CHAPTER 12 VARVAAN AND THE BADAL
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In the gritty red light that swallowed the room—dim, not sharp—most of the space still lingered in shadow. The light bled from a lone lamp, its flame burning a deep crimson. It stood beside a closed wooden door, half-drenched in red glow and half-consumed by darkness. The room itself breathed in a reddish-black haze.
Within that suffocating stillness, a sobbing sound pulsed—low, broken, yet piercing enough to slice through the silence.
It was a woman.
She lay at the center of a wide bed, its sheets crushed and tangled beneath her. The eerie red light traced across her bare thighs and upper body, while a dark grey sheet clung loosely around her waist, slipping down, half-draped and half-fallen to the floor. She was the same dancer who had once commanded the hall with grace—now reduced, swallowed by shadow.
Her eyes, once fierce and alive under the dark stroke of kajal, were now flooded with silent tears. The black lines had run down her cheeks, smudged and broken, distorting the beauty she once carried with pride. Her ears, once adorned with gleaming jewels, now bled fresh—earrings torn away by force. Her hair, once woven like silk, lay in disarray, strands scattered across her pale skin. That same skin, white with a faint brown glow, was now marked—reddened in patches, scratched by nails, bruised into ruin.
Her body trembled as she gasped for air, sobbing uncontrollably, each breath shallow and desperate.
"Hmm… that was good, right?"
A man stood beside the bed, half-hidden in the dim red glow. He adjusted the thread of his red-brown pants, his movements casual, almost bored. His black hair fell slightly long, curling at the ends, and around his neck was a tattoo—a crow strangled in a thorned rope—its twisted form adding to the unsettling aura he carried. His shadow loomed large against the wall, stretching and warping in the flickering red flame.
He was Alimer.
He turned toward the door and walked with steady steps, then paused briefly. From a hanger nailed into the wall, he took a long brown cloak. As he draped it over his shoulders, a faint smile crept onto his lips. Without looking back properly, he spoke toward the woman, his tone almost amused.
"What's the matter? You should be enjoying too. I was just admiring your beauty the whole time. Otherwise, I wouldn't even sniff around ugliness. So take it as a compliment… right? Well—next time."
He gave her one last glance—cold, detached—and then opened the door. With a firm push, he stepped out and slammed it shut behind him.
Inside, the woman heard everything.
All she could do was grip the sheets tighter, her fingers digging into the fabric as her sobbing deepened—helpless, unchanged.
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Alimer stepped into the hallway, his expression light, almost refreshed—as if nothing had happened. He was about to leave when he noticed someone.
A man sat on a stone bench in the luxurious yet strangely lifeless corridor.
Golden hair, combed back with precise care. Blue eyes that shimmered faintly even under dim light. He wore a perfectly woven silk outfit, his posture composed, head slightly lowered as if lost in thought.
Before him sat two others—Maggrix and Xenon—on a bench facing him. As they noticed Alimer approaching, both stood up immediately.
Alimer adjusted his cloak again, leaving part of his red-marked chest visible. He stepped forward and stopped before the golden-haired man—Aexmon—who still hadn't moved.
"Aexmon… thanks for your loyal and royal support."
His voice carried a sharp edge of sarcasm as he looked down at him.
"Your help was much needed. And you spoke far more than I ever imagined…" He paused, then smirked. "Just like your father did when your pig of an uncle ascended the throne."
Aexmon didn't react immediately.
Instead, he slowly rose to his feet.
They stood face to face—barely an inch apart.
Blue eyes locked onto black.
The silence stretched, heavy and tense, before Aexmon finally spoke—calm, but edged with restrained anger.
"You see, Alimer… I did what you asked as a favor—for what you did ten years ago for me. That's all. It was your job to handle the rest. I gain nothing from this—neither from my uncle nor from you."
He raised his hand, pointing past Alimer toward Maggrix.
"And the most important thing—this old-looking blade, Maggrix…"
His voice sharpened.
"…came to me like I worked for you. Walks straight into my playcourt and says—'Prince, Alimer has called you for a favor to return.'"
His jaw tightened slightly.
"I swear… I would have killed him right there—just for the tone he used. I already despise that kind of arrogance."
He stepped closer, his voice dropping slightly but growing heavier.
"Listen carefully, Alimer. I did what you asked. If you have nothing to offer, you get nothing in return. So stop wasting your strength on helpless dancers… and get something that's actually worth more than that smirk of yours."
With that, he turned to leave.
As he passed, his gaze briefly met Maggrix's—both exchanging a sharp, unspoken hostility—then Xenon's, who simply looked down at the axe resting between his boots.
Aexmon walked toward the end of the hallway.
He stopped only when he heard a voice behind him—but didn't turn back.
Alimer, who had been silent, finally spoke.
"We'll be meeting him again… right, Aexmon?"
A smirk lingered on his lips.
Aexmon's voice came without hesitation.
"When you have something worth wagging a dog for… then maybe."
And with that, he walked away—his golden hair fading into the shadows of the long corridor.
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"He talks too much… doesn't he, sir?"
Maggrix muttered, his face still tense as he stared into the darkness where Aexmon had disappeared.
Alimer shrugged lightly.
"Well… that's just him trying to look big."
He turned and began walking down the right side of the hallway, cloak shifting with his movement, chest still partially exposed.
Xenon lifted his axe, resting it over his shoulder.
"Sir Alimer… I think we should place someone inside Gorian's castle. A spy."
Alimer glanced slightly.
"How about Maanasa? She's good with that kind of work."
"But Saman said he's not interested in those things anymore… right?"
"Yeah… there's a rumor he still sleeps with his sixty-year-old wife."
Maggrix scoffed, wiping his bald, bearded head with a damp cloth.
"That's just disgusting."
"Leave it for now," Alimer said, his tone turning sharper. "The most important person to watch isn't Gorian… it's that sister-fucker Kaarner. Just thinking about him irritates me. He's always walking the same line I do."
"Yeah, boss," Maggrix nodded. "We should send some rats first. We lost track of him because of that Auskle incident—and somehow he's connected to the devils now."
Alimer slowed slightly.
"Speaking of that… Xenon. What do you think? Why are devils suddenly involving themselves in politics? They've always stayed out of direct conflict."
Xenon didn't look at him.
"I don't know. Maybe they want something… they can't obtain on their own."
A brief silence followed.
"Let's head back to base," Alimer said, sounding slightly tired now. "We've been out in the sun too long."
"Yes, boss," Maggrix replied, already moving ahead. "I'll arrange transport. One of our horses went missing—in daylight. I'll check for a replacement."
He walked ahead with heavy steps.
Alimer paused for a moment, then glanced at Xenon with a faint, curious smile.
"So… Xenon. That man who was following us this afternoon—what's his name?"
"I know he's from the devils. Not much more."
Alimer exhaled lightly.
"The curiosity is killing me…"
Xenon replied calmly, eyes forward.
"His name is Varvaan. His horse—Badal. But as I said… he's not our concern right now."
Alimer nodded slowly.
"Yeah… I thought the same. But when that pig king mentioned devils entering politics… I figured maybe we should start watching their movements."
"Don't worry about it," Xenon said. "Just play your game. Don't pry into theirs."
A faint grin spread across Alimer's face.
"But I'd really like to cross paths with them one day… what do you think?"
They stepped out into the open.
The evening breeze brushed against them, carrying the warmth of a dim, cloud-covered orange sky. Ahead, Maggrix waved, his bald head catching the fading light as he pointed toward a prepared cart.
As they walked toward it, Xenon spoke—just loud enough for Alimer to hear.
"We all cross paths… if fate decides it."
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The End