“Huh? It’s you, Masters?” Yvain blinked in disbelief. “I thought you’d return tomorrow now that it’s so te!”
“This is your first day of schoht?” Man smiled, stroking the boy’s head that was now almost her height. “How’s the iigation?”
Yvain saw Burn walked out of the portal with Mnemosyne Aeons with him and his eyes glimmered in awe. “Nemo!”
“Brother!”
“What?!” Yvain yelped in shock. “She talks?!”
“She talks now,” Burn said. “How’s the iigation?”
“Huh?” Yvain blinked, and his face became worried. “Sir Tristan and Dame Yvolt hadn’t returned…”
Man and Burn’s eyes met each other’s, and they also looked worried. Especially Man.
“Should we go and find them?” Man asked.
Burn sighed, p for a bit.
***
Ahlgrath’s story began in filth—literal and figurative. He was born filthy. He didn’t know his mother or anything simir, and he wasn’t sure if he even was born through any birth al like creatures created by God. Not even a dim recolle of some… any womb.
The earliest memory he had was huddling in the back of a damp cave, coated in some viscous, bck substahat g to him like a sed skin. Was it tar? Oil? Or maybe just the liquid reje of the universe itself? He didn’t know. What he did know was hunger—bottomless, gnawing hunger.
When he finally stumbled into the light, society was kind enough to make ohing clear: he didn’t belong. His form, a grotesque amalgamation of misshapen limbs, too many joints, and glistening skin like spoiled meat, was enough to send anyone screaming.
Children cried. Livestock panicked. Vilgers whispered legends of beasts and demons, though none of their stories were quite horrifiough to encapsute him.
They called him a monster. Fair enough, he supposed. He did think about eating their children—adorable little morsels that they were—but he hadn’t actually do. He’d thought about snatg a cow or two, too, but he hadn’t gotten around to that either.
Yet thoughts, it seemed, were crime enough. It didn’t take long before the torches and pitchforks came for him.
That’s when he arrived. A figure cloaked in shadows, with a voice like honey ced with poison. He didn’t speak much at first, but he acted. The men hunting Ahlgrath down? They didn’t st long, their screams eg in the woods before silence cimed them.
Then came the vilge. The pce that had cast him out as if his very existence were an affront to decy. Together, Ahlgrath and his savior returhe vilgers barely had time to panic before the massacre began.
Ahlgrath was allowed to revel, as he put it. He could indulge himself, whether that meant pying with the livestod children as toys or something darker. Either way, by the time the vilge was silent, Ahlgrath’s hunger had finally been sated.
Of course, loose ends were tied up. The bme was id at the feet of a nearby orc camp, and Ahlgrath emerged reborn. No longer nameless, he was christened “Ahlgrath” by the only being who had ever given him purpose.
From that moment on, he followed him, the only master worthy of his devotion.
Years turned into decades, and Ahlgrath did what all monsters do best: adapt. In the shadow of his savior, he learned more than survival; he learned ing, patience, and the fi of turning malito power.
His brilliant mind—yes, brilliant, despite what those drooling vilgers might have thought—soaked up knowledge like that cursed bck substance had once soaked into his skin. He wasn’t just some brute; he was evolving.
He rose from pathetic prey to a on, a hand and foot of him, as loyal as he was grotesque.
Living in the shadow of greatness wasn’t so bad. In fact, it was freeing. As long as he obeyed the iven to him—and, let’s face it, he never asked for anything Ahlgrath wasn’t dying to do anyway—he could indulge in all the things society onned him for.
Want to raze a vilge? Dooy with the weak? Why not. Experiment with new ways to make people scream? Just part of the job description.
Along the way, he took up the bde and the magic, though her felt quite as satisfying as his cws. Still, they had their uses, and Ahlgrath was nothing if not practical.
He also learned what made him tick—or, rather, what had created him.
The foul darkhat had birthed him, that had g to him like guilt, was no curse. It ower. It was the essence of something a, something forbidden, and it strengthened him with every kill, every act of destru, every ounce of terror he inspired.
The darkness ed itself around him, a shroud he no longer feared but embraced. He became a walking nightmare, a on so finely hohat even those who hadn’t heard his rembled at the thought of what he represented.
Ahlgrath wasn’t just a monster; he was his savior’s monster, and that made all the difference.
In his mind, this was justice. The world had cast him out, after all. Labeled him a freak, a mistake, before they even uood what he was capable of.
Now, he got to return the favor, one vilge, one kingdom at a time. And the best part? Every atrocity he itted, every act of destru, only deepened his bond with the darkness and with him.
Ahlgrath had finally found his p the world: as a force to be feared, a on to be wielded, and a creature who had turned reje into unholy purpose.
Two knights. Two mere knights from the oh-so-glorious Round Table, paragons of honor and justid whatever other noble nonsehey sang about in their little halls. Did they really think they could stop him?
Ahlgrath—the creature cast out by the world, molded by shadow, and sharpened into perfe by horrors they couldn’t begin to imagihe thought alone made him ugh—a deep, guttural sound that rumbled like thunder across the battlefield.
“Tristan and Yvolt, was it?” he drawled, his voice practically dripping with disdain. “Born into lives of privilege, groomed freatness by your precious knights. How quaint. You had teachers, rades, shining armor polished daily, and a cause to fight for. A prepackaged life of purpose, served up with all the trimmings of nobility.”
He stepped closer, his grotesque form unleashed, t over them like a shadow cast by their own inadequacies. His cwed fingers flexed, dripping with malid a lifetime e.
“Well, aren’t we the same?” he sneered. “W like dogs for your master, thrown into life-ah battles, forced to face the monsters as of the world. But in the end, you’re nothing more thao the man above you. Just like me.”
He expected shock, denial, e—anything to remind him of their supposedly noble lineage. Instead, Tristan and Yvolt turo each other, raised their eyebrows, and then—smiled.
“Yes,” Tristan said lightly, his tone so casual it felt like a sp in the face. “We are the same. Like you, following your master, we’re just following orders. So, no hard feelings, okay?”
“Fasating,” Yvolt added, her eyes gleaming with what could only be described as curiosity. “What kind of creature are you, anyway? And who ands you? You’ve got to admit, this is iing.”
Ahlgrath froze, his mind reeling. The same? They, the sanctimonious knights of the Round Table, were actually admitting it? Aowledging, without hesitation, that they were as much sves as he was? The idea was... disorienting.
He opened his mouth, ready to unto a scathing tirade about how they were nothing alike, how their shiny titles and noble causes made them a different breed entirely—but they’d already shrugged it off. Dismissed him. Like he was some petunt child throwing a tantrum.
For the first time in years, Ahlgrath was at a loss for words. And it infuriated him.
But by the time he was awakened from his fusion, the two had chugged up the sed dose of the potion.
“With this, we’ll also get serious.”
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