Gunmage
Chapter 119: Threads of madness

Chapter 119: Chapter 119: Threads of madness

"I see... so you’re a lunatic."

Isolde froze for a moment, but then slipped back into her delirious rhythm. Her voice was calm, far too calm for the words that followed.

"Do you want to die?"

Lugh sighed. He rose from the bed and brushed her hands away with the grace of someone entirely unbothered.

"Do you really think you can kill me?"

His wrists were still bound tightly with mystical chains of unknown origin. If they weren’t, he might’ve been rubbing his forehead in exasperation.

Instead, he settled for another long, quiet breath.

Isolde glanced up, her eyes reflecting the restraints. A slow, eerie smile curled her lips.

"Finally"

She whispered.

Then she turned and left. The door slammed shut behind her, the echo of her footsteps retreating, one at a time, until, eventually, they ceased.

Lugh sat back down, his expression twisted into a rare frown. A deep one. Since arriving here, he hadn’t shown many expressions at all.

He’d called her a lunatic because, frankly, it was the only explanation that made any sense at the time.

But in truth, he had no idea what had triggered such a disturbing change in her.

Several possibilities flashed through his mind. Was she being controlled? Was she acting? Did witnessing her daughter’s suffering shatter something inside her?

Or...

He shook his head.

Something was definitely off. But in some ways, being here in the dungeon was a blessing. From this vantage, he could observe, undisturbed and unmonitored.

No eyes on him. No distractions. Just silence and strategy.

Still, Isolde’s behavior gnawed at him more than he cared to admit. He made sure to leave fragments of his awareness, threads of consciousness, constantly watching her.

Through windows. Cracks in the ceiling. The corners of rooms.

The Von Heim estate was experiencing a sudden, dramatic rodent infestation, and Lugh was every rat.

Time passed slowly.

Lugh didn’t move from the bed. His eyes were closed, but his mind didn’t rest.

Aboveground, Isolde had returned to the manor and resumed her duties. Outwardly, she appeared composed. There were no signs of her earlier behaviour.

She was calm, unshakeable, controlled. Her daughter’s life was no longer in imminent danger, though she would most likely bear the scars of disfigurement forever.

In the meantime, Isolde’s search for the culprit burned with ruthless intensity. She turned to her most loyal weapon, her shadows.

Assassins. Spies. Ghosts.

Trained elites who had served her since childhood, orphans taken in by House Caldreth and raised with one purpose. To fulfill the will of their mistress.

Every noble child of Caldreth was assigned a shadow by the age of six. Their names, faces, and numbers were unknown to anyone outside their charge.

Now those shadows were everywhere. Guarding her daughters. Silencing threats. Scouring the city for anyone involved.

Espionage. Intel gathering. Interrogations. Quiet assassinations. Their reach was deep and far, and even then, it was barely enough.

The attack had fanned the flames under the boiling cauldron that was the capital. And the Von Heims might just be the ones to flip everything on its head.

Their influence was unmatched as one of the the most powerful noble house of Ophris. Even the church and royal family navigated their words with caution.

Now, their banner was flown by a prodigy from House Caldreth. A union of two terrifying legacies. A walking nightmare for anyone caught in her crosshairs.

...

"Do not fear the fire, child of cinder. Do not curse its hunger. For even rage was born from longing, and even pain from passion. To love is to burn. To burn is to live."

Edrin stood from his knees, finishing the reading in silence

The room around him was vast and lavish. Thick crimson carpets muffled his steps, while tall arched windows cast soft light through sheer gold curtains.

A carved canopy bed stood like a centerpiece, draped in silken sheets that shimmered faintly in the morning sun.

Ornate sconces on the walls burned steadily, never flickering, never dying out. The air smelled faintly of lavender and incense.

This was the room Isolde had assigned him.

On the surface, everything was perfect. His every need met with unnerving promptness. Food, books, baths, wine and attendants.

Yet none of it brought him peace.

Edrin knew all too well, this was no sanctuary.

It was a cage. A gilded one, with velvet bars.

Isolde wouldn’t let him go. Not now. Not after everything he had witnessed.

He had sent a letter back home via carrier bird, lightly suggesting that his brother might’ve had a hidden son.

He never received a reply.

He was certain the message had been intercepted. Shot down mid-flight. The shadows made sure of it.

Now, every move he made had to be measured, every word carefully chosen. Isolde wouldn’t kill him... probably.

But the truth was, he didn’t know.

No one truly did.

The Caldreths weren’t really known for being stable. A lot of people called them madmen, and these yells weren’t just slander from their victims.

There were a lot of speculations about this. Some said it was a side effect of their magic—Shadow Craft, as it was called.

Others dismissed that theory entirely, blaming their family tree instead. Hereditary lunacy.

Isolde didn’t seem unstable. At least, not outwardly.

But he couldn’t afford to take any chances.

Professing his love while acting confident had been the hardest thing he’d done in a long while, he could have lost his life.

But he had to do this, they were destined to be.

It was fate!

With a deep sigh, he poured himself a drink from the crystal decanter. Amber liquid flowed until his hand paused.

His gaze had flicked, just for a second, toward the holy scripture resting on the table.

Another breath escaped him. He set the bottle down.

Moving to a small wooden drawer hidden behind a painting, he pulled out a folded black robe and mask.

The material was light, but sturdy. Plain, but unmistakable.

Standard issue.

The priest had given him a mission.

And as reluctant as he was... he had to complete it.

He donned the robe and slid the mask into place.

Then, like a shadow himself, he slipped out of the room—silent, swift, and unseen.