THE GENERAL'S DISGRACED HEIR

Chapter 35: Chapter 35: THE FINGERS

A sickly luminescence seeped into the room, clinging desperately to the edges of grotesque shadows. Gazing upon the scene, Gareth felt a cold sweat creep down his spine, each drop a chilling indictment of his poor choices.

This was no opulent manor hall, but a grotesque parody of one. The architecture, once a testament to artistry, had twisted into a mockery of its former glory. Gnarled archways, their edges dripping with a viscous slime, mimicked gothic grandeur. Delicate wrought iron had morphed into cruel, barbed claws reaching for the unsuspecting.

The floor, a mosaic cursed to writhe, pulsed with a dull, malevolent light. Each tile shifted and contorted, whispering of forgotten sins and ancient atrocities. A massive table, crafted from petrified bone, dominated the center of the chamber.

High-backed chairs, their crimson cushions stained a hideous black, stood sentinel around it, each a promise of lingering agony. The interplay of sickly light and suffocating darkness did little to alleviate the stifling atmosphere. Instead, it painted this room as a canvas of unyielding dread.

Fear, a cold, clammy hand, squeezed his heart until it hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The air itself seemed to thicken with a sinister energy, a palpable tension that hung heavy on his shoulders.

Every creak of the ancient floorboards, every rustle of unseen leaves outside the window, sent shivers down his spine. This wasn't his opulent De Gor estate, a place of polished floors and predictable routines. This was the lair of the Fingers, the puppet masters who lurked in the shadows, pulling the strings of Aethelwarin's underworld.

Here, the air hummed with secrets whispered in dark corners, and the promise of violence hung thick enough to taste. Gareth, a man who'd always revelled in the carefully constructed order of his life, felt utterly lost in this chaotic den of power.