Chapter 86: Ch86 The Message Of Rot
The fireplace in the Rian estate crackled softly as Hale strolled in with his usual unhurried gait, his sharp black boots clicking against the polished floor. A faint smirk played on his lips as if he’d just stepped into a tavern instead of the office of one of the Empire’s most feared men.
"Well, well," Hale drawled, his tone laced with amusement. "You look almost disappointed to see me, Duke Aithur. Didn’t you miss my charming face?"
Aithur didn’t look up immediately, flipping another page. "If you’re referring to the face that’s always in the middle of royal problems, then no. I’m doing perfectly fine without it."
Hale chuckled and moved closer, his dark eyes glinting mischievously. "You wound me, Duke. And here I thought we shared something akin to friendship."
"I don’t make friends with the King’s shadows," Aithur said coolly. "You people vanish the moment the light changes."
Hale laughed louder this time, a smooth, low laugh that filled the office. "Still sharp as ever. But I’ll take that as your way of saying you missed me."
Aithur’s gaze finally lifted, unimpressed. "If I missed you, Hale, I’d hire a jester. It would be cheaper and far less irritating."
"Ah," Hale said with mock offense, unbuttoning his coat as he walked toward the desk. "And here I thought we could start the day without you throwing a dagger with your words."
He reached into his coat and withdrew a sealed parchment — the Imperial insignia stamped deep in crimson wax. He set it on the desk with a soft thud.
"Before you roll those eyes, yes, this is official business," Hale said, leaning slightly on the desk. "The message has already been delivered to you through formal channels(the bird) but I thought I’d bring the real thing myself."
Aithur raised a brow, glancing at the parchment, then at the faint movement he could see through the window — his men preparing a carriage outside. "So you’re here because of the idiot," he stated flatly.
Hale nodded, his smirk thinning into a serious expression. "Harold, The traitor is being transported from the temple as we speak. I may have heard you plan to tag along for the transfer?"
Aithur leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. "And if I do? Since when does the King’s right hand concern himself with my household affairs?"
"Since your household decided to drive straight into a political storm," Hale replied, his tone now calm but sharp. He studied Aithur carefully. "Or is it that you just enjoy chaos when it’s personal?"
Aithur’s lip twitched, almost a smirk. "I could say the same about you. You didn’t even bother sending notice before walking into my home. The last time someone did that, they lost a hand."
Hale grinned, undeterred. "If you’re referring to that poor noble, yes, I remember. The man still writes letters of complaint to the palace. But I’m not that man."
Aithur let out a quiet sigh and gestured toward the armchair opposite him. "Sit down before I mistake you for one."
Hale obeyed with exaggerated politeness, lowering himself into the chair. "Thank you, Your Grace. Always the gentleman."
There was a brief silence between them — the air heavy with restrained tension. Then Aithur spoke again.
"Why are you really here, Hale? Don’t tell me it’s just about the traitor"
Hale tilted his head, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. "Would you believe me if I said I just wanted to see how well your wine aged?"
"No," Aithur said flatly.
"Good. Because it hasn’t aged well at all." Hale chuckled, lifting the cup from the table and taking a sip before continuing. "You know, when I heard about your little trip to the temple, I wondered—what could make you personally go for an interrogation? You usually send underlings for that kind of work."
"I don’t need to explain my decisions to the King’s errand boy," Aithur replied, reaching for the parchment.
Hale watched him closely, his smile fading. "You’ll want to read that first."
The Duke broke the seal with a flick of his thumb, eyes scanning the neat but urgent handwriting. His brows furrowed. For a full five minutes, the only sounds in the room were the soft hiss of the fire and the faint scratching of Hale’s boot against the carpet.
Then came a sharp crack — lightning briefly flaring between Aithur’s fingers. The parchment burst into flames, curling into black ash before vanishing completely.
Hale swirled his wine glass casually, as if expecting that reaction. "I’ll take that as you’ve read it."
Aithur’s voice was calm, but his eyes burned with restrained fury. "Tell me this is a joke."
Hale sighed, leaning back against the couch, his earlier humor replaced with grim composure. "I wish it was. But no. It’s real."
Aithur’s knuckles tightened against the desk. "Noia Town? Of all places? That’s the closest town to the temple"
"Yes," Hale said quietly. "Noia."
The Duke exhaled slowly, his voice edged with disbelief. "That’s a trade route. It connects three provinces. Half the northern grain passes through there."
"Half the northern grain," Hale echoed. "And nearly all of it is rotting now."
Aithur looked up sharply. "What do you mean, rotting?"
Hale set the wine glass down. "It started with reports of sickness — fevers, boils, strange bleeding. At first, the healers thought it was just swamp fever. But the rate... it’s spreading faster than wildfire. The last report said the corpses melt into the ground within a day."
The Duke’s expression hardened. "That’s not natural."
"No," Hale agreed. "And the Temple priests tried to bless the town’s borders. It didn’t work."
Aithur stood abruptly, his chair scraping back. Lightning crackled faintly across his fingertips — restrained, but dangerous. "If the priests failed, then it’s not just plague. It’s corruption."
"Which is why I’m here," Hale said quietly. "We think it’s connected."
Aithur turned his gaze toward the window, where the faint outline of the carriage shimmered in the early light. "Connected to him."
Hale gave a slight nod. "The timing fits too well. The day the Temple arrested him, the sickness began in Noia. Almost like a curse released."
Aithur exhaled through his nose, pacing slowly. "That fool. Even in chains, he manages to cause trouble."
"You can’t deny his influence," Hale said. "Whatever ritual he was involved in—it might not have ended with him."
Aithur’s gaze turned cold. "You think he wasn’t alone."
"I know he wasn’t alone," Hale replied. "And if the reports are true, the corruption is spreading underground. Not through people, but through roots."
"Roots?" Aithur repeated, his voice low.
"Yes. Crops dying, animals collapsing, even the soil blackening." Hale leaned forward, lowering his tone. "And before you ask — no, the King doesn’t know yet. Not officially. I wanted to speak to you first."
Aithur frowned, his tone cutting. "You’re keeping this from the King?"
Hale shrugged. "Let’s just say I prefer to filter bad news before the royal court turns it into theater. You know how they are — one sniff of plague and they’ll start blaming noble houses."
The Duke narrowed his eyes. "And you think I’ll just quietly clean up the mess?"
"I think you’re one of the few who can." Hale stood, dusting imaginary lint off his jacket. "And I also think, despite your arrogance, you care too much to ignore it."
Aithur’s jaw clenched. He looked away, the muscles in his neck tightening as he muttered, "Care is a dangerous word, Hale."
The silence between them thickened, the fire flickering lower. Then Hale sighed and moved toward the door.
"One more thing," he said, pausing at the threshold. "The scouts I sent to Noia—they haven’t returned. Not a single one. The last message they sent said the sky above the town glowed red."
Aithur looked up sharply, his tone cold as ice. "Red?"
Hale’s eyes darkened. "Yes. Like a storm that never ends."
Aithur stood still for a long moment, then asked quietly, "And what did they say before the message cut off?"
Hale hesitated. "They said the ground was breathing."
Aithur’s hand twitched slightly, a faint spark of lightning escaping his control.
Hale gave a short, humorless smile. "Whatever they did, Duke, we might already be too late to stop it."
The Duke’s expression softened just slightly — something between resolve and exhaustion. "Then I’ll go myself."
"I expected no less." Hale turned fully, hand on the door handle. "But don’t take too long. The next report might say the sickness has reached the gates."
As Hale stepped out, Aithur’s voice cut through the silence one last time.
"Hale," he said, his tone low but firm.
The King’s right hand paused. "Yes?"
"Tell the palace," Aithur said slowly, "to prepare for war. Not against men — but against something worse."
Hale’s smile returned faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "You always were dramatic, Duke. Let’s hope this time, you’re wrong."
The door clicked shut.
Aithur stood alone in his office, staring at the ashes of the parchment still glowing faintly on his desk. For a moment, he simply watched the embers fade — his reflection in the glass window showing a man both powerful and deeply tired.
Then, from outside, came the distant echo of thunder.
Aithur looked toward the horizon, where a faint crimson light was beginning to bleed across the morning sky.
His voice was almost a whisper.
"Noia Town... what have those idiots done?"