Lord Theodore's Favorite Ritual
Chapter 207: The Realizing Dawn.

Chapter 207: The Realizing Dawn.

Forest.

Critic Arley, Critic-Ishire.

***************

The group started to move stealthily, hopping down from their steeds and getting ready for whatever may come.

"Help please" the call for help persisted.

Theodore moved forward following the sound and sure enough it was the first hunt group but they were in a very maladroit position, tied up limbs and hair together, the Theodore mansion crew paused. Theodore shook out of the pause first and moved but before he’d take two feet forward, Conan gripped his arm. "Theodore, where are you going?"

"To untie them" he replied as though it was the obvious thing to do which it was but Conan believed otherwise, "It could be a trap" he warned.

Theodore glanced around, they were red, black and white thread circling the first hunting group of four men, it is a way to restrict them from leaving. A spiritual fetter.

The dense forest was alive with the sounds of rustling leaves and the distant calls of birds, but today it was also a stage for a deadly confrontation. The late afternoon light filtered through the canopy, casting dappled shadows on the forest floor, where Theodore stood, his sword gleaming in his hand. His eyes, sharp and focused, scanned the area for any sign of movement. He knew his enemies were close; he could feel their presence, a dark and foreboding energy that unsettled the otherwise serene woodland. The chill in the air was a stark reminder that winter was fast approaching.

He knew it was a trap but... "Then we fight, or they could die, it appears to be a ritual" The lord finally said.

"We have to untie them before the magic practitioners come back then," Hound invited.

But as they rushed forward, a trap was sprung. Bandit witches emerged from the shadows, their eyes glowing with malevolent intent.

The air crackled with dark energy as the ambush was revealed. The lord and his men found themselves surrounded, their foes closing in with wicked glee.

"What are you doing here?" one of them asked, his shoulders high and gloating.

"This is my land" Theodore replied through gritted teeth, he didn’t mind bloodshed but if getting those men to safety would recommend peace, he would settle with these dense creatures.

"You are interrupting our meal" their perceived leader claimed, his yellow teeth making themselves known.

"Those are my people" Theodore bellowed, his calm resolve melting.

"Go back to wherever you belong or face grave consequences" Hound warned stepping forward.

"We shall get back our men" Conan declared rage gushing out of his pores. These people kill for spiritual nonsense, they weren’t even born witches, they merely practice black magic and they have to be wiped out one by one.

The leader smirked, "Well fight your way through us then"

And a fierce battle erupted.

Sir Conan’s sword flashed in the dim light as he slashed at the witches, his movements a blur of deadly precision.

Gabriel and Tom fought side by side, their twin daggers slicing through the air with synchronized ferocity.

Hound’s bow twanged repeatedly, each arrow finding its mark with lethal accuracy.

Theodore’s powerful swings sent most of the witches sprawling, but the sheer number of their enemies took its toll.

Suddenly, from the underbrush, three figures emerged. They were clad in dark, tattered clothes, their faces obscured by hoods. Each held a weapon, two with curved sabers and one with a long, slender dagger. They moved with a predatory grace, circling Theodore, their eyes gleaming with malice and intent.

Theodore’s stance was firm, his muscles coiled and ready to spring into action. He was a master swordsman, his skill honed through years of rigorous training and the battles of Critic-Ishire. His mind was clear, his senses heightened. He had no room for doubt or hesitation.

In the background, the sounds of combat echoed through the forest as Theodore’s men fought valiantly against other attackers. The clash of swords, shouts, and cries of pain created a chaotic symphony of battle, a stark contrast to the peaceful setting.

The first magic practitioner lunged, his saber slicing through the air with deadly precision. Theodore parried the blow with a swift, fluid motion, their swords clanging together with a sharp, metallic ring. He spun on his heel, using the momentum to deliver a quick, cutting strike to the attacker’s side. The man grunted in pain but managed to stagger back, clutching his wound.

The second witcher seized the opportunity, swinging his saber in a wide arc aimed at Theodore’s head. Theodore ducked low, the blade whistling harmlessly over him, and he countered with a powerful upward thrust. His sword found its mark, piercing the attacker’s shoulder. The man cried out, his weapon falling from his grasp as he stumbled backward.

The third enemy, the one with the dagger, was quicker and more agile. He darted in, aiming for Theodore’s unprotected flank. But Theodore was ready. With lightning-fast reflexes, he sidestepped the attack, his free hand shooting out to grab the man’s wrist. In one swift motion, he twisted the attacker’s arm, forcing him to drop the dagger, and delivered a hard kick to his chest, sending him sprawling to the ground.

Since they weren’t actually witchers or witches casting spells were hard for them, making it easier for Theodore and his people to have upper hand in the battle.

Theodore didn’t have time to savor his small victory. The first two attackers, though injured, were still dangerous. They regrouped, exchanging quick, silent signals before launching a coordinated assault. One came from the left, the other from the right, their blades aiming to overwhelm him.

But Theodore’s mind worked with the precision of a well-oiled machine. He deflected the left attacker’s blow with a sharp, upward block, while simultaneously stepping back to avoid the right attacker’s swing. His movements were fluid, a seamless blend of offense and defense. With a swift twist of his wrist, he disarmed the left attacker, his sword flying through the air and embedding itself in a nearby tree.

Seeing his comrade disarmed, the right attacker hesitated for a split second, just long enough for Theodore to exploit the opening. He lunged forward, his sword slicing through the air with deadly accuracy, and the blade found its target, cutting deep into the attacker’s side. The man gasped, his eyes wide with shock and pain, before collapsing to the ground.

The last standing enemy, the first attacker who had been wounded earlier, knew he was outmatched. Desperation and fear flickered in his eyes as he glanced around, searching for an escape or another enemy but they were all occupied. But Theodore was relentless. He advanced with measured steps, his sword held at the ready. The attacker made a final, desperate swing, but Theodore easily parried the blow and, with a swift, decisive strike, ended the fight.

The forest fell silent around Theodore, but the sounds of battle continued nearby, reminding him that the fight was far from over. His men, loyal and brave, were still engaged in combat, their cries of determination and pain mingling with the metallic clash of swords.

As the adrenaline began to fade, Theodore sheathed his sword, his mind already shifting to the next task at hand. He knew this skirmish was but a small part of the larger conflict brewing on the horizon. But for now, he allowed himself a brief moment of reflection. He had fought well, his skill and speed proving more than a match for his foes.

With a final, determined glance at the fallen enemies, Theodore turned and made his way back through the busy side of the forest, ready to assist his men. His thoughts were already with Lydia, her smile a beacon of light in his mind, urging him forward. He knew there were more battles to come, but with her by his side, he felt ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead.

*

* *

*

Office, Castle.

Critic Citadel, Critic-Ishire,

***************

Since Theodore left the citadel, Salvadore has been in reports, deadlines looming like shadows over his every move, the reason he had invited Theodore over weighing comfortably on his chest with pressure he has been with a perpetually furrowed brow and a persistent ache in his shoulders.

On this particular morning, the air hung heavy with the weight of unfinished tasks. Salvadore’s eyes, tired and bloodshot, scanned through yet another spreadsheet, his mind racing with numbers and projections. It was in this haze of concentration that something shifted. A subtle change in the atmosphere, imperceptible to the untrained eye but profound in its effect.

A strange sensation washed over Salavadore’s whole self, a sudden lightness, as though an invisible weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He blinked, startled, and looked around, half-expecting to find someone else in the room. But the office was empty save for him and the steady hum of the air conditioning. He felt an ounce of his stress relieving him.

He stopped working and sat with a frown until a knock resounded on his office door, "Your majesty, the Queen mother is here to see you!" a voice announced from behind the door.

"Let her in" he bellowed.

Sandra marched inside regal and sophisticated, she took her seat across of him.

"Mother" he breathed.

"I know you have been under alot of stress so I would not ask you how you have been but I would tell you what might just relieve some of your burden" her assurance reached him square.

"Do tell" he prompted.

"Your whore, Liza of the house Statham is no more" she announced solemnly.

Salvadore merely stared at his mother in confusion, the news refusing to settle in, he vaguely remembers Liza and that made him frown. "Whatever happened?"

Sandra remained silent, her face passive.

"Why are you the one telling me this?" he questioned.

She smirked. "Because I made her confess everything she did to you before she passed away"

"What are those?" he asks his sigh escaping as he assumed this might just be one of his mothers tactics to get his attention.

"You had been under a love spell all this while" she informed him, "And the spell has broken" she told him.

"You may leave" he said curtly intending to wrap his head around the matter in alonness she leaves with a smile as she knew the deed had already been done and Salvadore counldn’t change anything again.

In silence slowly, realization dawned on Salvadore. It wasn’t just relief from a particularly stressful day or the completion of a difficult task. It was deeper, more profound. A feeling of liberation, as if he had been ensnared by an unseen spell all this time, and now, inexplicably, it had unraveled.

Salvadore stood up, feeling taller somehow, his movements no longer constrained by the invisible shackles of stress and obligation. The papers on his desk seemed less daunting, the deadlines less threatening. With a newfound clarity, Salvadore stepped away from the desk, leaving behind the remnants of his former self, the overworked executive bound by routine and duty and fear.

As he walked towards the window, the morning sunlight filtered through, casting warm hues across his face. Salvadore closed his eyes for a moment, basking in the unexpected freedom. For the first time in months, he felt truly alive, unburdened by the weight of expectations and the relentless pace of corporate life.

Then, like a whisper from a distant memory, the truth surfaced. It had been a love spell, cast by an ambitious maiden whose name now eluded him. Liza his mother called her.

She had bewitched him, clouding his judgment and chaining his heart to hers without his knowing. Her intentions, once shadowed by the fog of enchantment, now seemed glaringly obvious.

Salvadore recalled fleeting images of her, her dark eyes glinting with determination, a smile that promised the world. She had woven her magic with subtlety, binding him to her desires, his will bent to serve her ambition. But now, the spell was broken, its grip dissolved into nothingness.

The first kiss on his cheek that she’d placed had been the spell binder.

With a faint smile playing on his lips, Salvadore took a deep breath, savoring the sweet taste of liberation. The spell, unnoticed until now, had lifted, leaving him with a sense of renewal and possibility. In that quiet office, amid the trappings of his professional life,

He was ready to hear the rest of the tale now.

What killed Liza Statham in his Citadel?