The Sinful Young Master

The Countess raised an eyebrow, her smile turning playful. "Flatterer," she said, though her eyes sparkled with amusement. "But I know your reputation, Inadrys. You're not one to stay in one place for long. How long do I have before you vanish into the night, leaving me with nothing but memories?"

Inadrys turned his head to look at her, his expression softening. "You underestimate yourself, my dear," he said. "You're not just another conquest. There's something about you… something that makes me want to linger."

The Countess laughed, a melodic sound that seemed to dance in the air. "Oh, I'm sure you say that to all your lovers," she said, though her tone was light, not accusatory. "But I'll take the compliment, nonetheless."

Inadrys grinned, his hand reaching up to brush a strand of hair from her face. "You're different," he said, his voice sincere. "You're not like the others. You have a fire in you, a strength that's rare. It's… intoxicating."

The Countess's smile faltered for a moment, her gaze drifting to the window, where the lights of the city twinkled like distant stars. "Strength," she repeated softly.

"Sometimes, I wonder if it's enough. This city… it's a fragile thing. One misstep, and it could all come crashing down. And my husband…" She trailed off, her expression darkening.

Inadrys's eyes narrowed, and he propped himself up on one elbow, his gaze intent. "Your husband," he said, his voice low.

"Where is he now? Off on another one of his 'business trips'?"

The Countess sighed, her fingers stilling on his chest. "Yes," she said. "He's been gone for weeks. He says it's for the good of the county, but I know the truth. He's avoiding me. Avoiding this." She gestured vaguely to the room, to the bed, and to the two of them.

Inadrys's lips curled into a smirk. "His loss," he said. "But perhaps it's for the best. If he were here, we wouldn't be able to enjoy… this." He leaned in, capturing her lips in a slow, lingering kiss.

When they finally broke apart, the Countess's cheeks were flushed, but her eyes were still troubled. "Inadrys," she said, her voice hesitant. "What happens when he returns? What happens when he finds out about us?"

Inadrys's expression hardened, and for a moment, the air in the room seemed to grow colder. "Let him try," he said, his voice like steel. "I've faced worse than a petty count. If he dares to lay a hand on you, he'll regret it."

The Countess stared at him, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and admiration. "You're not afraid of him," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Inadrys chuckled, though there was no humour in it. "Afraid? Of a mortal?"

He shook his head. "No, my dear. I'm not afraid of him. But you should be careful. Men like him… they don't take kindly to being cuckolded."

The Countess nodded, her expression thoughtful. "I know," she said. "But sometimes… sometimes I wonder if it's worth it. The risk, the secrecy… all of it."

Inadrys reached out, cupping her face in his hand. "It's worth it," he said, his voice firm. "You're worth it. And if you ever need me, I'll be here. No matter what."

The Countess smiled, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "You say that now," she said. "But we both know you'll be gone soon. Back to your world, your battles, your… other lovers."

Inadrys didn't deny it. Instead, he leaned in, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

"Perhaps," he said. "But for now, I'm here. And for now, that's enough."

As the two of them lay there, the city of Godeylet continued to pulse with life below them, unaware of the drama unfolding in the castle above.

And somewhere in the shadows of the city, a young man named Myron moved through the streets, his cloak pulled tight around him, his eyes scanning the crowd. He had come here searching for answers for his father. And though he didn't know it yet, his path was about to intersect with the gods themselves.

But for now, in the castle, Inadrys and the Countess remained lost in their own world, their fates intertwined in ways neither of them could fully understand. And as the candles burned low and the night deepened, they clung to each other, knowing that their time together was fleeting—but no less precious for it.

—— ∗ ——

The Graveyard of Old stretched out in eerie silence, a vast expanse of land littered with the remnants of forgotten giants. Enormous statues, shattered and half-buried in the earth, loomed over the meadow like sleeping gods, their faces worn away by centuries of wind and rain. Some lay on their sides, their colossal forms mistaken for mountains from a distance, while others stood in pieces—torso separated from legs, arms outstretched toward the heavens in silent agony. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and the whispers of history long past.

Among these ancient ruins, two groups had gathered.

On one side stood the humans—armed, armoured, and watchful, their hands resting on hilts, eyes never leaving the opposing force.

On the other side were the Chittera barbarians—tall, broad-shouldered warriors clad in furs and bone ornaments, their painted faces unreadable, their weapons primitive yet deadly. Their presence alone carried the weight of bloodshed, their very existence a testament to the savagery of the South.

Between these two factions, standing with his hands calmly folded before him, was Yilar.

Clad in dark robes, his violet eyes glinted with calculation. He was a man who thrived in the spaces between shadows, a man who understood the language of power. His existence here raised a lot of questions among the humans; after all, you wouldn't see a Nynthrall roaming the human lands this freely.

And before him stood Count Hamen of Godeylet.

Hamen was a striking man in his thirties. His features were sharp and noble, and his body exuded the strength of a warrior who had earned his place through battle.