THE GENERAL'S DISGRACED HEIR

35  Chapter 35: THE FINGERS

A sickly luminescence seeped into the room, clinging desperately to the edges of grotesque shadows. Gazing upon the scene, Gareth felt a cold sweat creep down his spine, each drop a chilling indictment of his poor choices.

This was no opulent manor hall, but a grotesque parody of one. The architecture, once a testament to artistry, had twisted into a mockery of its former glory. Gnarled archways, their edges dripping with a viscous slime, mimicked gothic grandeur. Delicate wrought iron had morphed into cruel, barbed claws reaching for the unsuspecting.

The floor, a mosaic cursed to writhe, pulsed with a dull, malevolent light. Each tile shifted and contorted, whispering of forgotten sins and ancient atrocities. A massive table, crafted from petrified bone, dominated the center of the chamber.

High-backed chairs, their crimson cushions stained a hideous black, stood sentinel around it, each a promise of lingering agony. The interplay of sickly light and suffocating darkness did little to alleviate the stifling atmosphere. Instead, it painted this room as a canvas of unyielding dread.

Fear, a cold, clammy hand, squeezed his heart until it hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The air itself seemed to thicken with a sinister energy, a palpable tension that hung heavy on his shoulders.

Every creak of the ancient floorboards, every rustle of unseen leaves outside the window, sent shivers down his spine. This wasn't his opulent De Gor estate, a place of polished floors and predictable routines. This was the lair of the Fingers, the puppet masters who lurked in the shadows, pulling the strings of Aethelwarin's underworld.

Here, the air hummed with secrets whispered in dark corners, and the promise of violence hung thick enough to taste. Gareth, a man who'd always revelled in the carefully constructed order of his life, felt utterly lost in this chaotic den of power.

"Gareth," a voice purred, dripping with false honey. A woman of ethereal beauty leaned back in her chair, her amusement as chilling as the shadows themselves. "So good of you to join us."

Shame and terror warred within Gareth. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple, leaving a glistening trail on his ashen face. He bowed low, his spine a taut cord threatening to snap.

"Enough theatrics," a guttural growl interrupted, shattering the mocking facade. A hulking figure, half-man, half-beast, slammed his fist on the table, making the ancient wood groan. The woman's lips curved into a cruel smile.

"What does this scum even do here, wasting our valuable time?" the beast roared, his voice laced with primal fury. Gareth's legs turned to jelly, a helpless tremor seizing his body.

"He failed," the woman chirped, her voice devoid of any sympathy. "Seems he couldn't eliminate that pesty De Gor boy."

Gareth whimpered, his mind a whirlwind of regret. All he'd ever wanted was a taste of power, a way to escape the De Gors' suffocating shadow. A fool's dream, he realized now, the bitter taste of betrayal souring his mouth. He'd traded one gilded cage for a chamber of horrors. Money, stability – those had seemed like such desirable goals back then, safe havens from the De Gors' constant scrutiny.

But here, in this den of iniquity, those dreams lay shattered, replaced by a primal fear for his very life. The weight of his stupidity pressed down on him, a suffocating cloak threatening to steal his breath.

Gareth's vision swam, a desperate plea forming on his parched lips. He'd coveted money, stability… but now, facing the merciless Fingers, his only wish was for a swift end to his nightmare.

"Tear him to shreds?" boomed a voice, thick with bloodlust. A hulking figure, half-man, half-beast, slammed his fist on the table, his rage echoing through the chamber. All eyes turned towards him, then back to Gareth, who cowered under the weight of their scrutiny.

Before the beastman could take another step, a crimson ring materialized around Gareth's neck. This wasn't the work of brute force, but of chilling magic. It constricted with an unnatural pressure, stealing the air from Gareth's lungs. His eyes bulged, his terrified scream choked into a strangled gasp. He clawed at the invisible noose, his frantic struggles a silent plea for mercy.

"Enough, Mace," a low, gravelly voice commanded. From the shadows at the head of the table, Draven, the leader of the Fingers, emerged. His face remained obscured by the visor of his black helmet, but the power emanating from him was undeniable. With a flick of his wrist, the crimson ring dissipated with a pop. Gareth collapsed onto the floor, gasping for air, his body wracked with coughs.

Across from him, Mace, the hooded mage, let out a frustrated sigh. "Letting him off so easily? Seems like a waste of good magic, Draven." His disappointment hung thick in the air.

"I understand your frustration," Draven rumbled, his voice laced with a dangerous edge. "Believe me, Gareth's incompetence is far from pleasing." He surveyed the room, his gaze lingering on each figure. An unsettling silence descended, punctuated only by Gareth's ragged breaths.

"However," Draven continued, his words carrying a weight far heavier than mere anger, "a second chance can be a far more potent motivator than a swift execution." The implication was clear – failure wasn't an option. It wouldn't be a clean death; it would be a public spectacle, a brutal reminder of the Fingers' absolute power.

Gareth, his face bruised and pale, scrambled to his knees. "Forgive me, Master Draven," he rasped, his voice raw with terror. "I will not fail the Fingers again. I swear on my life!"

His declaration hung in the air, a desperate plea swallowed by the omnipresent shadows of the room. Was this a genuine vow, a heartfelt promise fueled by the terror of his near-death experience? Or was it a veiled threat, a desperate gamble to buy himself time while he plotted his revenge? Only time would tell.

One thing was certain: Gareth had been granted a reprieve, a sliver of hope dangling precariously above him like a flickering candle in a hurricane. But the question remained – would he use this second chance to redeem himself, or would his next misstep usher in a gruesome end, a public spectacle serving as a chilling reminder of the Fingers' unforgiving cruelty? The weight of his decision pressed down on him, a suffocating cloak heavier than any magic Mace could conjure. The path ahead was shrouded in uncertainty, a labyrinth with only one guaranteed outcome – failure would be met with a fate far worse than death.

 "Take some men. Don't screw up."Draven's dismissal was curt, he flicked his wrist, a dismissive gesture that sent Gareth scurrying from the room. The man practically materialized on the other side of the door, a palpable fear clinging to him like a second skin.

The woman with the voice like wind chimes tilted her head towards Draven, a single eyebrow arched in question. "Was that… wise?"

Draven chuckled, a sound devoid of humour. "He knows the consequences of failure," he rumbled. Gareth was their pawn, expensively placed within the De Gor estate as a guard. Eliminating the last son of the Earl had a hefty price tag, one dictated by a nameless wealthy benefactor who promised a veritable mountain of coin upon completion.

"That's not what I meant," the woman countered, pushing back against Draven's assumption. Her name was Seraphina, and beneath that enchanting facade lay a mind as sharp as her tongue. "Are we certain about eliminating the De Gor heir?"

A growl erupted from the hulking beast-man at the table. "Scared, witch?" he spat, a challenge laced with venomous rage.

Seraphina's eyes, usually sparkling with amusement, narrowed. "Moron," she hissed. "Do you think I fear a simple brawl? I could crush you like a fly."

"Enough!" Draven boomed, silencing the escalating tension before it could erupt into bloodshed. "Seraphina," he continued, his voice low but firm, "David, the last De Gor son, is irrelevant. The Lord doesn't spare him a thought. His demise will be a ripple, barely noticed in the grand scheme of things."

But Seraphina remained unconvinced. Poking a slumbering lion, even a metaphorical one, was rarely a wise move. A shadow of unease crossed her features, a flicker of doubt in a room usually dominated by ruthless certainty. The fate of David De Gor, insignificant as Draven might claim, remained a question mark. Would his existence, however fleeting in his father's eyes, truly be inconsequential? Only time would tell if eliminating him would be as smooth an operation as Draven seemed to believe.

Inky tendrils of night draped themselves across the sky. Unaware of the unseen predator circling him, David felt a surge of power coursing through his veins. The heaven whispering palm, grueling as it was, was undeniable. Strength bloomed within him, a coiled serpent poised to strike. But a serpent can only remain coiled for so long. Would this newfound power be enough? Would it be his salvation, or merely a cruel stopgap before the inevitable? Time, a silent, relentless hunter in its own right, stalked ever closer, its answer shrouded in the deepest shadows.