The Sinful Young Master

Cleora was startled and froze as soon as the maidservant put a knife to her neck.

Johamma's eyes widened with recognition and betrayal. "What are you doing?" she demanded, her authority momentarily useless against the steel at her throat.

She looked at the maidservant and the hooded figure.

The maidservant's face remained impassive as she replied, "I have no choice, my lady."

Then, she nodded to the man threatening Johamma.

With practised efficiency, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a small, unremarkable sphere. Jolthar's eyes narrowed, focusing on the sphere in that man's hand. It had no definite colour, nor he could tell what it was.

The man crushed the sphere between his fingers, and thick olive-coloured smoke billowed outward, engulfing them in a noxious cloud. Despite the chaos, the attacker maintained his grip on Johamma, the blade pressing dangerously against her skin.

"What is the meaning of this?" Johamma demanded, her voice cutting through the smoke.

"Who are you?"

Cleora remained unnaturally calm, her eyes moving methodically between her captors and then to Jolthar. In her gaze was not fear, but calculation—and trust. She knew what Jolthar was capable of. But she wondered about the woman. If she came along with Johamma, then was she a member of the Kaezhlar clan?

Jolthar stood motionless, assessing.

The attackers had made a critical error. In their focus on controlling Johamma and Cleora, they had discounted him entirely—as if he were merely an afterthought, not the primary threat.

A fatal mistake.

The power within Jolthar stirred, a maelstrom of energies coalescing. The Beast King's green aura intensified around him, casting eerie shadows through the olive smoke. Silver tendrils of voidwrath twisted between his fingers, responding to his focused intent. The blue shimmer of his swordsmanship aura—countless hours of brutal discipline—manifested along his arms.

His enemies had brought steel and poison.

Jolthar was still suspicious about Johamma. He couldn't really tell what she was trying to pull here, or was she also unaware of what was happening here? He looked at her; she seemed surprised and shocked, too.

Jolthar narrowed his eyes, his piercing gaze flickering between Johamma and the woman who had been following her. His mind churned with possibilities.

Someone from the clan had to be behind this. It was too much of a coincidence that a long-time servant of Johamma's was now acting suspiciously.

That was the only thought he had in mind.

"Then did anyone from the clan send that woman to follow you?" His voice was sharp, cutting through the tense air like a blade.

Johamma's expression darkened. "What are you implying?"

Jolthar's lips pressed into a thin line. "Or this is one of your schemes." His tone carried the weight of years of mistrust, of betrayals and half-truths.

Johamma snapped back at him instantly, her voice filled with irritation. "What nonsense are you talking about? I have no idea why she is doing this."

She turned sharply to the woman in question, her eyes narrowing. "I don't know what's happening here, but she has been serving me for a long time."

Jolthar scoffed. "Then why is she doing this?"

Johamma turned fully to the woman now, her sharp gaze scanning her like a hawk.

That woman stood unfazed; her hand with a knife stayed on Cleora's throat.

Jolthar raised his hand slightly; green-coloured energy swirled around his fingers. The forest itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting.

"You better answer my questions," he said quietly, his voice carrying an ancient weight that hadn't been there before his transformation.

The olive smoke continued to billow around them, but it could not obscure the truth from Jolthar's enhanced senses. He could see the positions of all four figures perfectly. He could hear their heartbeats—Johamma's steady despite the danger, Cleora's controlled, and the rapid, anxious pulsing of their attackers.

The smoke didn't have any particular odour, nor did it seem like poison, as they were still standing.

They had come for him; he could tell.

But they had not come prepared for what he had become.

Jolthar regarded the assailants with cold detachment, green energy shimmering around his fingertips. His patience had worn thin.

"I don't care who you are," he said, his voice a low rumble that promised violence. "First, remove that knife from them."

They didn't move, nor did they remove the knife.

And that was it.

With a slight motion of his fingers, Jolthar unleashed his power.

The green energy of the Beast King surged outward, wrapping around the olive smoke and compressing it, preventing its spread and forcing it to condense into a harmless mass. He was using his telekinesis enhanced with the beast king's power.

A swell of green energy erupted from Jolthar's outstretched hand. The green force—a manifestation of his Beast King's power—swept across the clearing like a tidal wave, engulfing the would-be assassins in its merciless grip. Their bodies crumpled instantly beneath the crushing telekinetic pressure, pinned to the earth as though struck by an invisible hammer.

Weapons clattered uselessly to the ground. The sudden violence silenced the forest, birds ceasing their calls as ancient and primal power pulsed through the air.

Johamma and Cleora stepped back, eyes wide at the casual display of overwhelming force. This was no longer the boy who had left the Keep—this was not someone she knew. Seeing the different kinds of energies around him made her astonished again. He had grown far stronger than she imagined.

The daggers' owners gasped for breath, faces contorted in agony as Jolthar's power compressed their bodies against the earth. Bones creaked under invisible pressure; they struggled like insects pinned by an indifferent child.

He turned to Cleora, checking if she was okay. She nodded towards him, telling him she was okay, and he looked at Johamma; she was staring at him.

Then he turned back to them.

"Now, will you tell who you are and who sent you here?" Jolthar said softly.

But fate had one more turn of its wheel before this confrontation could reach its bloody conclusion.

A shadow fell across them, massive and winged, darkening the clearing as it blotted out the sun. The pressure in the air changed—a sudden heaviness that had nothing to do with Jolthar's power and everything to do with the approach of something old and terrible.

A deafening roar split the air.

All eyes turned skyward as an enormous black dragon descended toward the lake, each wingbeat creating gusts that bent the treetops.

Obsidian scales gleamed in the sunlight, catching fire with iridescent blues and purples that rippled across its armoured hide. Its wingspan stretched wider than several carriages laid end-to-end, and cruel talons extended from its massive limbs.

The beast's landing shook the earth, sending concentric ripples across the lake's surface. Water displaced by its enormous bulk rushed outward in a wave, drenching the shoreline. Steam hissed from its nostrils as it surveyed the gathered humans with ancient, calculating eyes.

Jolthar raised his hand, creating an invisible barrier, stopping the water.

As the dragon landed, he could feel its oppressive aura, and it was menacing.

It was a rare feeling—one that unsettled him. Jolthar had grown accustomed to asserting his dominance over beasts, bending their wills with the sheer force of his presence. But this dragon… it was different.

It did not bow, nor did it resist. It simply watched him, just as he watched it, with the same unspoken understanding that neither was above the other.

It was like they had the same status.

It was the first time seeing such a mighty and dangerously threatening creature. He could just by looking at the eyes; it wasn't a normal beast. Not like the ones he had seen until now.

His dragon was grunting from the moment the dragon appeared, standing beside him. Like it was apprehensive of the new beast. It was his first time seeing Maelruth like that.

"A Drekmorah!!" Johamma and Cleora gasped at the same time.

Jolthar turned towards them. He had read about dragons but had never heard of such a name.

"Do you know about them?"

Johamma was the one who replied, staring at the settling dragon, "Not everybody knows the existence of the drekmorahs; they are dangerous, which would be an understatement. That clan of dragons is present in very limited numbers, but a single one of them could destroy a country. They hold a power unimaginably destructive."

She stopped talking when she noticed something on the dragon, or someone.

Jolthar then saw a figure sitting on the dragon's back.

Atop the dragon sat a man, straight-backed and grinning with undisguised malice.

"Lodawg Naemarys."

Johamma's sharp intake of breath confirmed his identity even before Jolthar could place him. Jolthar recognized the man from the Naemarys clan whom he had seen that day at the feast.

The brother of the Naemarys clan patriarch lounged comfortably between the dragon's massive shoulder blades as though riding such a beast were as common as mounting a horse.

His clothing was rich but practical—dark leather robed attire that reflected the dragon's colouring.

His hair, black as the dragon's scales, was pulled back from a face that bore the trademark Naemary's features—sharp cheekbones, a hawkish nose, and eyes that seemed to burn with their own inner light.

And he was smiling.

A broad, triumphant smile that spoke of carefully laid plans coming to fruition.