Chapter 19: The Golden Scythe
The transition from the Misty Highlands to the Duchy of Oakhaven was like stepping from a nightmare into a fever dream of gold and silk. As the caravan descended the jagged slopes, the oppressive grey fog gave way to rolling hills of amber wheat and emerald orchards. This was the Empire's breadbasket—a land that looked like a paradise, but to Alexander's eyes, it smelled of hidden rot and perfumed lies.
"Look at them," Elena whispered, her voice laced with a bitter edge. She pointed to the peasants working the fields under the watchful eyes of mounted guards in gilded armor. "They smile because they are told the Archduke's grace keeps them fed. They don't realize they are just cattle being fattened for the slaughter."
Alexander did not look at the fields. His gaze was fixed on the horizon, where the spires of the Archduke's palace rose like ivory needles against the blue sky. Through his Aura Vision, the entire duchy wasn't green or gold; it was covered in a Sulphurous Yellow haze—the color of stagnant wealth and deep-seated corruption.
"The more beautiful the garden," Alexander said, his voice a low vibration that seemed to disturb the very air, "the more fertilizer of blood it requires. We aren't here to admire the flowers, Elena. We are here to burn the roots."
[The Gates of Oakhaven]
At the main gate of the capital city, the guards were not the soot-stained soldiers of Azmareel. They were "The Gilded Guard," men in polished plate armor who looked like statues. Their leader, a man with a manicured beard and an aura of Nauseating Pink—the color of unearned vanity—stepped forward to block the path.
"State your business, travelers," the Captain sneered, his eyes lingering too long on Elena. "This is Oakhaven. We don't allow the stench of the industrial North to foul our air."
Silas moved forward, his massive shadow falling over the Captain like a shroud. His aura was a Simmering Crimson, a silent promise of violence that made the Captain's horse whinny in terror.
"Step back, Silas," Alexander commanded softly.
He stepped forward, removing his hood. His grey eyes locked onto the Captain's. For a moment, the air around the gate grew cold. The birds in the nearby trees stopped singing. Alexander's aura—that Devouring Silver—didn't just expand; it sharpened, like a thousand invisible needles pressing against the guards' throats.
"Tell the Archduke," Alexander began, his voice carrying an unnatural resonance that made the guards' armor vibrate, "that the 'Tithe of Silence' has been canceled. Tell him the man from the dungeon has come to collect the interest on a debt of twenty years."
The Captain's vanity vanished. His aura turned a Pale, Trembling White. He didn't ask for a name. He didn't need to. The sheer weight of Alexander's presence told him that death had just arrived at his door, dressed in black leather and smelling of winter.
[Inside the Palace - The Mask of Nobility]
The Archduke's reception was a masterpiece of political theater. A grand ballroom filled with nobles whose auras were a kaleidoscope of Greed (Muddy Brown), Lust (Deep Violet), and Deceit (Oil-Slick Green).
Archduke Valerius sat on a throne of carved oak. He was an old man with eyes like cold marbles. Beside him stood a figure that made Alexander's amulet pulse with a violent heat—a man in the crimson robes of the Capital's Ministry.
"Alexander Milov," the Archduke said, his voice smooth as aged wine. "I expected a barbarian from the sewers. Instead, I see a man who carries the shadow of a crown. Why have you come to disturb the peace of my harvest?"
Alexander walked into the center of the hall. He didn't bow. He stood as a pillar of darkness in a room of blinding gold.
"Peace is a luxury you bought with my father's blood, Valerius," Alexander replied. The ballroom went silent. The clinking of crystal glasses ceased. "You sent the 'Tithe' to the Ministry to keep Azmareel under your thumb. You turned a city of builders into a city of ghosts so you could sit here and watch your wheat grow."
"Careful, boy," the Minister in crimson hissed, his aura a Vile, Jagged Black. "You are in the heart of the Empire now. A single word from me, and Oakhaven becomes your execution square."
Alexander smiled—a cold, terrifying expression that didn't reach his eyes.
"The mistake you all make," Alexander said, his voice echoing with a power that made the chandeliers rattle, "is thinking that I fear death. You cannot threaten a man who has already seen the other side and found it lacking."
He stepped closer to the throne, ignoring the swords being drawn.
"I am not here to kill you, Archduke. Not yet. I am here to give you a glimpse of the future. By tomorrow, your fields will stop moving. Your guards will find their swords turned to lead. And the 'Tithe' you love so much? It is already being redirected to the people you starved."
Alexander leaned in, his eyes glowing with the silver light of the Amulet.
"Power is like a scythe, Valerius. It can harvest the grain, or it can harvest the harvester. Choose wisely which end of the blade you want to be on."
[The Departure]
As they walked out of the palace, the sun was setting, turning the golden fields into a sea of blood-red. Elena looked at Alexander, her face pale.
"You just declared war on the wealthiest man in the West," she whispered. "No," Alexander said, looking at his hand, which was still vibrating with the Amulet's power. "I just told him the truth. Truth is the only thing the powerful cannot afford to buy."
He looked back at the palace, his expression softening for a split second into one of profound sadness. He remembered his father's voice, telling him that gold could build a world, but only blood could save it.
"Let them prepare," Alexander whispered to the rising moon. "The Raven is no longer just watching. He is hungry."