Oathbreaker: A Dark Fantasy Web Serial

Arc 3: Chapter 15: Yselda's Manse

The carriage cut a winding path through the streets of Garihelm, moving at an alarming pace. Emma and I spoke little during the ride, both of us lost in our own thoughts. I caught sight of changing neighborhoods through the small window, shifting from the modestly wealthy craftsman’s district we’d left into something more austere, more lavish, with tall manor homes and wide avenues lined in gardens and trees.

Above, the storm rolled over the sky in lethargic sullenness. Lightning lashed the sky out across the bay, but only rumbled threateningly high up in the clouds above the city. Slow, steady rain drummed against the stone heights of the capital to run in rumbling falls down the high walls connecting the cities complex of bastion towers.

Garihelm had been built for such weather, and I saw much of the rain collecting in gutters and channels artfully constructed into the very masonry of the city, where it would be taken down to the canals below. Winged angels with upraised bowels, clever depressions in the faces of gothic towers, regal faces made to weep from the runoff emerging from their eyes… a thousand myriad other features performed this function.

Perhaps the Weeping City might have been a better name for the place, I thought.

“Dreary place,” Emma noted, as though reading my thoughts. “Venturmoor had its share of storms, but it’s so loud here.”

“They say Gariban Forger, the lord who first settled here, chose this spot for his city because the weather made any attempt to lay siege by sea folly.” I paused as we passed a gathering in the street — a man in voluminous scarlet robes ranted before a large crowd, his voice an eerie, hollow echo through the rain. Tearing my eyes from the sight and focusing on Emma I added, “The bay is a graveyard for ships.”

“Charming,” Emma muttered.

The carriage stopped not long after that, and Gregori opened the doors for us, even helping Emma out like he would for a proper lady. She let him, wearing a bemused expression on her face the whole time.

Looking around, I saw we were in an upper class neighborhood, with white houses of marble or pale stone. Tall, thin trees shaded both sides of the wide street. Fountains and statues were abundant, and the sky seemed more open here, no higher streets or fortifications looming over us.

My natural suspicion surged, and I stopped before the servant led us further on. “Are you taking us to meet Lord Yuri?”

The short man paused, turning with a tinkling of his coat bells. He regarded me coolly for a moment, then spoke in a frank tone. “No.”

I nodded, already starting to shape aura. “Then where are we, and why are we here?”

I could see guards idling in the shadow of some trees and by many of the gates leading into private grounds, most in nondescript livery. This was a public place, and I did not want to fight here.

I would, if I needed to.

“You are here to perform a service for the master,” Gregori said. “Lord Yuri is interested in discovering more about the victims of the murders plaguing the city. He is under the belief that you can discover more than the soldiers and clericons could.”

He didn’t show any skepticism in his tone. He didn’t so much as flare his nostrils or quirk an eyebrow, all cultured professionalism, his dark eyes as devoid of emotion as empty glass.

I glanced at the mansion, and understood. “This is the last victim’s home.”

The valet nodded. “This is the townhouse of the Lady Yselda of Mirrebel. She was the last victim of the Carmine Killings. You are Ser Alken of Urkenhal, accompanied by your valet.” He nodded to Emma. “You are contractors from the Gylden, here to investigate on behalf of the Lord Yuri, who is working on behalf of other parties interested in this matter. The servants have already been notified.”

I took that all in, biting back my annoyance at Lias. He could have told me all of this himself, coordinated with me, rather than dropping me right into the thick of it with a hastily provided cover story.

No point belly aching over it now. I nodded and adjusted my cloak to better hide the armor beneath. “Fine,” I said. “Only one change — my companion and I are from the Linden, not the Gylden. I already told the innkeeper at the Hammer’s Rest that, and I don’t want any discrepancies in my story getting out.”

Lord Yuri’s servant — or, more precisely, Lias’s — nodded, taking this in stride. “If you would follow me, then?”

He led us into the estate grounds, introducing us to the guards outside, who sheltered from the rain beneath the mansion’s front overhang. I noted they wore the livery of the city garrison, yellow coats with black anvils struck by bolts of scarlet lightning. House Forger colors.

They greeted me with the cautious politeness with which all armed persons treat one another, if they are not fools, and I did the same. We were ushered into the house’s foyer. Here I got a good idea of the status of the person we were investigating.

Town homes in wealthy cities like Garihelm shelter many different kinds. There are wealthy merchants, knights with a large enough personal retinue to need the extra space, foreign dignitaries, ambassadors and the like, bureaucrats and other officials, and lower ranking nobles with estates inside the walls. Some priests of higher ranking will attain personal fortunes and buy their own properties as well — conservatives in the theocracy might frown on such indulgences, but it still happens.

Yselda of Mirrebel, I decided, had been a very important individual. We were brought into a spacious, elegant foyer, done all in soft whites and warm wood tones, the statuary on the high bannisters both expensive and tasteful. A she-elf teased from marble welcomed us from a plinth set by the foot of the spiral stairway across from the entrance, her smile warm and subtly sad, the folds of her loose dress falling across the floor like foam waterfalls.

I knew, intuitively, that the artist who’d made that elf maid had carved from the memory of their own eyes. Surreal in its detail, I sensed an aching pain in the piece, the sense that the carver’s heart had broken in the making.

Emma made a throaty sound. “This baroness has good taste,” she muttered, her eyes running over the hint of bare leg emerging from the statue’s dress.

I threw her a look, and she fell quiet with a light cough. She was playing the role of servant, and needed to remember not to speak out of turn.

Movement at the top of the stairs drew our attention as two figures appeared. One was a dark skinned noblewoman in her later years — it can be difficult to tell with nobles, but I guessed her to be in her fifties. She wore a gown of cream white and olive, the sleeves trailing nearly to the floor. Her braided silver hair had been wound about her neck many times, almost like a noose, and her austere visage made me think of the battered city around us — marked by time, but undaunted.

The second was a man near the noblewoman’s age, who hadn’t taken the years so well. I guessed him to be a servant, by his lack of jewelry, though his maroon robe was of fine make. He had paler skin than the woman, worse posture, and a haggard face framed by sideburns so long they fell beneath his jowls like the mane of a ghostly lion.

The pair walked down the stairs arm in arm, and the woman met my gaze. I keep my hair long, and have a habit of letting my bangs fall over my eyes — it does little to impede my more preternatural senses, and it helps hide the gleam of aura in my eyes.

Even still, the old woman found them. I felt a subtle pressure, like the light pain of a ray of sun catching in my eye, and knew she had power. Her eyes were a very striking gray, pale as moons amid the deep brown of her face, the lids lightly touched by kohl.

“My Lady,” Gregori said, dipping into a very deep bow. “This is Ser Alken of the Linden, a specialist hired by my lord to look into the matter you’ve requested, and his assistant.” Turning on his heel to face me he added, “Ser Alken, this is the Lady Faisa of House Dance.”

I blinked, and dipped into a deep bow of my own. I knew Emma did as well, her own upbringing compelling her as strong as gravity. Neither one of us could fail to recognize whose presence we stood in.

Lady Faisa Dance inclined her head to us. That small acknowledgement was a gracious boon, for one of her rank. High House Dance rule the Gylden and the Principality of Mirrebel. They are among the subcontinent’s greatest powers, a bloodline as ancient as the Carreons, the Forgers, the Silverings, and only a handful of others.

We stood within spitting distance of a woman who shared blood with monarchs.

I silently cursed Lias. The damn wizard could have warned me.

Lady Faisa regarded us with a remote grace only gained through a lifetime of training. She took in our drab clothing, our lack of finery — neither Emma or I had washed in many days, traveling as we’d been and only recently arrived in the city. Her eyes went to my ring, and to the hint of black armor beneath my cloak and overcoat.

I studied her as well. She wore many precious jewels, some sewn into the fabric of her elaborate garment, most of them in her hair. She seemed to prefer pale colors, which stood out from her darker skin. Her pale eyes framed a long nose hooking very slightly above a small, still mouth.

Then, still with a distant expression, she addressed us directly in a rich, smooth voice which age had only edged with sonorant depth. “Well met, Ser Alken. I am pleased you were able to attend this matter. I must confess, your name is not known to me.”

Fucking Lias. Keeping my tone subdued and respectful, I answered her. “Apologies, lady, but I’m afraid I am no one of great note. I have served Lord Yuri as an investigator before, but did not expect to meet so high a personage today.” I coughed and added, “I’d have washed up.”

She laughed, and the sound and shift in expression transformed her from cold harridan to kindly aunt in a moment. I felt certain, then, that not so many years ago this woman had been very beautiful.

“It is of no matter,” she said, opals twinkling as she lifted a hand in a soothing gesture. “It is of much greater interest to me that you act with diligence in this matter, and not discard precious time for pampering.” Her eyes went to Emma, and her expression became thoughtful.

“If you would excuse me, Your Elegance, I must depart to bring word to my master.” Gregori bowed again, his nose almost scraping the floor — he must have had the dexterity of a tumbler, to pull a dip that low off.

I wanted to grab the little servant by his frilly collar and demand some answers, but under the watchful eyes of Faisa Dance I let him depart.

Once the doors had shut again, muting the rain and leaving us in the company of the Lady Faisa, the old servant, and a pair of guards in shadowed corners of the foyer, the aged noblewoman addressed us.

“Forgive this unexpected audience,” she said, smoothly disentangling from the old man’s arm to approach and address us from a more personable distance. She stood over six feet tall, I noted. “I did not warn Yuri I would be here today. Only…”

She glanced at the servant and smiled sadly. “Well, it is foolish. I suppose I wanted to walk these halls again. Try to…” she waved a hand, as though trying to catch words from the air. “Understand. But I have only found disquietude in myself. But I digress.”

She fixed her pale eyes on me, and I made certain this time to not look directly at them — two awakened souls can tell too much, with direct eye contact, and I didn’t want to risk it until I knew whether she was a sorceress or just a minor adept. “Yselda was a dear friend to me. Be assured that any effort on her behalf will have my full support.”

She glanced at the old man then, and let out a small huff of breath. “Ah, but I have been rude! This is Ingram, steward of this estate.”

The aged servant bowed to me, though refrained from speaking. His eyes seemed distant, as though he only payed half an ear to the conversation.

“Perhaps we can start with what exactly happened here,” I said. It irritated me to ask so bluntly — if I’d had time to investigate properly, before having an audience with a goring High Lady, I’d have interviewed guards and gotten the full story before opening my mouth.

“It is a dreadful business,” the old man, Ingram, said. He had a quavering voice, half a whisper in the cavernous room. “Perhaps one not appropriate for the ears of—”

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

“If you say of women, I’m going to cuff you.” Lady Faisa lifted a well plucked eyebrow at Ingram, though her lips quirked in amusement. “I have all the details, Master Alken — I have placed my own household in charge of this investigation.”

Ingram coughed and looked away, looking suitable chagrined. I felt the wind go out of me at the noblewoman’s words. “House Dance is in charge of tracking the Carmine Killer?”

“Oh, no.” Lady Faisa chuckled. “I misspoke, Ser. I am not the Lady Dance herself. I only mean that my personal retinue has been making inquiries on the matter, and I take no issue with assisting you.”

I breathed a quiet sigh of relief. The last thing I needed was a major power in the Accord hovering over my shoulder. “Very well. Then can you tell me about Lady Yselda?”

Faisa Dance nodded, her wry humor fading into something more sanguine. “Yes. Perhaps we can walk as we speak? I will give you a tour of the estate.”

We followed her deeper into the mansion. As we went, I saw more evidence of the late Lady Yselda of Mirrebel’s passion for art — or, more precisely, her interest in passionate art. Paintings, sculptures, and works made out of all sorts of materials, from metal to glass, filled the manor. Many of them showed beautiful figures, mortal or otherwise, in varying states of undress and intimacy.

Only when we passed by one marble plinth showing a nude man being embraced from behind by an androgynous irk — the kind resembling an insect — did I speak. “The lady had some… worldly tastes.”

Faisa Dance laughed, the sound filling the winding halls with ethereal echoes. “I imagine the word you’re looking for is eclectic. Yes, my dear Yessa was an odd little duckling. You should see her own work — makes me shiver to see it, every time.”

“Perhaps later,” I said politely, impatient to get to the point.

Faisa pursed her lips. “Yes. Later. Ingram, dear, will you catch our good investigator up to speed?”

Ingram coughed and glanced at me uncertainty, clearly still discouraged by the presence of the highborn lady in earshot. “Yes. Ahem. Well, the Lady Yselda has — had — always been a reclusive sort. She enjoyed her privacy, and kept a small household. There were only half a dozen servants and a few guards on the estate, the night she died.”

“You were one of them?” I asked, keeping any accusation from my tone.

The old steward inclined his head. “Indeed. I had already turned in for the night, when one of the guards found me. He said he’d heard strange noises and came to investigate. When they found the ladies chambers locked, they broke the doors down upon hearing a cry of distress within. I came upon the scene myself after…”

He took in a deep breath, his vision sliding backward in time behind those faded eyes. “It was terrible, what I found in that room. Lady Yselda had collapsed near the window, which was, oddly, still closed and locked. She…”

He trailed off, glancing at Faisa Dance. The aged highborn clucked her tongue. “It is quite alright, Ingram. Tell the man.”

He glanced back at me, and made a visible effort to steel himself. “Her eyes were missing, along with her tongue. She was naked, and… hollow. We found insects inside of her body, eating what remained of her organs.”

He looked ready to puke. “I fought in many wars, Ser. I fought in the War of Gilt Petals, and was a tactician during the conflict against the Recusants before retiring. I have seen many terrible things. But what I found in that room, it quite unmanned me.”

“This was three weeks ago?” I asked.

Lady Faisa answered. “Yes. Three weeks, two days. We were still caught in the grasp of winter at the time. It was a particularly cold day, and a dark one. I remember, there were no moons that night.”

She frowned, her own gray eyes going distant. “Strange, what details you remember. I arrived in the city two days after poor Yselda’s death. I admit, I did not take the news well.”

“You were close?” I asked. We passed into another large hall, this one lined in windows of clear glass to show gardens beneath, the hall itself a sort of bridge connecting one section of the manse to another. Rain drummed against the glass, adding a rhythmic ambience to our conversation.

“We were lovers,” Faisa said.

Ingram almost choked. I think Emma might have as well, because she made a small, surprised sound from where she brought up the rear of our little company.

The Dance laughed again, this time with genuine mirth. “Yselda had her start as a courtesan in Mirrei, and an amateur painter. I was one of her patrons, in both respects. We became quite close, though I was somewhat younger and smoother of skin back then.”

I imagined the Lady Faisa having much to do with Yselda’s rise into the nobility as well, in that case. It’s not uncommon, for a highborn to become a person’s benefactor and elevate them into the aristocracy through wealth and connections.

It had happened with me, thanks to Rosanna. I put that parallel out of my head. It wasn’t of any use.

“So far, neither the city guard nor those veiled priests have managed to find anything of substance.” Faisa sighed, pausing as we reached a nexus chamber. Another tall sculpture, this one of a flat-chested woman with six arms, all of them wrapping around her torso as though in self-embrace. Her half-closed eyes studied the floor, a pensive frown touching her lips.

I frowned, turning to face Lady Faisa directly. “The Inquisition is involved?”

She blinked, surprised by the question. “Oh, yes, you just arrived. Indeed, the Priorguard have been investigating these murders since last summer. I suppose, when you start finding corpses full of insects, it’s easy to believe in something occult at work. Even so, they’ve uncovered nothing. At least, nothing they’ve shared with my people.”

“All of the victims have been found like Lady Yselda?” Emma suddenly piped in. When I glared at her, she drew back and closed her lips with a sheepish expression.

Faisa quirked an eyebrow at the breech, but nodded. “So far as I know. At first, it was believed some sort of infestation was at work. However, the lack of red beetles appearing anywhere else in the city, and the fact that the murders continued in the dead of winter, put a stop to that notion.”

It definitely screamed of something supernatural. A magus employing some unholy Art? Or the work of an alchemist-assassin?

I couldn’t be certain, not just off these second hand details. “Can I see the place she died?” I asked.

Faisa Dance closed her eyes and drew in a sharp breath, her first real display of emotion. “But of course.”

She led us to a large door, this one fashioned of dark wood in contrast to the white walls. Ingram unlocked it with a key and led us inside.

The bedroom was large, dimly lit, and full of more strange, subtly disturbing art. This seemed to be where the Lady Yselda kept some of her more risqué pieces, the bed she slept in set among figures engaged in acts of lust or violence, and sometimes both at once. Emma, who’d been Emma Carreon, coughed and almost took a step back out the door.

“Bleeding Gates,” Emma muttered, so only I could hear. “I take back what I said about good taste. Was this woman some kind of pervert?”

“Not now,” I murmured back, though I could hardly disagree. I took in all the details I could as Ingram went to a window to draw back the curtains, letting gray daylight in to better illuminate the space.

There were more sculptures here, some of marble and some of wood, many of them half finished. Yselda’s own projects, I guessed.

My eyes were drawn to one marble figure, a nearly life sized woman with a painfully arched back. A serpent ate its way through her, beginning in one thigh and winding its way up to pass into her sex, eventually emerging from the stomach, where it advanced up and over one shoulder before curling back around to bite at one small breast. I couldn’t quite tell if the expression on the half-finished face had been meant to look euphoric or tortured.

I tore my eyes away from that disturbing sight, but much of the rest ended up being more of the same. Yselda had a particular style, and it ranged from simply macabre to stomach-churning.

Lady Faisa walked into the room without hesitation, her eyes wistful as she looked at the gallery. “She was a troubled woman, my Yessa. Try not to judge her too harshly, Master Alken. Art can often be a means of expressing the darkness within ourselves, but it should not damn us. She was a gentle soul, and dear to me.”

“I’m surprised the Inquisition didn’t confiscate all of this,” I noted, walking toward one wall. There was an oil painting on it, gilt-framed and large enough to dominate the wall.

“Oh, they tried.” A shadow of anger darkened the noblewoman’s voice. “But the Church has not yet grown so powerful as to bully my house. I protested. Loudly. This will all be left as it is, and eventually taken to mine own estates. I will not have my own paramour’s life work thrown into a fire pit, or locked in some dungeon beneath Myrr Arthor.”

I let her speak as I did a circle of the room, my eyes running over one artistic depiction of dark sensuality to the next. I tried not to let my eyes linger on too many details, knowing some of these might end up being eaten by my ring the next time I slept. I rubbed at it with one thumb as I did my round, trying to keep my attention analytical, professional.

The room was cluttered with pieces, and there was little organization in the lot. I sensed something manic about it. Very few projects, whether they were canvas paintings, sculptures, wood carvings, or tapestry, had been finished. Yselda would get near to finishing one piece, usually concentrating on the more grisly details while leaving things like minute facial features or color out, then scramble to the next.

I found one painting, this one done on a large stretch of material set on a stand near the window, that caught my eye. Darkness bled across the canvas, and I could make out a figure within, done in shades so dark the shadowy background nearly swallowed it.

I saw a visage, seemingly distant, pale and beautiful. Silken hair drifted as though underwater, and some odd garment enclosed slim shoulders. She held a red jewel in her hands, the brightest thing in the piece, almost aglow. I realized the shading had been done so the object produced all the light in the composition.

As I looked closer, I realized it wasn’t clothing. The woman in the painting was naked, corpse pale, and enclosed by two clawed, leathery wings. Her eyes were open, milk pale, and staring directly at me.

The object in her hands wasn’t a ruby. It was a human heart, weeping blood.

I drew in a sharp breath and turned sharply away. Faisa had approached, tilting her chin at the piece.

“She was a better sculptor than painter, though I never had the heart to tell her.”

It took me a moment to get my heart back under control. “Not much of an eye for art, myself.”

My eyes went back to the large painting on the wall. It depicted a man with a bloodied crown, a king, who’d had his back and arms flayed and his innards stretched out, scraps of flesh and unwound organs hooked on the branches of two entwining trees lit by a setting sun. A crowd gathered around, some reaching out to caress the king’s bloody legs while others enjoyed a rich feast, selecting delicacies from a table arrayed beneath the trees.

The feast crawled with flies and maggots, which the revelers also ate.

“That doesn’t look like her style,” I noted. It had many differences in technique, though most prominently I didn’t see any beautiful, mostly naked women, which seemed to feature in all of Yselda’s works.

“No eye for art, hm?” Faisa smiled grimly at me, then nodded to the large painting. “That was painted by Ser Anselm of Ruon. He is one of the most prominent members of the Urnic Renaissance, a true master of his craft. Many believe he and his contemporaries may even allow us to compete with the artistic movements dominant in the continent.”

It seemed out of place among all the rest. I studied it a while, not certain why it bothered me.

“What do you hope to find here, that the rest couldn’t?” The Lady Faisa hardly had to look up to meet my eye, with her impressive height. “Yuri has always proven himself hellishly well connected. You are an adept, yes?”

I didn’t see any reason to hide it, not after she’d met my eyes. “Yes.” I glanced around at the room. “I may be able to discover something the knights and priests couldn’t. Can you show me where her body was found?”

Faisa nodded to Ingram, who brought me to the windows along the far wall. I squinted at the frosted glass, and my eyes went to the framing — the windows had been double panned, and heavily reinforced.

“Has there been a problem with burglary in the city?” I asked.

“Not in this neighborhood,” Ingram said. “Though, it is not an unusual precaution. Even still, the lady had these put in some weeks before her death. She never explained why.”

“Did she have troubled sleep?” I asked. “Nightmares?”

Ingram frowned, his wizened face crinkling in thought. “I don’t believe—”

“Yes,” Faisa said, speaking over the steward. I didn’t miss the note of pain in that one quiet word. “For many years. I spoke with her maids after all of this, and they admitted it had grown worse. She took teas. Smoked. I’d thought she’d stopped those habits, but…”

She trailed off, turning her face away and blinking rapidly. She was far too well bred to weep in front of us, but I saw the fight. I averted my eyes.

I glanced down at the floor in front of the window, where the troubled artist had been found after her grisly death. I drew in a deep breath, preparing myself mentally for what came next.

When I’d linked myself to the lingering od, the residue of aura, and gained a vision of the death of the bridge troll in Caelfall, it had been dead only days and had left a corpse behind. I didn’t know if I’d get much here, weeks after the fact and with no body. There weren’t even any blood stains left — the servants had cleaned thoroughly.

Even still, I had to try. I adjusted my cloak and knelt, reaching a hand out to the rich carpet. I brushed my fingers against it, closed my eyes, and opened my senses, reaching out with my aura to gain insight into what mortal eyes could not see.

And…

Regretted it instantly.

The daylight filtering through the window cut out like a torch flame caught in an icy wind. The other people in the room dissipated like wisps of mist. A deafening, roaring silence descended down around me.

I felt the hairs on the back of my neck and arms stand on end, and a cold sweat prickle across my brow. My hand, which trembled, hovered over the carpet. I lifted it, and my fingers came away sticky with blood. The carpeting had suddenly become damp with it.

Something crawled beneath the carpet. I could hear it now, a writhing, scuttling sound. Bulges formed and depressed across its face, as though the material had begun to boil.

I heard creaking wood, and lifted my eyes to the room. All the artwork, from the disturbing sculptures to the manically painted scraps of canvas, now faced me, staring with hollow, hateful eyes.

The scuttling, boiling mass beneath the carpet began to spread. I stood and backed away, resisting the urge to reach for my axe. The floorboards began to rot, the change crawling up the walls, settling into the ceiling. Oil and paint began to seep from the walls like slow running blood, pooling across the floor.

My eyes went to the bed, a round set with an enclosing curtain. I couldn’t see through the curtain, but something stirred within. It moaned in a soft, gurgling voice.

I began to hear the sound of a beating heart. I thought it was the one I often heard, when dark things were near, but my eyes went to the painting of the she-demon. The heart in her hands had come alive, swelling grotesquely with each throb until it seemed ready to burst.

Clenching my teeth, I squeezed my eyes shut and tore myself from the vision. Instantly I was back in the room as it had been, several sets of eyes on me. I had fallen to one knee, covered in cold sweat, and Emma had rushed forward to kneel at my side. Ingram had a confused, concerned expression, and Faisa a thoughtful frown.

“Are you alright?” Emma asked, speaking quietly.

“Fine,” I croaked. Standing, I let Emma help me until I felt steady. I turned to face Faisa. I tried not to stare at the rest of the room, at all the things which Yselda had poured her mind, her soul, into, tainting them with her fears and obsessions.

She, too, had been able to wield aura. She’d worked her spirit into her art, and it had all been touched by something foul.

Something I knew. Something I’d been trained to know.

“What did you see?” Faisa asked me, her aloofness gone now, her gray eyes intense as she waited for what I’d say.

I took a moment to gather myself. It took effort just to resist the compulsion to flee the room, or start swinging my axe at everything around me. “I know who the Carmine Killer is — or, I know what it is.”

I stared at them, set my jaw, and told them the truth my powers had screamed into me. “Yselda of Mirrebel was killed by a demon.”

This chapter upload first at NovelBin.Com