torn flesh on instinct. But there was nothing to be done. The blood spilled fast, in pulses. The man's eyes had already gone glassy.
"Alric," Cedric whispered. "That was Alric."
"I know," Aerion replied, descending the rest of the stairs. "He made a good stew. Shame."
Before Cedric could rise, the thunder of bootsteps echoed from the west corridor. A trio of knights burst into the hall, their polished half-plate armor gleaming beneath the torchlight despite the rain that slicked their helms and pauldrons.
They moved with precision. Dark cobalt-blue cloaks, heavy with water, clung to their backs and bore the sigil of House Virell: a silver flame coiled around a thorned scepter.
Their breastplates bore fresh dents and blood smears, some of it clearly not their own. One had a split in his helm and a gash across his cheek, but his sword was steady, gripped in gauntlets etched with the runes of protection. Another dragged a limping comrade behind him, crimson trailing across the stone.
"My lord!" the front knight shouted, voice tight with urgency. "You need to leave. There's been a breach in the southern courtyard—the beast's in the castle. We don't know how many she brought with her—"
A voice rang out.
"Run?"
It came from beyond the main doors, where shadows mingled with smoke and flickering light. Feminine, yes—but It was lined with a growl, as though a snarl lay coiled behind every syllable.
"I thought human nobles prided themselves on their valor," the voice purred, mocking. "Why run now?"
All heads turned as the great oak doors creaked, one hanging half off its hinges. Through the stormlight strode a figure, water cascading from her frame in rivulets. She was tall—over six feet, and corded with lean muscle. Her skin was marked with natural stripes: orange and black slashing across her arms, shoulders, and midriff, though her face was painted with the blood of the men she'd brutally ended.
She wore no armor, just tight obsidian leathers that clung to her frame like a second skin, reinforced with bone plating along the shins and forearms. Her tail coiled behind her like a living whip, the tip twitching in slow arcs.
The knights froze.
"The Striped Reaper," one of them whispered, his grip on his sword faltering.
She smiled, revealing a row of sharpened canines. "Good," she said. "You've heard of me. That'll save me time."
And then she was in motion—nothing but a blur of muscle, claws, and killing intent.