The Madness of Yilheim

The sun had barely crested the hills when the carriage arrived.

It bore the royal sigil of Grekon—an eagle's eye enclosed within a broken crown—stamped in crimson wax upon black-lacquered doors. The wheels groaned over dry earth as four horses brought it to a halt in the village square of Kintol. Dust clung to the air. Silence swept the village like a drawn blade.

Windows cracked open.

Eyes peered through curtains.

Children were ushered inside.

At the foot of the steps outside his stone home stood Elder Miron, leaning on his cane, his wrinkled face calm but tight with dread. To his right stood Anya, the silver-haired matron. Beside her, Branrik, arms crossed, jaw locked. Then Jareth, stoic and grim. Solma, her brows furrowed. And Thomel, the craftsman—holding a small wooden chest with trembling fingers.

The carriage door creaked open.

A man stepped down—tall, towering at nine feet six, draped in a tailored obsidian coat. His face was lean, angular, his eyes sharp and calculating. He bore no sword, but the two knights flanking him made up for it—both over ten feet tall, encased in silver-blue armour adorned with the crest of Grekon. Their swords were broad as tree trunks. Helmets masked their faces. They did not speak.

The man's voice rang cold and formal. "Elder Miron. By decree of His Majesty, King Aerion of Grekon, I have come to collect the updated tax tribute."

Miron bowed with slow dignity. "We are a humble village… but we have fulfilled the royal demand." He turned slightly. "Thomel."

Thomel stepped forward, pale, hesitant. With both hands, he opened the chest.

Inside—wrapped in simple cloth—lay the Vitalis Crystals. Clear as frozen light, they pulsed faintly with an unnatural rhythm. Like hearts. Like stars.

The collector leaned closer. His breath caught.

"By the gods…" he whispered.

Branrik muttered, "Take it and be gone."

The collector snapped out of it and nodded sharply. "These… will be delivered to the King himself."

Elder Miron's voice sharpened. "Tell your master: this tribute cost us dearly. Let it be enough."

The man closed the chest reverently, his gloved hand trembling as he latched it shut. He gestured to his guards. "We depart at once. His Majesty is waiting."

One of the knights stepped forward. His voice echoed from within the helmet—metallic, deep, and alert.

"Where did these crystals come from?"

Miron and Thomel shared a glance. There was a beat of hesitation. Then Thomel stammered, "A… a traveller came through. He… passed away. Left them behind."

The knight tilted his head.

Then leaned in. "Show me the body."

Thomel paled. His thoughts raced.

Oh no. I'm dead. I didn't want that child taken by them. I just thought… he'd go away if I said the traveller died. Why are they so hell-bent on the source of this crystal? Are they that much more valuable than mana crystals?

"L-lead the way," the knight ordered.

The other knight and the collector mounted the carriage. With the chest secured, they turned their horses and rode toward Weston.

As the black carriage rolled away, Elder Miron exhaled sharply and turned to Anya.

"We need to act—now. Have someone dig up the body of someone recently buried. Quickly."

Anya's eyes widened. "Dig up a body?"

"Anya!" Miron snapped. "Lying to a knight is treason. I don't know what that fool was thinking. We must give them something."

"But digging a grave takes time—"

"Then send for Lerius. Write a message. Get a child to deliver it. Tell Thomel to stall the knight. Take him in circles. Into the forest if need be."

Anya nodded and hurried off, disappearing into her home. She scribbled onto parchment and knelt before her grandson. "Deliver this to Elder Thomel—now. Then come straight back. Go!"

The boy ran.

Out in the village, Lilith peered nervously through her window, whispering, "They sent a knight? Why would they send a knight to collect taxes?"

---

Thomel led the knight down a side path, past curious villagers and confused chickens, down a winding trail toward the forest. The knight's boots crushed roots with every step.

Thomel's thoughts twisted into knots.

What do I do? There's no body to show him… gods help me.

The boy appeared, panting, and handed him the folded parchment. Thomel slipped it into his pocket without pause. The knight didn't question it, but his eyes lingered on the child as he ran off.

Meanwhile, Anya knocked hard at Frederick's door.

It opened. Valerius stood there shirtless, wiping sawdust off his hands.

"We need your help," Anya said breathlessly.

Within minutes, Valerius and Anya reached the graveyard.

"Here," she said, pointing to a weathered tomb. "Dig this one."

Valerius didn't hesitate.

He plunged his arm into the earth, elbow-deep. Then again. And again. Soil flew. Fingers curled around a limp shoulder. He pulled a body halfway out.

"Take it out," Anya ordered.

Valerius shook his head. "No. I have a better idea."

He reached into his pocket—and pulled out a single Vitalis crystal.

Anya gasped. "You had another one?!"

Valerius shrugged. "Of course."

"We were ordered to give up everything!"

"Well," Valerius said, pressing the crystal into the body's robe, " since he asked for a body, that means he wants to find something. Let's gove him that something. Now they have everything."

He reburied the corpse in three sharp movements. "Let's go."

---

The Grave

Thomel arrived with the knight at the village edge, then led him further—into the tall grass.

The knight's patience was thinning. "Do I look like a fool?" he growled, gripping the hilt of his sword. "If I find out you've lied to a knight—"

"N-no! No lies! Just follow me—please!" Thomel replied, voice cracking.

They entered the graveyard. Thomel scanned. One grave was freshly disturbed.

That must be it.

He pointed. "There."

The knight stepped forward. His gauntlet gleamed. He raised his arm and slammed his fist into the earth. Soil exploded.

The corpse flopped into view.

The knight searched the pockets and—found the crystal.

He stared at it.

Paused.

Then looked at Thomel in silence.

Finally, he turned and walked away without a word.

Thomel collapsed onto his knees, wiping cold sweat from his brow.

Thank the stars…

---

Weston, Three Days Later

In the vast, marbled halls of the Emerald Keep, King Aerion sat beneath a canopy of blue silks, his golden circlet slightly tilted on his young brow. The boy was barely twenty, with soft features and restless fingers that toyed with the edge of his seat.

When the chest was presented to him, he didn't even open it.

"My uncle will want to see it," Aerion said quietly.

The man beside him stepped forward. Lord Mathen, the King's uncle, moved like a man who had never heard the word "no." He was robust. His robes were embroidered with red vines, and his fingers sparkled with rings of all cuts and colours. The moment his gloved hand touched the box, the chamber felt colder.

He opened it slowly.

The moment he saw the Vitalis Crystals, he inhaled through his teeth. A whisper of raw energy escaped the cloth, invisible but dense.

"These," he murmured, "I've never seen these before."

King Aerion shifted. "Is that good or bad?"

Lord Mathen smiled. "It's glorious."

He closed the chest with a snap and turned to the court attendant. "Summon the mage-templers. Prepare the refinement chamber. I want these tested—today."

"But, my Lord," the attendant said cautiously, "the proper refining techniques—"

"I said today!"

The doors swung open. Lord Mathen left the hall with the box in hand, his gait too smooth, too eager, like a man tasting madness through glass.

Behind him, the King remained seated.

He stared at the doors for a long time, then looked down at his own hands.

"Why was he so eager to get them?," he whispered.

Several days passed. The Noble, Lord Mathen Vaelgor, continued to consume the refined Vitalis, heedless of the warnings whispered by trembling mages and frightened physicians.

He punished all who once opposed him.

With the might of the Vitalis coursing through him, his body could not properly refine it into mana. But still, he became a one-man army—fire descending from his outstretched hand to raze the lands of Duke Vergil, drowning his wife, daughters, and guards in a wall of flame. He summoned floods to sweep through Duke Regan's territory, shattering manors and farmlands alike. Lords vanished in the night, their keeps left silent, their corpses never found.

None even knew how they died.

But with great power came a terrible price.

---

Inside the golden chamber of House Grekon, Mathen sat slumped upon a black marble throne. His once-proud figure was now shirtless, his skin pale and stretched thin over sharp bones. His breath came in shuddering gasps, lips cracked, eyes sunken.

The last threads of refined Vitalis mist danced in the torchlight—shimmering like translucent smoke. He dragged it in with a desperate inhale, nostrils flaring, shoulders twitching.

A robed mage knelt beside him, voice trembling.

"My Lord… we followed the Mage Templars' process to the letter. The refinement was unstable—but… it worked."

"Worked?" Mathen rose with effort. His voice scraped like steel on stone. "It transcended. I became a god."

Gavurn, his knight and most loyal retainer, stepped forward—stoic, armoured, but weary-eyed.

"The mist will fade, my Lord. Your body cannot keep this up. You are burning yourself from within."

Mathen laughed hoarsely. "I shattered Felwyn's shield with a whisper. I turned High magister Corvell's body to ash. They bowed to me. Even the boy King."

Gavurn's voice remained even. "You've won, my Lord. You don't need more."

"DON'T NEED MORE?" Mathen roared, voice cracking. "They're at our borders—Balm is attacking us! And I—I will erase them."

He staggered to his feet, blood trailing down from reopened wounds. "Have my chambers prepared. The mist must be waiting when I return."

---

The sky over the Grekon-Balm border darkened.

As Balm's forces surged forward, victory in their grasp, a shriek of fire tore through the heavens.

Mathen descended like a falling comet, flames spiralling around him. He hit the field like a meteor, obliterating the front line. Soldiers screamed as infernos consumed them. He dove into the heart of the army like a rabid beast, cackling as he fought—raw mana erupting from every limb. Even the enemy's combat mages stood no chance.

He felt invincible.

He turned toward the royal city of Balm, determined to claim it as his prize—but two elite knights intercepted him.

Their movements were too coordinated.

Their mana too refined.

And Mathen—already fraying at the edges—was defeated. Not killed, but broken, forced to flee through the forest like a hunted animal.

---

Back at House Grekon, the Noble now lay on the floor of his chambers, barely breathing.

Mages tended to his wounds, sweat pouring from their foreheads. The air stank of blood, burnt flesh, and desperation.

His frame had thinned. His back arched like a dying man's. Vitalis withdrawal had begun.

A servant whispered, "My Lord… you cannot continue this. You're dying."

"SHUT UP," Mathen howled. "BRING ME MORE."

A mage stepped back. "There is no more, my Lord… it's gone."

Mathen's face twisted. "Gone? Gone?!"

Gavurn stepped forward, his armour clinking. "You haven't slept in three days. Let us treat you."

"More!" Mathen shrieked, flinging a mage into the stone wall with a gesture. Bones cracked. The man didn't rise.

"I am the Ultimate Mage," Mathen spat. "I bested all of them. How… how could I be defeated?!"

He clenched his fist in the air.

An Elven slave nearby gasped. Her skull began to compress. She screamed, clawing at her face.

"HOW COULD I LOSE?!" Mathen bellowed.

With a sickening pop, her head imploded.

Another elf woman shrieked and ran for the corner, weeping.

Gavurn didn't flinch. "My Lord. This is the madness. Vitalis has corrupted your mind."

"They lied…" Mathen whispered, clutching his head. "The Templars… gave me crumbs."

"Then let us find a new way," Gavurn urged. "We will get you more—slowly. Cleanly. But you must stop now."

Mathen's hands dropped.

He stared at them, twitching.

"Send men to Kintol. Tear it apart. Every stone, every tree. I want all the Vitalis crystals they've hidden. Burn their fields. Strip their homes. If anyone resists…"

He turned, eyes glowing with feverish hate.

"…Kill them."

Gavurn hesitated. "Even the children?"

Mathen narrowed his gaze.

"What.. did I... say?"

A tense silence fell.

One of the healers whispered, "You're tearing your wounds open again—"

Mathen pointed at him. "Then heal me properly!"

Another mage stammered, "We searched the grave. The crystals came from a dead traveller. The Knight saw it himself."

Mathen clawed at his face, leaving bloody streaks. "They're lying. I know it."

He laughed.

Then wept.

Then growled.

"They dare lie to me. Me!"

He staggered forward—then collapsed to his knees.

Gavurn approached carefully. "Please, my Lord. You cannot stand. You must rest."

Mathen turned his head. Through gritted teeth, eyes bulging with red veins, he hissed:

"If I don't see more crystals by tomorrow…"

He pointed at everyone in the room, one by one.

"…you're all dead."

The room emptied, one by one, until only Mathen and the elf remained. The air grew thick with tension, the silence broken only by the crackling of the hearth. She stood motionless, her delicate frame rigid with dread, her silver eyes fixed on the floor.

Mathen's patience had worn thin. With a growl, he seized her arm, his fingers digging into her flesh. She flinched but did not resist—resistance had long since been beaten out of her. His free hand yanked at the ties of his trousers, the sound of fabric rustling like a death knell in her ears.

Her breath hitched as he forced her down, the cold stone biting into her bare skin. She turned her face away, but he caught her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.

"Look at me," he snarled.

She didn't.

A sharp slap snapped her head to the side, the sting blooming across her cheek. Tears welled, spilling silently down her face as his brutality continued. Her body trembled, her fingers clawing weakly at the floor, but no sound escaped her lips—only the quiet, broken whimpers of a soul already shattered.

When it was over, he stood, adjusting his clothes with chilling indifference. She remained curled on the ground, her arms wrapped around herself, as if she could somehow piece together the fragments of her dignity.

---

Back in the King's private solar, silence cloaked the gilded chamber like a funeral veil.

Young King Aerion, not yet twenty-one, stood at the arched window, staring out across the rooftops of Weston. The afternoon light turned the marble towers gold, but his face remained in shadow.

His royal robes—embroidered with the falcon of House Elveris—hung too long on his slim frame. The crown upon his brow, a circlet of white gold, tilted ever so slightly to the side.

He did not correct it.

"My uncle grows bolder," Aerion murmured, his voice soft, as if he feared the stones might overhear.

Behind him stood Lord Rennic, the steward of the inner court. An old man, grey-bearded and calm-eyed. His tone was gentle.

"He has already executed three noble houses, Your Majesty. The families of Vergil, Regan, and Tolmire. All wiped out in less than a week."

Aerion's hand twitched at his side. "And the crystals?"

"Consumed." Rennic's face remained composed. "All of them. He no longer answers summons from the High Council. The reports suggest… madness."

Aerion closed his eyes. "He was never meant to lead. My father forbade it."

"And yet," said Rennic, "he now moves armies without your command. He raids our neighbours. Burns villages. The world sees him as the hand of Grekon."

The King turned from the window. His eyes were young, but they held the first dull glint of dread. "I gave him too much power."

"No, Majesty," Rennic said. "He took it."

There was a pause. Only the quiet rustle of wind against the high glass panes.

Aerion whispered, "Then why does no one obey me?"

Rennic bowed his head slightly. "Because your uncle wears strength like armour… and you wear truth like a chain." Then he stepped forward. "But chains can become swords. If you dare."

Aerion did not reply.

Rennic's voice lowered. "Though he drove back the Balm incursion… he is unraveling. The lords murmur in private. The priests dare not speak his name. He is no longer feared—he is watched. Closely. Something must be done."

The King stared long into the fading sky, jaw tight. " Perhaps I'll hang him myself."

---

In the gilded tower of House Grekon, the Royal Mathen lay sprawled across his bed, drenched in sweat. His sheets were tangled, the silken mattress soaked from his fevered tossing.

Every breath rattled.

His fingers twitched, grasping at air that no longer glowed with Vitalis.

Sleep would not come.

The last of the refined mist had faded. He descended into a purgatory of shivers and hallucinations. His body—once mighty and commanding—had become gaunt, sunken, stretched over bones.

He muttered to himself.

"They lied… they all lied…"

---

At the Castle Barracks — Dusk

Outside the southern gates of the capital, the sound of metal clashing and hooves stomping echoed across the courtyard.

Sir Gavurn, clad in his full silver-blue plate, adjusted his helmet with a deliberate motion. His eyes were hard beneath the visor, his movements precise. Around him, rows of elite soldiers mounted their steeds—Ause, bred for war and bred for speed.

But these were no ordinary warhorses.

The Ause were taller, faster—their eyes glowed faintly with imbued mana, their hooves shod in reinforced mithranium. They snorted and pawed at the ground, trained to move thrice as fast as normal cavalry and to kill without hesitation.

Gavurn stepped onto the lead Ause, his voice cold and steady.

"We ride east. Target: Kintol village. Extraction of remaining Vitalis reserves."

One of the younger knights adjusted his lance and asked, "And if the villagers resist, sir?"

Gavurn did not pause. "You already know the answer."

Another soldier muttered, "It seems the villager did lie. From our intel, the boy who brought the crystals is still there, and not dead in the ground."

Gavurn's voice sharpened. "Then he is to be taken alive. If he resists—break him."

The gates creaked open.

Sixty mounted soldiers and mages thundered into formation behind Gavurn, forming three lethal columns of silver and black. The ground trembled beneath the charge.

At the head of the host, Gavurn whispered behind his helm:

"Forgive me, Kintol."

And they rode.

---

To Be Continued...