Shadows Over Arcadia Chapter 20: 20. Fae-tal Error

Read chapter 20 of Shadows Over Arcadia by Zacheas on NovelPedia.

20. Fae-tal Error I am Count Leonard Fobos, age 47, head of the venerable Fobos family, one of the twelve leading noble houses of Arcadia and right hand to the king. https://shadowsoverarcadia.com/api/storage/objects/uploads/29aea13e-f12f-4f82-9359-43aee11f17e6 "Well... that changes everything," I say, my voice slicing through the suffocating silence that has descended upon the chamber. The observation sphere before me, that moments ago showed a vivid projection of a grim spectacle, now dims and fades into darkness, extinguished along with the life of its source seer. The final flicker of light vanishes with a soft pulse, leaving the sphere dormant and lifeless on the table between us, its surface reflecting only the faint crystal-light that struggles to penetrate the growing shadows of my office. The room feels colder now, the silence pressing in as the images linger, burned into my thoughts. The demonic fae, Lady Willow, her monstrous form drenched in blood, tearing through the mercenaries I had hired to deal with our little "Ren problem." No hesitation. No mercy. They never stood a chance. Lord Cromwell, seated across from me, remains pale and speechless, his hands clenched on the armrests as we process the massacre we both witnessed. One of the men, a competent mage, had been the source of our vision. His spell had let us see the encounter through his eyes, up until his death. “W... What was that?” stammers Lord Cromwell, terror etched across his face, a stark contrast to the devilish grin creeping across mine. “That,” I say, my wide smile threatening to break into laughter, “was a fae.” “A fae? A forest spirit?” Cromwell’s voice quivers with disbelief, his face pale. “That monster looked like some kind of DEMON.” “Oh ho, you still believe those old children's tales, don’t you?” I chuckle, leaning back in my chair. “You think fae are harmless little sprites, flitting around and granting wishes? Fairy tales, my friend. Pure fiction.” I shoot him a knowing look, voice low and measured. “The fae pretend to be innocent. They take non-threatening forms to gain the trust of mortals, hiding their true nature.” I gesture toward the observation sphere. “ That was the truth. A predator, a monster that preys on mortals. And we’ve been entertaining it within our very walls.” Cromwell, normally so composed, looks shaken to his core. He’s a tall, sturdy man, a skilled magical practitioner who never shows fear. Yet here he stands, pale, hands trembling. It’s almost amusing how completely he misses the good news. “How do we kill that... thing ?” he demands, his voice hoarse. “We should alert the castle guard immediately!” “Calm yourself, my friend,” I reply, raising a hand in a placating gesture, the corners of my mouth curling into a smug smile. “The fae are powerful, yes, but not invincible. They have their weaknesses.” His expression shifts, curiosity mingling with desperate hope. “Weaknesses?” I nod, leaning forward slightly. “Yes. What makes them so dangerous isn’t their power. It’s deception. You rarely realize you're facing a fae until it’s too late.” I pause for effect, letting the tension build. “But now we know. That hag is a fae. And now, we can prepare to kill her.” “But we need to tell the King, we need to tell the royal court!” Cromwell insists, his voice rising. “They need to know this thing has been living so close to all of us!” “No. We must tell as few people as possible,” I say sternly, my gaze sharp. “Why not?” Cromwell asks, his confusion evident. “The only reason the King let her and that boy live must be because she has enchanted him,” I say darkly. “The King has been compromised.” This revelation explains his strange behavior, the way he insists they remain in the castle while simultaneously fearing her presence. “In fact, anyone who has been in close contact with her may be under her control,” I add gravely. “That includes Lady Muara and… your estranged son as well.” Cromwell visibly recoils, wincing at the mentio