Torchlight flickered in the gloomy dungeon.
Curses and screams echoed through the cells from time to time as bugbear guards paced back and forth.
Alger leaned silently against the stone wall. Gaunt and emaciated, his haggard face bore an unnatural pallor, clear proof that he had not seen the sun in a very long time.
Several tally marks were carved into the wall.
He had used them to track the passage of time.
Yet as dozens of days slipped by in this dark dungeon, he could no longer tell what day it was.
After that interrogation, he had been thrown into the dungeon and forgotten.
There was none of the brutal torture he had imagined, nor any deliberate mistreatment. He simply ate a bowl of paste made from unknown ingredients each day and spent the hours waiting in the dark dungeon.
Aside from thinking and sleeping, there was little else for him to do.
The bugbear guards at the entrance were impossible to bribe. Simple-minded and muscle-bound, they did nothing but shoot the breeze with their comrades, devoid of any personal ambitions.
Yet from the bugbears' idle chatter, he learned that Cinder Nest was expanding, and that terrifying red dragon was growing more powerful by the day.
Alger had once considered starving himself to death, facing his end with composure.
Yet whenever he recalled the words the red dragon had spoken to him, he felt a shroud of fog hanging over his memories. He simply knew too little.
What chilled him to the bone was that the red dragon seemed to be right.
The Duke had never once set foot outside the castle. He had never bathed in the sun's light. From the moment Alger first entered his service, the lord appeared to dwell perpetually in shadow.
When Alger executed tieflings, they never displayed the powers of devils; they seemed more like ordinary, innocent mortals. Watching them die had never brought him the satisfaction of vengeance, only an aching pang of conscience.
A stench of blood often drifted from the castle's rear courtyard.
Alger, as a sworn death-soldier of the house, had never paid much attention to such things. But when all these details were pieced together, the sheer number of coincidences became undeniable.
He needed the truth before he died.
Alger often told himself not to dwell on it, reminding himself again and again of his old drill instructor's maxim: "Ask no questions of right or wrong; simply obey."
Yet in this bare, empty cell, his mind inevitably wandered. What else was there to do?
"I need the truth," Alger muttered to himself.
He hadn't realized that a profound transformation had taken place within him. The loyal hound of the ducal house was no more.
"Igor, how long do you think we'll be stuck here?"
Alger stroked his companion's feathers.
The giant eagle merely looked at him and gently rustled its wings, signaling that it too longed to leave.
"Maybe we'll get out soon."
"Or maybe..."
Alger gave a bitter chuckle.
"That dragon will sleep for decades, forget all about me, and leave our bones to rot in this cell."
It was an entirely plausible scenario.
Once, a white dragon had kidnapped several nobles for ransom, only to fall asleep for over thirty years. By the time it woke, the nobles had long since perished in their cells.
A commotion at the cell door broke his reverie.
Alger looked up to see several bugbears approaching with iron chains slung over their shoulders.
"Human, out."
"The master wants to see you," the bugbears grunted gruffly.
"Has it finally come...?" Alger muttered under his breath.
This time, he put up no futile resistance, allowing the bugbear guards to haul him away. He was ready to face whatever truth awaited him.
***
After what felt like a long time, the black cloth over Alger's face was pulled away.
It was the familiar cavern.
The red dragon before him was even more muscular and massive than before.
"Long time no see, Sir Alger Yeoman."
A trace of amusement gleamed in Cassius's golden eyes.
There it was again—that look, that suffocating sensation of being held in the palm of another's hand, toyed with like a puppet. It set Alger on edge.
Taking a deep breath, he tried his best to keep his voice steady.
"How are you trying to deceive me this time?"
"What scheme do you want me to carry out for you now?"
Cassius wasn't in the least offended. He merely smiled and said, "I only brought you here to see an old friend."
"Mezrolash, come out."
At the sound of that name, Alger's expression shifted drastically. His hand even reflexively reached toward his waist.
That name was renowned across the Lakeman domain. He was the leader of the tiefling resistance, the target the Northwind Eagle Guard was ordered to kill at any cost.
And... he was Alger's childhood friend.
The two had grown up together in Northwind Keep, once inseparable. Until—Alger's parents died, and he entered Castle Lakeman consumed by vengeance.
Mezrolash stepped out of the shadows. His gaze fixed upon the human was utterly cold, with a spark of hatred burning deep within his dark pupils.
The tiefling had watched with his own eyes as his former friend, acting as the Duke's loyal servant, wielded the butcher's blade against his kin. Had the red dragon not been present, he would have slain Alger on the spot.
"Why... is he here?"
Alger's voice faltered. For a moment, he didn't know what to say, or even how he was supposed to look at him.
An enemy?
Or a former friend?
In the past, he would have viewed him as a sworn foe without hesitation. But after listening to the red dragon, he could no longer discern what was true and what was a lie.
Cassius exhaled a plume of sulfurous heat, saying simply:
"Mezrolash, where is the contract I asked you to bring?"
"I have it here, my lord."
Mezrolash produced a leather parchment contract.
Dense lines of text were inscribed across the parchment. Although it was already void because its terms had been fulfilled, a dark, sinister magical aura still faintly lingered upon it.
Cassius commanded, "Let him see it."
Mezrolash stepped forward, unfurled the contract without hesitation, and thrust it into Alger's hands.
A terrible foreboding seized Alger. His heart churned with inner conflict, yet driven by his hunger for the truth, he finally fixed his gaze on the writing and read line after line in his head.
"Fourth Era, December 23, 1705, when the dial passes a third of its turn."
"I, the necromancer, Mouthpiece of the Night..."
"...sign this pact under the witness of the River Styx."
"...a price of one thousand lives must be paid."
"...and he shall attain eternal life, drink deeply of blood, and bathe in everlasting youth within the dark."
He felt a sudden wave of dizziness wash over him. The hand holding the scroll trembled slightly.
"No."
"How could this be..."
He couldn't help but look further down to where the signatory was named.
"Duke Brad Lakeman"
It was a crimson signature written in blood—one Alger knew all too well.
He had seen this signature on administrative documents in Northwind Keep, on logistical approvals for the Eagle Guard, on oaths of fealty...
Yet never had he imagined that he would see this name on the contract that sacrificed his parents.
Brad Lakeman.
Chapter 54