Pagopoi 25, Imperial Year 1643
The Royal Palace, Capital of Mercia – Throne Room
The throne room of King Aldric the Third was a cavernous hall of marble and gold, lined with pillars carved in the likeness of ancient heroes. Tapestries depicting the kingdom's victories hung between the pillars, and a red carpet ran from the great doors to the dais where the king sat upon a throne of oak and iron.
Today, the room was crowded. Nobles stood in clusters, whispering. Guards lined the walls, their spears grounded. At the center of the room, before the throne, knelt a man in fine velvet – Duke Reynard Blackwood, cousin to the late treasurer Orin Blackwood, and the subject of today's report.
The king's spymaster stood to the side, reading from a scroll. "Your Majesty, the investigation into the embezzlement of royal funds has revealed that Duke Reynard Blackwood was not merely an accomplice to his cousin's crimes, but the architect. He diverted taxes, sold military supplies to enemy states, and personally ordered the deaths of three royal auditors who came too close to the truth."
The duke's face was pale, but his voice was steady. "Lies. All lies. The spymaster has always envied my family's position. He fabricates evidence to destroy me."
The king raised a hand. "I will hear the evidence before I judge."
The spymaster produced a leather ledger. "Here are the accounts, signed by the duke's own hand. And here are the testimonies of his servants, who saw him burn the original ledgers after his cousin's death."
The duke's composure cracked. "The servants were bribed!"
"Enough," the king said. "I will—"
A sound interrupted him.
A soft thump, like a heavy footstep on stone. Then another. And another.
The guards looked up. The nobles turned.
On the wall behind the throne, walking horizontally as if on solid ground, a figure moved.
He was tall, dressed in a long trench coat of midnight blue with silver buttons. A beaked mask covered his face, and from its crown flowed a long, bright red plume. His boots were thigh‑high, his gloves elbow‑length with steel‑reinforced knuckles. A longsword hung at his hip. And in his hands, he carried a weapon none had seen before – a break‑open shotgun, its barrel dark, its stock polished.
The Raven walked down the wall, his steps slow and deliberate, his boots finding purchase on the stone as if held by some invisible force. When he reached the floor, he straightened and faced the throne.
The guards drew their swords, but the king raised his hand again. "Wait."
The Raven spoke. His voice was amplified by the mask, echoing through the hall.
"Duke Reynard Blackwood. Thou art accused of embezzlement, treason, and murder. The evidence hath been laid before thy king. The witnesses have spoken. Dost thou deny it?"
The duke's face had gone white. "Who are you? Guards! Kill him!"
The guards hesitated. The Raven did not.
He raised the shotgun.
The duke turned to flee.
The Raven fired.
The roar of the shotgun was deafening – a thunderclap that shook the chandeliers and sent birds flying from the rafters. The blast struck the duke in the back, just below the neck. The lead shot tore through flesh, bone, and organ, exiting his chest in a spray of red mist. His body lurched forward, hit the marble floor, and slid to a stop at the foot of the throne.
The king did not flinch. He stared at the body, then at the Raven.
The Raven broke open the shotgun, ejected the spent shell, and loaded a fresh cartridge with practiced ease. He snapped the barrel closed.
Then he reached into his coat and pulled out a stack of ledgers – thick, bound in leather, stained with age and ink. He tossed them into the air. They fluttered down like wounded birds, scattering across the red carpet.
"The true ledgers," the Raven said. "The duke's own records, hidden in a vault beneath his manor. Let them serve as proof of his crimes."
The king stood slowly. His voice was quiet. "You killed a man in my throne room. In front of me. Why should I not have you killed where you stand?"
The Raven tilted his head. The red plume swayed.
"Because thou art not a fool, Aldric of Mercia. Thou knowest that this man was guilty. Thou knowest that his death purges a rot from thy court. And thou knowest that I am not thy enemy."
"Then whose enemy are you?"
"The enemies of justice. Those who prey upon the weak. Those who abuse power for coin or cruelty." The Raven's voice dropped, becoming softer, almost gentle. "I deliver only to those who order. I am a tool, not a tyrant."
"You call yourself a tool? What tool names itself?"
The Raven paused. Then he spoke a single word.
"Alucard."
The name hung in the air. The nobles whispered. The guards shifted.
The king's eyes narrowed. "That is not a Mercian name."
"No. It is not."
"What do you want, Alucard?"
"Nothing. I am not here to bargain, nor to threaten. I am here to deliver a message. The corruption in this kingdom ends now. Not by my hand alone – but by the hand of every lord who fears the sound of thunder in his hall."
The Raven turned and walked toward the wall. He stepped onto it, his boots adhering to the stone, and began to climb.
The king called after him. "If you ever set foot in my kingdom again, I will hunt you to the ends of the earth."
The Raven did not look back.
"Thou may try."
He reached the ceiling, where a narrow window let in the evening light. He paused, silhouetted against the orange sky.
"But I would advise thee, Aldric. Hunt the wolves, not the hunter. We are on the same side."
He slipped through the window and vanished.
The throne room was silent for a long moment.
Then the king sat down heavily on his throne. He looked at the duke's body, at the scattered ledgers, at the guards who had done nothing.
"Someone clean up this mess," he said. "And someone bring me those ledgers."
The spymaster hurried forward, gathering the books.
The king stared at the window where the Raven had disappeared.
Alucard, he thought. What kind of name is that?
He did not know. But he knew, with a certainty that chilled him, that he would hear it again.
End of Chapter Sixteen