The screen flickered, and the image resolved. John leaned forward, his yellow eyes narrowing as he took in the scene. The banquet hall was enormous, easily the size of a small cathedral, with vaulted ceilings that disappeared into shadow and chandeliers that dripped with crystals, each one catching the candlelight and scattering it across the room in a thousand tiny rainbows. The walls were draped in rich tapestries depicting historical battles, knights on horseback charging into formations of faceless enemies, flags waving triumphantly over conquered fortresses. Long tables stretched from one end of the hall to the other, covered in white linen cloths and laden with golden platters of roasted meat, pyramids of exotic fruits, and goblets that looked like they were made of solid gold.
And moving through it all, like a shark gliding through calm waters, was Zedrik.
John's jaw tightened as he watched the red-haired bastard work the room. Zedrik was wearing a suit, not armor, and the difference was almost more offensive than the battle gear had been. The suit was tailored perfectly, dark charcoal gray with subtle pinstripes, the jacket cut to emphasize his broad shoulders and narrow waist. His red hair was combed back from his face, styled in a way that managed to look both casual and meticulously arranged. His jaw was sharp, his smile was easy, and his green eyes sparkled with false warmth as he moved from group to group, shaking hands, clapping shoulders, leaving every person he spoke to charmed and delighted.
God, John hated him. Hated his stupid handsome face. Hated his stupid perfect hair. Hated the way he moved through the crowd like he owned every room he ever walked into.
Zedrik's target was a noblewoman standing near one of the side tables, a glass of wine already in her hand. She was young, maybe early twenties, with dark hair piled high on her head in an elaborate arrangement of curls and pins. Her dress was deep blue silk, cut low enough to show the tops of her breasts, tight enough to emphasize the curve of her hips. She was laughing at something the person next to her had said, her head tilted back, her throat exposed.
Zedrik approached her with the smooth confidence of a man who had done this a hundred times before. He said something, and the woman's laughter shifted, becoming warmer, more personal. She turned to face him fully, and John could see the way her eyes traveled over his face, his shoulders, his hands. The way she bit her lower lip, just slightly, just for a moment.
"May I?" Zedrik asked, gesturing to the empty seat beside her. His voice was low, warm, intimate, even through the screen's audio feed.
The woman nodded, her cheeks flushing. "Of course, Sir Zedrik. I've heard so much about you. They say you're the most eligible knight in the kingdom."
Zedrik laughed, a soft, self-deprecating sound. "Eligible? My lady, I'm barely functional. I spend most of my days training, most of my nights patrolling, and the few hours in between trying to remember what sleep feels like. I'm not sure that qualifies as eligible. More like pitiable."
The woman's flush deepened. "A knight who works so hard for his people is exactly the kind of man any woman would be lucky to have."
"You flatter me," Zedrik said, reaching out to touch her hand where it rested on the table. His fingers brushed her knuckles, light but delibrate. "But I suspect you flatter everyone. It's a gift, I think. Making people feel seen."
The woman's breath hitched. "I... I try to see the good in people. It's not always easy, but with you..." She trailed off, looking down at their hands.
Zedrik's smile widened, and John wanted to punch the screen. The bastard was good. Really good. He knew exactly what to say, exactly how to modulate his voice, exactly when to touch and when to pull back. It was manipulation, pure and simple, wrapped in the guise of genuine interest.
"I'm glad," Zedrik said softly. "It's rare to find someone who looks past the armor, you know? Everyone sees the sword and the shield. No one sees the man beneath."
The woman looked up at him, her eyes bright. "I see you."
Zedrik held her gaze for a long moment, and then he looked away, almost shyly. "May I get you another drink? Your glass is nearly empty."
The woman glanced down at her wine, then back at Zedrik. "That would be lovely."
Zedrik stood and signaled to a wine server passing by, a young man in a white jacket carrying a tray of filled glasses. Zedrik took two, one for himself and one for the woman. But as he turned back toward the table, his hand moved. Fast, practiced, almost invisible. He palmed something from his pocket, a small vial, and tipped it into the woman's glass. The liquid dissolved instantly, leaving no trace, no color, no scent.
John's blood ran cold.
Zedrik set the glass in front of the woman with a warm smile. "To new friends," he said, raising his own glass.
The woman laughed and clinked her glass against his. "To new friends."
She drank. Deep, thirsty swallows, the way you drink when you're comfortable, when you feel safe. When you trust the person who handed you the glass.
Zedrik watched her drink, his green eyes tracking the movement of her throat, and John saw it. The flicker of something dark in those handsome eyes. The satisfaction of a hunter watching its prey walk into the trap.
The woman set the glass down, blinking rapidly. "Oh," she said, her voice suddenly fuzzy. "I feel... a bit dizzy. How strange."
Zedrik was on his feet in an instant, his hand on her elbow, steadying her. "Are you alright, my lady? Perhaps the wine was stronger than you're used to. Or perhaps you haven't eaten enough today."
The woman shook her head, then winced at the motion. "I... I don't know. I feel so strange."
"Let me help you," Zedrik said, his voice dripping with concern. "I'll escort you to your room. You can lie down, rest for a while. I'll have a servant bring you some water and bread."
The woman looked up at him, her eyes glassy, her pupils dilated. "You're so kind," she slurred. "So very kind."
Zedrik smiled, and this time, he didn't bother to hide the darkness behind it. "It's nothing, my lady. I'm a knight. It's my duty to protect those in need."
He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close, and began steering her toward the exit. The woman leaned against him, her head lolling against his shoulder, her feet stumbling. No one in the banquet hall seemed to notice. Or if they did, they didn't care. A knight helping a dizzy noblewoman to her room. Nothing unusual. Nothing suspicious.
John watched them go, his hands gripping the armrests of his chair so hard the wood creaked.
"Ohhh," John breathed, his voice low and dangerous. "Hohohohoho."
The system pinged.
You sound like a deranged lunatic.
John ignored it. He was already laughing, a low, building chuckle that bubbled up from somewhere deep in his chest. His yellow eyes were wide, almost manic, and a grin was spreading across his face like wildfire.
"THIS MEANS HE DOESN'T EVEN FEEL BAD ANYMORE!" John shouted, throwing his arms up in the air. "HAHAHAHAHAHA! IM GOING TO TORTURE AND KILL THE MOTHERFUCKER A MILLION TIMES! HAHAHAHAHAHA!"
You're scaring me.
"Good! You should be scared! I'm about to do some very scary things to that red-haired piece of shit!" John was pacing now, his boots pounding against the stone floor, his hands waving wildly. "Roofies! He uses roofies! On top of everything else! The massacre, the groping, the casual cruelty, and now I find out he's also a serial rapist? Oh, this is beautiful. This is perfect. I don't have to feel bad about anything I'm going to do to him. Not a single thing!"
I wasn't worried about you feeling bad. I was worried about you having a stroke.
John waved the concern away. "I'm fine. I'm better than fine. I'm inspired!" He spun back toward the monitors, jabbing a finger at the screen. "Pan to Alrick. I want to see what the other one is up to."
The screen flickered, the image shifting. The banquet hall vanished, replaced by a narrow corridor somewhere in the back of the venue. The walls were plain stone, unadorned, lit by flickering torches in iron sconces. And there, pressed against the wall, was Alrick.
Alrick was also out of his armor, dressed in a black suit that somehow made him look even more unsettling than his battle gear had. The suit was too formal, too stiff, like he was playing dress-up rather than actually attending an event. His scarred face was pale in the torchlight, his eyes fixed on something in front of him with an intensity that made John's skin crawl.
That something was a serving woman.
She was young, maybe twenty-five, with brown hair pulled back in a severe bun and a plain white apron over her simple dress. Her breasts were large, straining against the fabric of her uniform, and Alrick's eyes kept drifting down to them, lingering, hungry. She was carrying a tray of empty glasses, trying to move past him, but he kept stepping into her path, blocking her way.
"I've been watching you all night," Alrick said, his voice soft and flat, the same tone he'd used when asking if he could keep the corpses. "You have such pretty skin. So warm. So alive."
The woman's hands were shaking, the glasses on her tray clinking together. "Please, sir, I need to get these to the kitchen. They're waiting for—"
"I don't care what they're waiting for." Alrick stepped closer, and the woman stepped back, her shoulders hitting the stone wall. "I care about you. About how soft you look. About how warm you must be."
John's stomach turned. This wasn't flirting. This wasn't even seduction. This was something else entirely, something darker and more predatory.
"I like when they struggle at first," Alrick continued, reaching out to touch a strand of the woman's hair. She flinched, pressing herself harder against the wall. "It makes it more interesting. But I also like when they don't. When they just... accept it. When they go still and quiet and let me do what I want."
The woman's eyes were filled with tears. "Please," she whispered. "Please just let me go. I won't tell anyone. I swear. Just let me—"
"You would look so much hotter with paler skin," Alrick interrupted, tilting his head. "I've always preferred pale skin. It looks better in contrast. Against blood, I mean. The red pops so nicely."
The woman let out a choked sob.
Alrick smiled, and it was the worst thing John had ever seen. "Don't cry. You'll ruin your pretty face. I want to remember you like this. Warm and scared and so, so alive."
John's hands were shaking now, not with fear, but with rage. Pure, incandescent rage.
"You know," Alrick said, his voice conversational, almost friendly, "I've always wondered what it would be like to fuck a body that's still warm. Still soft. Still... responsive. Do you know what I mean? When the heart is still beating, but the mind is gone. When the body doesn't fight because it can't. It just... accepts."
The woman was crying openly now, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Please," she begged. "Please, I have a family. I have children. They need me. Please just let me—"
"I could kill you," Alrick said, and he sounded genuinely thoughtful. "Right here. Right now. It would be quick. You wouldn't even feel it. And then I could fuck you, and you wouldn't struggle at all. You'd just lie there, warm and soft and perfect."
The woman's legs gave out. She slid down the wall, collapsing onto the floor, her tray clattering beside her. Alrick crouched down, bringing himself to her level, his scarred face inches from hers.
"Or," he said, "you could let me fuck you while you're still alive. While you can still feel it. While you can still beg. I like begging. It's so... musical."
"I just want to be left alone," the woman sobbed, curling in on herself. "Please. Please just leave me alone."
Alrick's hand shot out, grabbing her by the chin, forcing her to look at him. "Strip," he ordered, his voice flat and cold. "Right here. Right now. Or I'll cut your clothes off. Your choice."
The woman's eyes went wide, and she started to shake her head, but Alrick's other hand moved, and suddenly there was a knife at her throat. A small blade, thin and sharp, pressed against her pulse point.
"Either you get fucked while you're alive," Alrick said, "or you get fucked when you're dead. Those are your only options. Choose."
The woman's mouth opened, but no sound came out. Her whole body was trembling, tears rolling down her cheeks and dripping onto her apron. She looked like a rabbit caught in a snare, frozen, helpless, waiting for the end.
John couldn't watch anymore.
He turned the monitor off with a flick of his wrist, plunging the screen into darkness. The room felt suddenly too quiet, too still. His hands were still shaking. His heart was pounding. His mind was racing, filled with images he couldn't unsee, words he couldn't unhear.
He sighed, long and heavy, and leaned back in the chair.
"Now," John said, his voice steady, "is a better time as any to stop this."
He stood up, his body moving with purpose. The goblin form was still on him, the silver-gray curls and the handsome green features, but he didn't bother changing. It didn't matter what he looked like. Not anymore.
He teleported.
The world folded around him, the darkness of his game room replaced by the cool night air of Thornheim. John was standing at the entrance of the giant gala, the doors towering above him, the sounds of music and laughter drifting through the cracks. Light spilled out from the windows, warm and golden, painting the cobblestones in soft hues.
John grinned, wide and sharp.
"Now's a better time as any to kill some rapists," he said.
And he pushed the doors open.