The Sinful Young Master

Chapter 293: Dreadlands depths

The stench of death hung heavy in the air of the Dreadlands, a putrid miasma that had become as familiar as breathing to the soldiers stationed there.

Piles of nyphorite corpses surrounded the human encampment—grotesque forms with black, chitinous skin that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Their alien anatomy defied easy description: elongated limbs that bent at impossible angles, multiple eyes that continued to gleam with malevolent intelligence even in death, and mouths filled with rows of crystalline teeth that still dripped with acidic saliva.

The abominable creatures of the far end abyss were now lying dead, and their corpses formed mountains.

Two months had passed since the Empire’s forces had successfully halted the nyphorite advance at the borders of the Midlands.

What had begun as a desperate defensive action had evolved into a sustained campaign of extermination, pushing deep into the creatures’ native territory.

The cost had been enormous—thousands of soldiers lost to the alien horrors that seemed to spawn endlessly from the deeper reaches of the Dreadlands.

Yet they had held.

More than held—they had driven the enemy back to their very doorstep.

The encampment itself was a testament to human determination and military planning.

Raised on cleared ground that had been sanctified by battle-priests and warded against the corrupting influence of the Dreadlands, it consisted of two primary sections.

The dreaded depths: the land was filled with a thick blanket of miasma that would make any soldier or mage fall to their knees. It was a place where no normal human would dare trespass.

But the two sections of the imperial army had pushed through the depths and made their ground.

The larger bore the azure and silver banners of House Kaezhlar, while the smaller flew the crimson and gold of House Naemarys.

Kaezhlar was like a hound sprinting forward with no obstacles. Gold-plated knights acted in groups and moved as one; they were a force that acted as a tank. Those knights are the elites of the Kaezhlar clan and are highly skilled and powerful. They were directly under the patriarch’s command.

And Caelum led them straight into the horde and speared his way into the dreadlands.

After the attack on the clan, many thought that the clan was done for, but Caelum had proved them wrong by showing his mettle.

He was ahead of the Naemarys in terms of killing the Nyphorite numbers.

And right now, those clan groups have settled themselves in the depths, setting up camps.

Before the largest tent in the Kaezhlar section, Patriarch Caelum sat on a simple camp stool, methodically consuming a meal of dried meat and hardtack.

Despite the grim surroundings, he maintained the dignity befitting his station—his beard neatly trimmed, his armour polished to a dull gleam that wouldn’t catch enemy eyes. The weight of command sat heavily on his shoulders, more so now than in the initial desperate days of the campaign.

He brought the high priests along so they could treat his men, and they were doing their duty perfectly. He took care of his men and led them by being at the front so they suffered only injuries but no deaths.

His men were sitting around him, relaxing after a daylong battle.

It had been a week since they entered the dreadlands’ depths, and if not for Caelum masking their camp with his aura, they couldn’t even last an hour in this miasma.

Captain-Knight Eran approached, his footsteps muffled by the black sand that covered everything in this cursed place.

At thirty-five, Eran was young for his rank, but his skill with both blade and battlefield tactics had earned him Caelum’s trust—and more importantly, his respect. The knight’s usually immaculate appearance showed the strain of two months in the Dreadlands: his dark hair was streaked with premature silver, and his eyes held the hollow look of a man who had seen too much death.

”Patriarch,” Eran said, offering a crisp salute.

”I have the reports you requested.”

Caelum gestured to another camp stool. ”Speak.”

He studied Eran’s face as the knight settled himself. ”What news from the Midlands?”

Eran hesitated, clearly reluctant to deliver unwelcome information. ”The supply lines remain secure. The northern settlements report no nyphorite activity for the past three weeks. The southern coastal cities are beginning to resume normal trade operations.”

”That’s good news,” Caelum observed. ”But that’s not what troubles you.”

The knight’s jaw tightened. ”No, Patriarch. It’s about young Master Jolthar.”

At the mention of his nephew’s name, Caelum’s expression grew carefully neutral.

”Continue.”

”He’s been missing from the Midlands for two months now. Our agents in Tekkora report he left Baroness Cleora’s estate around the time of our initial deployment. No one has seen him since.”

Caelum set down his meal, his appetite suddenly gone.

”Missing, or deliberately absent?”

”Unknown,” Eran admitted.

”The Barony’s people claim he simply vanished one morning. Our informants suggest he may have headed toward the north-eastern borderlands, but the trail goes cold there.”

The Patriarch was quiet for a long moment, staring out at the blasted landscape that surrounded them.

When he finally spoke, his voice carried the weight of years and hard-won wisdom. ”Where might he have gone? I don’t think he would leave the barony unprotected. If he did, it might be more important than that.”

”You think he’s involved in something related to the Nyphorite invasion?” Eran asked.

”I think,” Caelum said carefully, ”that my nephew follows currents we cannot see. Whether that leads him toward danger or away from it remains to be determined.”

Eran leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. ”There are rumours, Patriarch. Stories from the deep scouts about strange energies being detected in the eastern wastes. Powers that don’t match any known magic.”

”What kind of powers?”

”Dark gods,” Eran said, the words carrying an almost superstitious dread. ”The kind that was supposed to have been purged from the world centuries ago.”

Caelum’s eyes sharpened. ”And you think this is connected to Jolthar?”

”I don’t know what to think,” Eran admitted.

”But the timing is... suspicious.”

Before Caelum could respond, a commotion from the Naemarys section of the camp drew their attention. Raised voices carried across the intervening space, heated but not quite loud enough to make out individual words.

”It seems our allies are having their own discussions,” Caelum observed dryly.