Chapter 21: Monster Hunting
The Iron Wing hall still reeked of smoke, blood, and urine.
The torches had been rekindled recently, but the soot on the walls remained, streaking the stones like the charred fingers of a fire that should never have happened there.
The center of the room—once a space for meetings, contract exchanges, and theatrical punishments—was covered in wood splinters, glass shards, and hurried footprints over vomit and a viscous liquid nobody wanted to identify.
There were too many flies for such a short time.
Ser Modell remained seated on his makeshift throne, but his posture was no longer that of a decadent royalty—it was of a broken man trying to emulate power.
His right hand was wrapped in improvised bandages, stained with dried blood, tied with excessive force to feign stability.
The smell of medicine mixed with perfume was suffocating. The black silk ribbon in his hair was loose, falling down the side of his neck.
The gray eyes, once arrogant, now had a wet and unstable gleam, like muddy puddles about to overflow.
He hadn’t spoken for minutes. Just breathed deeply and slowly, trying to maintain composure while his henchmen stood around, restless. Some pretended to rearrange weapons in the corner. Others played cards without speaking.
The atmosphere was thick, oppressive, and no one had the courage to be the first to break it. The problem was that everyone already knew: there was no more respect there. Only the residual fear of what Modell had been.
Finally, he moved. A dry crack echoed as he struck the command staff on the floor—a legacy of another leader dead, who knows by whom.
"Listen," he said, the melodious voice trying to maintain the same theatrical charm as always but failing with every syllable. There was something forced, shaky, even ridiculous.