Absolute Sovereignty-Chapter 31: The Harvest of Souls

The Golden Barrel tavern reeked of stale ale, sweat, and desperation.

The air kept clinging to the back of the throat. Outside, the night was a shade of deep indigo, punctuated by the flickering glow of oil lamps and the distant, mournful howl of a stray dog.

Inside, the tavern buzzed with a forced sense of revelry. Men, their faces flushed with drink, toasted each other with overflowing mugs of ale, the liquid sloshing over the rims and staining their roughspun tunics.

Laughter, loud and boisterous, but somehow hollow, echoed through the room, punctuated by the rhythmic thud of tankards slamming against the worn wooden tables.

"Heard the Xarnis king plans to put a bounty on the Ash Prince's head," one man slurred, his words thick with ale. "A king's ransom, they say. Enough to buy this whole damn tavern and every drop of piss-poor ale in it."

"Aye," another man chuckled, his breath reeking of onions and cheap wine. "But who'd be fool enough to try and collect? The prince might be a drunkard, but he's still got the Emperor's ear after his stunt, and we both know what he will do. No one in the right mind would challenge that authority."

"Unless they're desperate enough," a third man chimed in, his eyes darting nervously towards the door. "There's plenty of desperate men in this world, especially now. A king's ransom is a king's ransom, no matter the risk. We know many men who would take such an opportunity."

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Each of the men had something in common, a small, crimson hand tattooed on the back of their necks, a mark of their allegiance, their membership in the Crimson Hand.

Suddenly, the tavern door burst open, the wood splintering as Garron's massive frame slammed into it. He strode into the room, his swagger radiating an air of casual menace, his eyes scanning the assembled men with a predatory glint.

Commander Lyra and Prince Kaelen followed, their expressions cold and impassive.

The tavern fell silent, the forced laughter dying in their throats, as all eyes turned towards the newcomers. Garron, with a theatrical flourish, dragged a chair across the floor, the wood screeching against the stone, and placed it before Kaelen.

The prince sat, crossing his legs, his gaze sweeping across the room, taking in the faces of the Crimson Hand members.

"I have no plans to interrupt your night for long," Kaelen said, his voice smooth and even, yet laced with an undercurrent of steel. "I just have a few questions. Then I'll be out of your hair. First... where is Red?"

The men exchanged uneasy glances, their faces a mixture of confusion and resentment. One of them, a burly man with a scarred face and a sneer that didn't quite reach his eyes, spoke.

"Wait... you're not the... the drunkard prince, are you?" he said, his voice laced with disbelief. "The gods truly smile on us! I wonder how much the King will pay for your corpse."

"Hmm," Kaelen murmured, a flicker of disappointment in his eyes. "Wrong answer."

In a blink, Commander Lyra's blade flashed, a silver arc in the dim light of the tavern.

Before the man could react, the sword sliced through his throat, the artery bursting open in a spray of crimson. He clutched at his neck, his eyes wide with shock and terror, his gurgling breaths echoing in the sudden silence, before crumpling to the floor, his lifeblood staining the worn floorboards.

The remaining men surged to their feet, their hands reaching for the weapons hidden beneath their clothes. "You fucker!" one of them roared, his face contorted with rage. "You think we won't kill you?"

Kaelen sighed, his expression weary. "You don't learn, do you?"

Before the man could lunge forward, Garron grabbed him by the throat, lifting him off the ground as if he weighed no more than a child. Flames erupted from Garron's hand, engulfing the man in a searing inferno.

The smell of burning flesh filled the air as the man's screams turned to gurgles, his body charring and blackening until he was nothing but a smoldering husk.

Kaelen stood, his gaze cold and impassive. "I see you all plan to be... uncooperative," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Then you might as well be... feast for the darkness."

He turned to Garron and Commander Lyra. "Refrain from intervening," he instructed, his voice flat and emotionless. He rolled up the sleeves of his tunic, revealing the intricate sigils tattooed on his forearms, the markings pulsing with a faint, dark energy.

The remaining men, their faces a mixture of rage and terror, lunged at Kaelen, their weapons flashing in the candle light. But the prince moved with a speed and ferocity they hadn't anticipated.

He weaved through their attacks, his movements fluid and graceful, like a dancer amidst a storm of steel. His hands, imbued with the power of the Voidwell, lashed out, striking with deadly precision.

Each blow shattered bones, ruptured organs, and extinguished life.

With each kill, Kaelen felt the power surging within him, the darkness whispering promises of even greater strength.

Men died, then more, brutally and swiftly and theirs souls did not make it to the afterlife.

[Soulcraft Progress: 45/100]

[Soulcraft Progress: 58/100]

[New Ability Unlocked: Soul Drain (Passive)]

[Soulcraft Progress: 72/100]

[Soulcraft Progress: 89/100]

[New Ability Unlocked: Shadow Cloak]

[Soulcraft Progress: 100/100]

[Soulcraft Stage Upgraded: Shade]

The whispers intensified, clawing at his sanity, his vision blurring, and memories of his childhood with Lysa fractured, their faces shifting, becoming a grotesque distortion of what had been. But he pushed forward, consumed by a desire he no longer understood, a desire to gather all their power, their very essence.

The tavern floor became slick with blood, the air thick with the coppery tang of death. Kaelen, his face streaked with crimson, his eyes glowing with an unnatural light, stood amidst the carnage, a whirlwind of death and destruction.

He grabbed the last survivor, a whimpering, terrified man, by the throat, lifting him off the ground. "Please... mercy..." the man gasped, his voice barely a whisper. "Red... he'll be returning tomorrow night... from Alderanth..."

"Good," Kaelen said, his voice cold and devoid of emotion. "But it's... too late."

He absorbed the man's soul, the final harvest, and felt the power of the Voidwell surging, a rush of darkness that threatened to consume him entirely. He could feel the change, the cold embrace of power, the very essence of what he had sought since he returned from death.

But it was not enough.

No power in the realm would be enough for him, nothing would ever appease this void, and perhaps that was his curse.

Commander Lyra, her face pale with terror, watched the carnage unfold, her eyes wide with disbelief. "What... what the hell have you become?" she whispered, her voice barely audible above the drip, drip, drip of blood echoing through the silent tavern.

Kaelen didn't answer. He turned towards the terrified tavern owner, who cowered behind the counter, his eyes wide with horror. "I apologize for the mess," Kaelen said, his voice flat and emotionless. "I'm sure blood doesn't clean from wood easily."

The tavern, once filled with the sounds of drunken revelry, was now a charnel house, a graveyard of hollow corpses and crimson pools.