The Duke of Asterion

The Stag’s Head Tavern was a den of smoke, sweat, and sin tonight. The air was thick with the mingling scents of spilled ale, roasted meat, and the unmistakable musk of too many bodies packed into too tight a space. The dim lanterns swayed from iron chains above, casting flickering golden light over the warm wooden interior, their glow barely reaching the corners where shadows clung like whispers of secrets.

Creatures and humans alike crowded the bar, voices raised in raucous laughter, arguments over dice games, and the occasional drunken shanty. The long, scarred wooden bar was slick with spilled drinks, where tankards slammed down in greeting, in victory, in frustration. Barmaids wove through the throng, balancing heavy trays with practiced ease, their skirts brushing against patrons as they passed.

But beyond the golden glow, past the drunken mirth and clatter of mugs, he sat in the deepest corner of the tavern.

A behemoth of a man, a beast. A Minotaur, broad-shouldered and towering, even seated. His fur was as black as the abyss, drinking in the light rather than reflecting it, and his horns gleamed like polished mahogany, long and curved, thick at the base but tapering to wickedly sharp points. His massive hands, rough and calloused, rested against the wooden table, fingers idly tracing the rim of his empty drink. His clothing, once rich and well-made, now hung loosely on his frame—a noble’s garments left to rot on the back of a man who no longer cared for titles or wealth. Dust clung to the fabric, the once-fine embroidery frayed at the edges.

He did not watch the barmaids, nor the gamblers, nor the raucous drunks who filled the space. He sat in silence, cloaked in stillness.

A barmaid glided toward his table, her movements smooth and deliberate, a woman who knew the weight of every step she took and the way eyes followed her wherever she went. Her golden-blonde hair cascaded in soft waves over one shoulder, the flickering lantern light catching in the strands, making them gleam like spun gold. Her blue eyes sparkled, sharp and playful, brimming with mischief, framed by thick lashes that only served to deepen their allure.

Her bodice was laced scandalously tight, the soft curves of her body accentuated in a way that was both inviting and dangerous. The skirt she wore was shorter than it should have been, the fabric swishing against her thighs as she moved, teasing glimpses of silk stockings. A knowing smile played on her painted lips as she leaned over his table, voice low and honeyed.

“Another beer, m’lord?”

The Minotaur glanced up at her, his dark eyes meeting hers just for a moment before he gave a slow nod, wordlessly sliding his empty tankard across the table. She took it with a soft chuckle, turning on her heel, her hips swaying with effortless grace as she strode back toward the bar.

Before she could return, a chair scraped loudly against the wooden floor, the screech cutting through the tavern’s drunken din.

A massive orc loomed beside the table, swaying slightly, the stench of ale thick on his breath. His greenish skin was mottled with scars, his large belly straining against the worn leather of his tunic. Beady yellow eyes gleamed beneath a heavy brow, his face twisted into an ugly sneer, thick tusks protruding from his lower lip. He was drunk, but not so drunk that his rage had dulled.

“M’lord?” The orc spat the word like a curse, his voice a growl of contempt. “Did I hear her right?” His lip curled, his yellowed teeth bared in a drunken snarl. “I hate all of you nobles… taking our land, eating high and mighty while we suffer and beg for scraps.”

The Minotaur did not look up.

His silence only made the orc angrier. His fists clenched at his sides, his breath coming harder, faster.

The barmaid returned then, setting the freshly poured tankard on the table in front of the Minotaur. She barely had time to react before the orc’s hand shot out.

“Don’t ignore me!” he hissed. “Tell me your name!”

His thick fingers lashed out, slapping the tankard from the Minotaur’s grasp.

The mug hit the floor with a heavy crash, ale splattering across the wooden planks.

A tense silence fell over the tavern.

The orc’s breathing was ragged now, his fury a living thing. His hand curled into a meaty fist, veins bulging in his thick forearms.

“Stand up and fight, you ducking coward!” he roared.

The Minotaur paused, his massive form unnaturally still, like the sky before a storm. Then, with deliberate slowness, he rose.

The orc took a step back, his sneer faltering as he realized just what he had provoked.

The Minotaur stood at eight feet tall, his presence commanding, undeniable. His body was a masterpiece of raw power—broad shoulders, thick with muscle, arms like carved granite, veins standing out against his dark fur. His very stance spoke of a warrior's grace, his movements deliberate, measured, as though he carried the weight of a battlefield with him.

His eyes—deep, dark brown, like the heart of an ancient forest—locked onto the orc’s with an unsettling calm. There was no fear in them, no hesitation. Only a quiet irritation, as if swatting aside this challenge was nothing more than an inconvenience.

Then, his voice came—a low rumble, deep as thunder, powerful enough to silence the tavern.

"My name," he said, his words rolling through the room like distant drums of war, "is Duke Bastian of Asterion Manor."

The orc’s greenish skin lost its color, his bravado wavering.

Duck.

Everyone had heard the rumors.

The Duke of Asterion.

A warrior who had never lost a battle. A living storm given form, unstoppable, relentless. The kind of foe whose name alone could end a fight before it even began.

But with every eye in the tavern fixed on them, the orc could not back down now. The weight of his pride, the gaze of too many witnesses, made retreat impossible.

The barkeep sighed, shaking his head. This wasn’t the first time blood would be spilled outside the Stag’s Head. He jerked his chin toward the door.

"Take it outside."

Bastian did not argue. He simply turned, moving with the unshakable certainty of a man who knew exactly how this would end. He strode toward the door, the tavern parting around him like waves before an unyielding cliff.

The orc hesitated—only for a second—before growling and following.

Outside, the autumn air was crisp and sharp, the moon casting long shadows over the dirt-packed ground. A crowd gathered instantly, forming a loose ring around them, breath pluming in the chill. The scent of ale and damp earth filled the air, the distant hum of the tavern behind them now a muted murmur.

The orc rolled his shoulders, shaking out his thick arms, flexing his fingers into fists. He forced a grin, but his bravado did little to mask the way his pulse had begun to pound.

Bastian merely cracked his neck, the sound sharp in the silence.

Bastian stood still, a towering wall of muscle and unshaken confidence, his dark eyes locked onto the orc with a sharp, measured gaze. He did not move, did not flinch—he simply waited. A hunter letting his prey make the first mistake.

The orc shifted his weight from foot to foot, his breath heavy, his fists clenched. He was trying to hide it, but Bastian could see the hesitation, the wariness creeping in. He knew he had picked the wrong fight.

But pride was a stubborn thing.

With a guttural snarl, the orc lunged.

His massive fist came crashing forward, slamming into Bastian’s jaw with bone-rattling force. The impact sent a dull shock through his skull, the taste of copper blooming in his mouth—but he barely felt it. He had taken worse. Far worse.

The orc pulled back and punched Bastian hard in the ribs.

Bastian turned his head back slowly, eyes locked onto the orc, unfazed.

The orc’s face flickered with panic, just for a moment—just long enough.

Bastian moved. Fast.

He twisted to the side, his powerful arm coiling like a whip before driving his fist deep into the orc’s ribs. A sickening crack echoed through the night. The orc’s body jerked violently, his breath leaving him in a pained wheeze as he doubled over.

Bastian didn’t stop.

Another strike—his knee slamming up into the orc’s gut. The brute gagged, stumbling backward, struggling to stay upright.

The orc swung wildly, desperate, but Bastian caught his wrist, twisting his arm with brutal efficiency before driving his fist straight into the orc’s face.

A spray of blood misted the air as the orc’s nose shattered, his head snapping back. His knees buckled. He crashed to the ground, facedown in the dirt, groaning in agony.

The fight was over.

The crowd erupted into cheers and hollers, some exchanging coin, others clapping each other on the back. Another foolish challenger put down. Another victory for the Duke of Asterion.

Bastian stood over the fallen orc, his knuckles split, his jaw bruised, blood trickling from a small cut on his lip. He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders, the sting of the blows barely registering.

The crowd drifted back inside, stepping around the crumpled orc without so much as a second glance. The murmur of voices, the clinking of tankards, and the raucous laughter soon swallowed the brief interruption, as if the fight had never happened.

The barkeep stepped out onto the porch, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. He had seen enough of these fights to know how they always ended.

“My lord, you know the rules. You can’t come back in after a fight.”

Bastian stood still for a moment, his breath misting in the cold air. Then he gave a slow nod, his voice low and void of emotion.

“I remember.”

Without another word, he turned and walked down the empty stone street, his boots echoing softly against the quiet night.

The town was still, the drunken voices inside the tavern a distant hum. The cold autumn wind cut through the air, carrying the scent of damp earth, woodsmoke, and fallen leaves. Shadows pooled beneath the shuttered windows of homes, and the faint glow of lanterns flickered behind curtains, casting golden slivers onto the cobblestone paths.

Bastian’s destination lay ahead—the stables, a simple wooden structure with thick beams and an overhanging roof that groaned softly under the weight of time. Inside, the scent of hay, sweat, and leather filled the air, the soft sounds of shifting hooves and quiet snorts of resting horses breaking the silence.

His stallion waited for him.

The great beast stood tall and powerful, his coat a deep, endless black, gleaming even in the dim light. A warhorse—bred for power, endurance, and strength. His muscles rippled beneath his sleek hide as he tossed his head, his dark eyes sharp and knowing.

He let out a soft, throaty neigh, the sound more of acknowledgment than impatience.

Bastian stepped forward, brushing a hand down the stallion’s strong neck.

“Good boy Midnight…”

His voice was quieter now, almost gentle. He ran his fingers through the thick mane before gripping the reins and mounting in a single, fluid motion.

With a soft nudge of his heels, the stallion moved, his hooves striking the dirt road as they left the stables behind.

The town gave way to the open countryside, the flickering lights vanishing as they rode into the darkness. The air grew colder, sharper, biting against Bastian’s skin as he rode through the winding paths.

The forest rose around him, tall and ancient, the towering trees casting long shadows that danced in the moonlight. Their bare branches curled like skeletal fingers against the sky, rustling softly in the whispering wind. The scent of damp leaves and moss thickened the air, the earth beneath his stallion’s hooves soft and uneven.

It should have been unsettling, the way the trees loomed, their twisted limbs reaching toward him like watchful specters.

But Bastian didn’t care.

Let the darkness take him.

He rode deeper into the night, a lone shadow swallowed by the endless black.

The manor loomed in the darkness, a fortress of cold stone and towering spires, bathed in the silver light of the moon. Shadows clung to its high, arching windows, and the tall iron gates stood open, welcoming its master home like a silent sentinel. Ivy climbed the outer walls, twisting like veins along the aged stone, and the flickering glow of a few lanterns within barely touched the vast darkness surrounding the estate.

Bastian barely felt the cold as he dismounted from his stallion, his boots landing heavily on the gravel drive. His movements were slow, weighted with exhaustion and pain, but he handed the reins to the waiting stable boy without a word.

Before he could take another step, a voice cut through the quiet.

“You’re finally home.”

Bastian turned, blinking blearily, his body swaying just slightly.

Standing at the entrance, Ulric watched him with a mixture of patience, concern, and the ever-present exasperation of a man who had long since given up trying to reform his master’s reckless ways. The butler was tall, lean but strong, with graying hair slicked back neatly, his sharp eyes missing nothing in the dim light. His clothing was impeccable as always, though his expression betrayed the weariness of a man who had seen this scene play out one too many times.

Ulric sighed, stepping closer, his gaze sweeping over Bastian’s bruised knuckles, the deep purpling of a fresh bruise along his jaw, and the slow trickle of blood.

“Another fight?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

Bastian merely nodded. He felt the warmth of ale still heavy in his veins, the dull ache of his body catching up to him now that the adrenaline had faded.

Ulric exhaled through his nose, muttering something under his breath before motioning toward the doors.

“Well, come inside then.” His voice was a blend of frustration and quiet concern.

Bastian followed, his steps uneven, the world tilting slightly beneath him. The tavern’s alcohol had done its job well. His body felt heavier with each step, the cold stone floor beneath his boots oddly distant.

The manor’s interior was a maze of long, winding hallways, lined with tall, gothic archways and dark wooden paneling, the flickering glow of candle sconces casting deep shadows across the marble floors. The scent of aged books, wax, and faint embers from the dying hearth fires filled the air.

Ulric led him up the grand staircase, past the halls filled with old paintings and silent portraits of ancestors long forgotten. The journey to his chamber felt endless, his body dragging with every step.

Finally, they arrived.

His room was massive, a sanctuary of quiet opulence. Heavy, velvet curtains framed the tall windows, moonlight spilling through in ghostly beams. The bed was large enough to swallow a man whole, draped in dark silks and thick furs, the kind of comfort Bastian never truly appreciated. Thick wooden furniture filled the space—ornate chests, an armoire, a writing desk cluttered with untouched letters and old maps. The faint scent of oak and leather clung to the air.

Ulric moved with practiced ease, helping Bastian out of his ruined shirt, revealing the bruises already blooming across his ribs. The butler’s face remained neutral, though his hands were firm, steady.

He handed Bastian a fresh night shift, his movements brisk, efficient.

Bastian sat down heavily at the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumping, exhaustion pressing down on him like a physical weight.

Without a word, Ulric uncorked a small bottle of ointment and began tending to his wounds, dabbing at the bruises and cuts with a practiced touch. The cool sting of the salve barely registered.

"How is she?" Bastian asked, "She remembered my name today, and asked for you, it was one of her better days." Ulric said gently. Bastian nodded. Saying nothing more.

Once finished, Ulric pulled the heavy blankets up around him, tucking him in with the same care one might give a stubborn child.

“Goodnight, my lord,” he murmured softly, stepping back.

Bastian’s eyes were already closing as he heard the quiet click of the door closing behind him.

And at last, he let sleep take him.

Ulric headed back down the winding halls. His face wrinkled into a deep frown.

The kitchen was the warmest place in the manor, both in heat and spirit. Unlike the rest of the house—cold, quiet, and heavy with shadows—this space was alive. The scent of freshly baked bread, simmering broth, and the faint remnants of roasted meat filled the air, mingling with the ever-present warmth from the great stone hearth that dominated the far wall. Copper pots and iron pans hung from hooks above the long wooden counters, their surfaces gleaming in the flickering firelight. Herbs dangled from the beams, drying in the warmth, their earthy fragrance blending into the comforting atmosphere.

Ulric entered, his boots making a soft thud against the well-worn stone floor.

Immediately, Agnes, the cook, turned from where she was kneading dough at the counter, her round face tight with worry. She was a broad woman, her hands strong and dusted with flour, her graying hair pinned beneath a crisp white cap. Her deep-set eyes, warm but sharp, fixed on him the moment he crossed the threshold.

“Ulric! Did His Grace arrive safely?” she asked, her voice edged with concern.

Ulric sighed, rolling his shoulders before giving her a slow nod.

“He did.”

From across the room, Edda, the housekeeper, appeared from the pantry, clutching a bundle of folded linens in her arms. She was thinner, wiry with age, her hair neatly braided and pinned. Though her face was lined with years of service, her keen eyes missed nothing.

“Another fight?” she asked, her voice quieter than Agnes’s but no less worried. “How was he?”

Ulric shook his head, his mouth set in a grim line.

“Yes, he was fighting again.” He exhaled, taking a seat at the worn wooden table in the center of the room as Agnes set a steaming cup of tea in front of him. He wrapped his fingers around it, letting the warmth seep into his skin.

“He came home drunk… bleeding.”

Agnes let out a soft tsk, shaking her head, while Edda set the linens down and folded her arms.

“It’s getting worse,” she murmured. “He barely sleeps, barely eats. He comes home bruised and exhausted, and it never seems to end.”

Ulric ran a hand down his face, the exhaustion in his bones suddenly heavier.

“I worry about him,” Edda continued, her voice softer now.

A heavy silence settled over the room, broken only by the soft crackling of the fire in the hearth.

After a moment, Agnes cleared her throat. “Did you remind him about the new girl coming tomorrow?”

Ulric hesitated, his fingers tightening around the teacup.

“No… it didn’t seem like the right time.”

Both women exchanged a knowing look.

“Hopefully this one lasts longer than the others,” Agnes muttered, her tone half hope, half resignation.

They had seen too many girls come and go, fleeing the manor after days—sometimes hours—of enduring Bastian’s cold demeanor, his unpredictable moods, his lingering storm of grief and fury.

Edda sighed, pulling out a chair and sitting down beside Ulric.

“It will be up to him,” she said, rubbing her hands together for warmth. “If he could control his moods, his temper… she might stay.”

But none of them were convinced.

The three of them fell into contemplative silence, staring into the fire, their minds filled with unspoken worries.

Outside, the wind howled through the trees, rattling against the manor’s towering walls. The world beyond was dark, uncertain.

And none of them knew what tomorrow would bring.