Ten thousand meters above the ground.
Kariel gripped tighter, feeling along the edge of the building for a secure hold.
The cold, rough surface hurt his fingers and palms.
But he was long used to it.
Friction is an integral part of climbing, just as the swing of a blade inevitably stains one’s hands with blood.
The fierce wind.
The higher he went, the stronger it grew.
As if gently admonishing, it tried to make Kariel retreat.
Kariel didn’t answer.
He just exhaled a puff of vapor and cast a glance downward.
From this height, a thin layer of clouds already hid Quintus.
The hive city seemed ghostly and ominous, its neon lights refracting and scattering into rainbow spots before Kariel’s eyes.
In his ears, there was only the howl of the wind and a strange echo coming from inside the giant spire — Kariel knew it was the hum of some mechanisms.
The Shadow’s memory held many things, including the strictest security at the junction of the Upper Hive and the Underhive, as well as the precise location of these machines.
This spire belonged to House Skraivok, and the Shadow couldn’t have not known it.
A pitiful, artificially created creature, whose flesh was covered with metal, whose feelings and mind were distorted.
A slave who had never had a life of his own, considered a valuable but replaceable tool.
A sharp knife in the hands of a monster, stained with blood by dirty methods.
“No,” Kariel whispered.
“After this night, it will all end.” He continued climbing, moving easily and nimbly.
His strength and endurance had never been so great.
The meager nutrients in food bars had never made his body so strong.
Now a slight effort was enough for him to soar three or four meters upward.
Even the fierce wind could no longer hinder him.
It was incredible.
Kariel knew — this was a side effect of that power.
He had removed the shackles, and it pulsed jubilantly through his body.
The increased power and endurance were probably only part of its price.
But in old tales, luck and wealth given without reason usually came from the devil.
The more you get, the more you lose in the end.
Climbing another three hundred meters, he reached a small circular platform.
Twelve huge machines hummed, working along its perimeter.
They regulated the temperature and purified the air.
Kariel had seen many such platforms.
But only this one was worth his stopping.
Standing at the edge, he took off his cloak and threw it down.
It quickly disappeared into the thin clouds, leaving no trace.
Staring into the void, Kariel paused for a moment, then chuckled quietly and shook his head.
“Your vengeance, I will also fulfill.” He muttered this to himself and rolled up his right sleeve, fully revealing the tattoo of House Lokhars, from which blood seemed to drip.
A destroyed aristocratic house on Nostramo — what does it mean?
Once a family loses power, few remember its name.
Then again, few remember the workers of the Underhive while they’re alive.
What irony.
Kariel closed his eyes and froze for a moment, breathing deeply.
When he opened them again, an icy blue light completely drove the darkness from his eye sockets.
And then he walked through the wall, like a true ghost.
…
A spear pierced a man’s chest, pinning him to a massive boulder.
His face was devoid of any expression.
The stone beneath him was soaked with blood.
Light from the heavens fell on him, illuminating the figure, while around him darkness thickened, and in it, countless hungry eyes waited their turn.
Mantas Skraivok looked at the painting and shook his head slightly.
“The artistic taste of the ancestors leaves much to be desired,” he muttered.
“The one who painted this should have been executed, and the painting itself immediately destroyed, not preserved to this day.” Having said this, he paused and glanced at the dark corner of the office.
Mantas Skraivok was silent for a moment, then gave a crooked smile.
Before, the Shadow always answered him during these short pauses.
That’s how this little habit was born.
He shook his head and slowly returned to his desk.
Several documents lay on the desk.
The intricate ligature of calligraphic handwriting wove across the parchment, and bright red ink quietly dried on the pale skin.
After lying here for some time, they had already set and no longer smeared at the slightest touch, turning the letters into an illegible mess.
Mantas Skraivok picked up the first document.
For several minutes he checked what he himself had written, and then put it back with an absent expression.
The deal with the “Chatterers” was concluded.
Now House Skraivok in Quintus only had to deal with three aristocratic families.
And in twelve hours, the Great Purge would begin, ahead of schedule.
The forces of these three houses were in no way comparable to the power of House Skraivok.
Only one outcome awaited them: suffering huge losses in Quintus and leaving the game in disgrace.
At this thought, Mantas smiled coldly.
He was already looking forward to the meeting of the council of aristocrats in half a month.
Then, on legal grounds, he would demand compensation, and if they didn’t agree…
No, no “if.” He laughed out loud.
They would be forced to agree.
They would have no other choice.
“But my children…” The Painted Count closed his eyes and sighed in his expensive, comfortable chair.
At first, there were seventeen of them.
After twenty years, three remained.
Now — zero.
Zero.
This number could mean a start from scratch, or it could mean a complete loss of everything.
At the moment, Mantas Skraivok was leaning toward the second option.
Deep furrows lay between his brows.
This matter had to be investigated to the end, the murderer executed in front of everyone, and whoever stood behind this…
had to pay a terrible price.
He opened his eyes expressionlessly, interrupting his thoughts, and rose, intending to leave the office and rest.
The night promised to be long, and he was not going to wait any longer.
After all, the Shadow knew no defeat.
Approaching the office door, he pushed it.
The hinges, oiled daily, worked flawlessly.
The gilded door yielded easily to his hand, meeting no resistance whatsoever.
Servants could only touch its surface with their foreheads and wait for the built-in mechanism to open it automatically.
But Mantas Skraivok preferred to do it manually — personal involvement in everything was one of his distinguishing features.
He stepped out into a long corridor and walked slowly down it, as if strolling.
The light came on by itself, a soft yellow glow creating a cozy atmosphere.
Even the stern faces of his ancestors in the portraits seemed softer.
Mantas fancied they were looking at him with pride.
It made him smile.
“Yes, you should be proud of me.” “In my lifetime, House Skraivok will become the sole ruling house on Nostramo.
All others will bow their heads.” “Ancestors, you will applaud me.” This thought drove away even the bitterness of losing the children he had raised for so long and so diligently.
With a smile, he walked down the corridor, but around the next turn, he was splashed with hot blood.
Mantas Skraivok’s right hand trembled.
“What’s going on?” “Oh, good evening,” came a quiet voice from the darkness, with notes of sincere apology.
“I didn’t mean to splatter your clothes; you just came at a bad time.
I just finished with the last lookout in hiding.” “Although, you are astonishingly suspicious.
So many traps, mechanisms, and security systems in your own spire.” “You…” Mantas Skraivok began in rage and astonishment, but was immediately cut off.
“Shh.” An icy hand, covered in blood, reached out from the darkness and clamped down on Mantas’s jaw with tremendous force.
The middle and index fingers pressed on certain points on his cheeks.
Then the hand pressed slightly.
With a loud crack, Mantas Skraivok felt a sharp pain.
“Don’t rush, Mantas Skraivok.
We’re going to have a long talk tonight.
And you…
how shall I put it…
are going to tell me everything.” Kariel stepped out of the darkness completely, his blue eyes burning with a cold, detached light.
“Let’s start with the Shadow’s memories.
I’ve seen them, of course, but I want to hear it from you.” Mantas Skraivok, his jaw still locked in that inhumanly strong grip, could only glare with murderous intent.
Kariel just smiled.
“Don’t worry.
We have all night.” His jaw dropped.
Muscles desperately tried to hold it shut, resisting gravity, but nerves burned with fire.
Mantas’s body shuddered.
He instinctively wanted to scream, but in the next second, a blade drove into his throat.
The knife came out, followed by a stream of icy air that turned his mouth into a shredded mess and froze the blood about to gush from the wound.
Blood solidified into pillars with myriad tiny ice needles, continuing to torment its master’s body.
Mantas Skraivok collapsed to his knees.
He wasn’t one of those, like the “Knocking Teeth,” who sought pleasure in pain, and his pain threshold was low.
He could no longer stand.
“Shh,” the same voice said softly.
“It’s late, everyone’s sleeping.
Quietly, okay?” Mantas, trembling, raised his head.
Rage forced him to overcome the pain.
He had to see the face of this insolent rogue.
At the same time, he frantically searched for a way out.
This skilled assassin, obviously from another house, just like the Shadow of House Skraivok — one of the trump cards every family possesses.
Moreover, he demonstrated knowledge of the estate’s internal layout and a strange sense of humor.
The latter was easy to explain — simply mentally unstable.
The Shadow had its own quirks too.
Probably all “Shadows” did.
But how to explain the first thing?
And why did the attack happen precisely on the day the Shadow left?
No, that’s not it.
How did he bypass the spire’s multi-level security system?
“I didn’t hear a single shot.
Did all the sentry droids fail?
And the built-in alarm system?
Why was it silent?!” “Could it be…
a traitor?
In collusion with other houses to strike right now?
Is it the ‘Knocking Teeth’?
Quite likely, they could have guessed I would strike…” “Don’t think about it, Count,” a voice came from the darkness.
The speaker crouched down so Mantas could see his face better.
It was a pale face.
Sad eyes, a high nose.
He smiled gently, looking very calm.
“You won’t guess until I reveal the truth to you myself.
And all your assumptions right now are meaningless.
However, if they help distract you from the pain, I don’t mind.” Mantas opened his mouth, and only fragments of sounds like wheezes escaped his throat.
Blood trickled from the corner of his lips.
“No, I’m not a hired killer.
Killing you is not my main goal.” Kariel patiently explained, crouching beside the kneeling count.
His posture was relaxed, as if this were a conversation between old friends.
If one ignored their positions and the surroundings, one might truly think they were friends.
After all, Mantas Skraivok had responded to Kariel’s question with only a few wheezes.
“You see, Count, you aristocrats have your own view of the world.” “You’ve turned everything into a simple exchange of benefits.
Although many of you prefer fleeting carnal pleasures, benefit still remains paramount.
I like the idea of ruling the world through rules, but your rules…” Kariel sighed quietly.
He extended his right hand, grabbed Mantas by the chin, and dragged him to the other end of the corridor.
The pain returned.
Mantas desperately pounded on the icy, almost dead hand, but it was all in vain.
He couldn’t even bite the fingers — his jaw was now nothing but a source of torment.
Moving with a staggering gait, the stranger displayed astonishing knowledge of the place, as if he had lived there for decades.
At the same time, he didn’t forget to finish his thought: .”..your rules are so disgusting that even I, a man this shouldn’t concern, can no longer stand to watch.
Do you understand that feeling, Count?” Kariel shook his head, waved his hand, and flung the all-powerful count of House Skraivok into one of the rooms.
The door was already open.
The Count, spinning, flew inside, knocking over tables and chairs.
He lay on the floor, writhing in pain.
His head spun, his thoughts tangled.
He had achieved his position through cunning, sending thirty-two of his brothers and sisters into deadly traps.
He didn’t like violence, considering it crude…
So now, although he wanted to get up and fight back, his body wouldn’t obey.
Kariel paid him no attention, wiped his bloody hands on the clothes, and closed the door.
Then he pulled up a chair, sat down opposite Mantas Skraivok, tilted his head to the side, and waited patiently.
“So simple,” Kariel thought.
“Remove the shackles, cast aside the rules, and this easily you can make the head who poisons the entire hive writhe in pain?” He chuckled involuntarily.
Yes, killing really was simple.
Man inherently knows how to use violence, let alone someone like him.
Violence is the quickest way to achieve a goal.
But what then?
Mantas Skraivok, trembling, rose, interrupting Kariel’s thoughts.
He glanced at Kariel, then pulled up a chair himself and sat down.
As he did, his gaze slid to Kariel’s right wrist, which he had deliberately left exposed.
He narrowed his eyes.
Kariel noticed.
Mantas Skraivok took a deep breath and slowly raised his hands, intending to reset his dislocated jaw.
At that moment, the hand with the tattoo on the wrist reached out to him and, with icy cold, touched his cheek.
The wound and pain vanished.
The Painted Count’s cheek twitched.
“Surprised?” Kariel asked.
“Somewhat,” Mantas Skraivok replied quietly.
“By my power or my identity?” “Both…” The Painted Count shook his head, something like contemplation flickering across his face.
At that moment, he strangely relaxed and leaned back in his chair.
This change in posture drew a silent smirk from Kariel.
He roughly guessed what the Painted Count was thinking.
“You’re still alive after all, Kariel Lokhars,” Mantas Skraivok said softly.
Kariel didn’t answer.
He knew Mantas had much more to say.
He was willing to show a little respect to the dying man.
“You came to learn the truth about those events, didn’t you?” Mantas Skraivok began to speak slowly.
“Yes, your house fell because of that traitor.
Since he’s already dead, I assume someone has told you everything?” Kariel remained silent.
Mantas, without batting an eye, let this pass and continued, though his mind was frantically searching for the answer to this question.
“Your father, Gai Lokhars, in exchange for the location of your family’s treasure, begged us to spare you.
That merciless executioner, in the last moment of his life, demanded a path be left for his son.
We agreed.” Looking into Kariel’s eyes, Mantas paused, intending to catch any reaction from him.
“And that path was to throw a seven-year-old child with two daggers of House Lokhars into the Underhive?” Kariel asked with a smirk.
“You couldn’t have asked for more,” Mantas replied calmly.
“For killing a count, you all should have died.
Even the traitor’s name was erased.
After that, he became an obscure Father in the Underhive, far from an aristocrat’s life.” “But still better than the life of an Underhive dweller.” Kariel shook his head with a smile.
“There’s something you don’t know, Count.
That traitor you forced was quite influential even in the Underhive.
Frankly, he remained an aristocrat, just living in the slums.” “Inevitably…” Mantas Skraivok frowned.
He hadn’t gotten the expected reaction.
This meant all his assumptions about Kariel Lokhars needed to be reconsidered.
He hadn’t come for gain — at least, so far, this last of the Lokhars line had shown no desire to reclaim his name and position.
But most importantly…
Kariel Lokhars had survived.
This meant that one of the houses involved in that conspiracy had secretly protected and raised him.
This also meant that, in their eyes, Mantas Skraivok was undoubtedly a source of hatred.
Which, in fact, was true.
It was Mantas who had planned the fall of House Lokhars.
But why was Kariel Lokhars so calm now?
He could even smile so easily…
Mantas saw that this smile wasn’t feigned.
He involuntarily swallowed saliva tinged with blood.
The initiative in the conversation had once again subtly shifted to the other.
“You must be perplexed?” Kariel asked quietly.
“But, as I said, Count, until I speak, you will never know the truth.” “You seem very self-assured, last of the Lokhars,” Mantas said grimly.
“Hm…
actually, I’m not self-assured,” Kariel said.
“I just know what I must do.” “And what must you do?” Kariel smiled weakly and stood up.
Silver flashed on his wrist.
He raised his hand, and two blades, spinning, landed in his palms in a reverse grip.
Then he turned and threw them.
The blades pierced the air with immense force, emitting a dangerous whistle.
The thick wall was instantly breached, and immediately a clicking sound of a working mechanism followed.
Next, another wall suddenly rotated, revealing a huge black machine.
Mantas Skraivok’s face changed drastically.
The aristocrats of Nostramo had many ways of communication.
They could send envoys, letters, or use communication systems for convenient, though not entirely dignified, instant messaging.
But among all these methods, there was one used only in emergencies.
“You see, Count, I know a lot.
I know how you indulge in debauchery, how you kill each other…
and this, without a doubt, is the most interesting part of everything I know.” Kariel burst out laughing, and his laughter echoed through the room.
“What are you going to do?” Mantas asked, leaning forward and gripping the armrests.
For the first time, he felt he was losing control of the situation — even when he was dragged down the corridor, he hadn’t felt this.
A terrible unease began to grow in his heart, devouring him from within.
“What do you think?” Kariel asked back.
“What do you think I’m going to do?
You were so confident just a moment ago, weren’t you, Count?
You thought this last of the Lokhars had come for revenge?” “Isn’t that so?!” “No, Count.
You are not worth such effort and sacrifice.” Kariel turned and slowly walked towards the machine.
“The last of the Lokhars died long ago, Count.
What stands before you now is merely a ghost.” “What are you going to do, Kariel Lokhars?!” The Ghost stopped, turned, and smiled softly.
Icy blue light blazed in his eyes.
He answered quietly, but in a language completely different from Nostramo’s, and his words rang out weightily and distinctly: “I will light a fire, Count.
I will burn you, cursed creatures.
I’ve had enough.” …
On a cold night in the Upper Hive of Nostramo, a voice suddenly rang out.
It came from afar, hissing through the night via ancient mechanisms.
It swept through the luxurious and gloomy palaces of the aristocrats, through the dark and bloody dungeons, through vaults full of gold and jewels…
And reached the ears of every aristocrat.
At that moment, whether they slept in their beds or, clad in human skin, slowly danced to quiet music, they all heard this soft voice.
“Ladies and gentlemen, aristocrats.” “Lords of the Eternal Night Court.” “Good evening.” “Remember my voice and prepare yourselves.
You can run, resist, hide…
as you wish.
But tonight, I will put an end to everything.” “And, of course, one last thing…” A quiet laugh echoed in their ears, swirling, carrying with it an inexplicable cold and madness, growing louder, like thunder.
“Remember, I am coming for you.”