Cain slowly made his way down the stairs, ignoring the people working tirelessly to pile up bodies and those desperately trying to keep the survivors alive. His expression remained detached, his eyes cold and nonchalant, as though he hadn’t been the one responsible for the carnage they were struggling to clean.
As he descended, the workers hurriedly bowed and knelt, the humans among them trembling with fear. None dared risk offending him. Better to mistakenly bow to the wrong person than fail to greet the one they were supposed to. Cain’s youthful appearance only added to their confusion and terror; they had seen his pictures, but seeing him in person—so young yet so imposing—was a different matter entirely.
Yet Cain paid them no mind. He walked through the mansion’s main doors and headed straight to the stables, where Frank had inford him Violet had been found. He didn’t question why he felt the need to go there himself; his instincts guided him.
Before he even pushed the stable doors open, the foul stench assaulted him. The air was heavy with the tallic tang of blood, the unmistakable scent of decay mingling with damp hay. Cain stepped inside, his eyes imdiately locking onto the area where they had taken her eyes and cut her tongue. The blood-soaked hay marked the spot like a grim reminder of what had occurred.
Two bodies lay near the entrance, but he didn’t spare them a glance. His focus was singular as he squatted beside the bloody hay. The foul sll was nauseating, but he ignored it, his rage simring beneath his calm exterior. For several monts, he simply stared, his thoughts dark and silent.
Rising to his feet, Cain’s sharp gaze swept the stable. His eyes flickered with purpose as he moved back toward the bodies. He focused on the larger of the two, ignoring the one whose face was frozen in a shocked expression. The faint scratches on the larger man’s arm caught his attention. They were so faint and almost fully healed that they could’ve easily been missed. Cain’s instincts flared. There was no way soone bold enough to kidnap Violet and mutilate her under his watch would die so easily.
The very thought darkened his mood further. Cain had already decided that the four n who delivered Violet to him would die—innocent or not. All he needed to determine was who deserved the most excruciating end. His eyes darkened further, his thoughts unrelenting.
If necessary, all four will suffer equally, Cain resolved, his expression blank but his mind a roiling storm. These weren’t re guards; they were werewolves. No one served him willingly, not out of loyalty or honor. After all, what honor was there in serving the so-called Mad Lord?
As Cain continued to examine the stable, his mind wavered for a brief mont. Should I kill the rest of them, too? The thought passed swiftly, dismissed with little consideration. To him, human lives held no more significance than paper. They all deserve to die.
Still, he paused. Among his elite guards, there were a few who had shown true loyalty. That sliver of restraint held him back. With a quiet sigh, he began pushing apart the hay, searching for anything the culprit might have left behind in their haste.
After moving a few patches aside, he was ready to give up. Frustration threatened to boil over as he prepared to order the entire stable torn down for inspection. Then, sothing black caught his eye. Kicking the hay aside revealed a small box and a jar.
The jar contained water, and floating inside were two bloody purple eyes. Cain’s fury ignited instantly. He picked up the jar, his hands steady but his face twisting with pure rage. For a mont, the room seed to grow colder as he stared at the grotesque contents. Without a word, he opened the box. A quick glance at its contents was enough; he slamd it shut, his jaw tightening.
In one hand, he grabbed the jar. In the other, the box. On his way out, he crushed the larger corpse’s head beneath his foot. The sound was sickening, but Cain didn’t flinch. His muscular fra straightened as he strode toward his next destination: the basent.
Monts later, he arrived. As expected, Frank was there, giving orders to the elite guards stationed nearby. They all dropped to their knees the second they saw Cain, including Frank.
"You’ve done well. You can leave," Cain said. His words surprised everyone, including Frank, whose brows furrowed in confusion. The head guard raised his head slightly, his lips parting as though to speak. But Cain continued.
"Your focus should be on guarding the gates until I give you new orders," he instructed.
Frank nodded, though hesitation lingered. The other guards hurried to leave, but Frank lingered. Just as he opened his mouth to voice his concerns, Cain cut him off.
"...You too, Frank. Unless you’d like to learn the art of skinning human flesh." Cain’s tone was sharp, his words blunt. The head guard’s face paled slightly before he nodded and turned to leave.
With the guards gone, Cain turned his attention to the huge cell in the basent. Inside were the four n he suspected, each chained with silver restraints. The sight of them—grown n, werewolves no less—flinching and trembling at his approach only deepened his disdain.
Cain unlocked the gate and stepped inside. The four scrambled to their feet, balancing awkwardly on their shackled legs.
"My lord!" they greeted in unison, their voices tinged with a mixture of fear, hope, and desperation. Their expressions reminded Cain of eager children awaiting praise—a thought that disgusted him further.
Without a word, Cain dropped the box with a heavy thump. The jar followed, its grotesque contents on full display. His sharp gaze swept over the group, extinguishing the faint glimr of hope in their eyes.
"Everyone here will die," Cain said coldly, his voice carrying an air of finality. Shock, horror, and anger rippled across their faces. He continued, "Unless I find the one who dug out these eyes. If I don’t, everyone here will receive the sa treatnt I intend for the culprit."
He threw open the box, revealing its grim contents. His gaze lingered on each of them, searching for a reaction. To his mild irritation and faint respect, none of them showed that the recognized the box or the jar almost like it was their first ti seeing it.
None of them? Impossible. Cain’s eyes narrowed. Or perhaps one of them is simply a good actor. The idea almost amused him, and he might have entertained the ga longer if Violet’s eyes weren’t staring back at him from within the jar.
"Fine," Cain said with an exaggerated sigh, his tone dripping with mock resignation. After a mont of silence, he added, "We’ll talk again after I’ve relieved each of you of an eye."
Reaching into the box, he picked up the thinnest blade. His fingers curled around the weapon as he examined it briefly. He was almost certain this blade had been used to mutilate Violet. The thought only solidified his decision: Violet would take their remaining eyes herself.
Nothing heals better than an eye for an eye.
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