Chapter 442: The Take Over (1)
The world fell quiet as Lyan stood over the trembling, broken form of Lord Alstan Ferindale. The once-proud noble now lay sprawled against the cool marble of his shattered hall, coughing up blood and whimpering for mercy. His silk robes were torn and stained with soot, the fine embroidery reduced to ragged threads. Rings that once glittered on his pudgy fingers were gone, lost in the scuffle and scattered like worthless pebbles across the flaming ruins. The faint crackle of distant fires lent a feverish glow to the scene, painting the stones in wavering shades of orange and black.
Lyan gazed down at him, eyes gleaming in the firelight like shards of obsidian. He didn’t speak at first, letting the tension coil around them. The tip of his glaive hovered mere inches from Alstan’s throat, the polished steel reflecting the flicker of flames. A single thrust could have ended everything. Alstan, his breath ragged, tried to squirm backward, but his weakened arms found no grip on the slippery floor.
"Please... mercy..." he croaked, voice reduced to a pitiful rasp. "I—I can pay... anything. Anything." His once-haughty tone now quivered with desperation, his lips trembling as he waited for Lyan’s verdict.
In the shaky glow of the ruined hall, each breath Alstan took was a harsh, labored sound. His cheeks glistened with tears he tried to hide. The trembling in his limbs betrayed the deep terror coursing through him—a terror fed by the knowledge that, for once, his gold could not protect him.
Lyan inhaled through his nose, that single breath carrying a silent judgment. In one swift motion, he flipped the glaive in his hand and brought the blunt side of the blade crashing into Alstan’s temple. The heavy thud echoed, and Alstan’s eyes rolled back before his body collapsed like a sack of flour. The hall fell even quieter, if that were possible, as though the stones themselves were stunned by this display of finality.
"He won’t die yet," Lyan muttered, letting the glaive rest against his shoulder. He cast a glance at the unconscious lord, noting the flicker of shallow breaths still in his chest. "His humiliation will speak louder than his blood."
A ripple moved at the edge of the chamber, where shapes of living darkness gathered. The flickering firelight revealed them—Shadow Servants, stitched from gloom, each with a fluid, eerie grace. They responded to Lyan’s will with silent obedience, drifting forward to bind the fallen noble in inky coils. Their forms seemed intangible until they moved, pinning Alstan’s arms and legs as though molding the very night around him.
Ravia arrived soon after, her cloak singed at the hem but her posture steady. Blood clung to her blade, and the acrid scent of smoke trailed her like a ghost. Behind her, Josephine snapped shut a ledger, the echo of the clap sharp in the stillness.
"The city is ours," Ravia reported, wiping her sword’s edge with a torn strip of cloth. Her eyes flicked to Alstan’s inert form, then back to Lyan. "Signal towers are rubble, so no calls for reinforcements can leave. Resistance... done. Some pockets tried to fight, but they couldn’t stand against us."
Josephine’s gaze roamed over the hall’s wreckage, settling at last on Lyan. "Civilian zones are intact. Minimal conflict. Our side lost about a dozen people in the breach. They weren’t ready for our style of coordinated attacks."
Lyan absorbed the information with a single nod. He turned his head to glance through a half-destroyed archway toward the south plaza, where plumes of smoke curled into the starless sky. The stench of burning oil and fear merged into one pungent aroma. A dull roar from a distant collapsing structure rumbled like thunder in his ears.