Chapter 164 Pretty boy

Words : 1060 Updated : Oct 2nd, 2025

Meanwhile, Jolthar's mind was working just as furiously. His sharp intuition told him that this was no mere chance encounter. The strained familiarity between Cleora and Dagur was too conspicuous to ignore. Enjoy more content from My Virtual Library Empire And then there was Cleora herself. From the moment she had heard of Chittera's approach, she had been on edge. It wasn't just the looming threat of invasion that had unsettled her—Jolthar was certain of that now. She's afraid of them, he realized. The thought sat uneasily with him. Cleora, for all her cunning and composure, was not someone who rattled easily. Yet here she was, faced with Dagur and his men, and Jolthar could sense the fear behind her calm facade. Jolthar stepped forward, his boots echoing softly against the cobblestones of the square. He sighed, a mix of weariness and resolve etched into his features. Whatever the relationship between Cleora and Dagur might be, it wasn't his concern—at least not now. What mattered was the barony, his barony. This was his place now, his sanctuary, and the place where he intended to carve his future. He couldn't stand idly by while invaders threatened its people. Dagur, still perched on his massive warhorse, exuded an aura of dominance. His presence alone seemed to cast a shadow over the square. His men stood silently behind him, their cold, grey faces unreadable but their weapons ready.@@@@ The earlier grotesque warning, the envoy's mutilated body, made it clear that Dagur wasn't here for diplomacy. He was here to send a message. Jolthar stopped a few paces from the mounted lord, his sharp eyes meeting Dagur's unflinching gaze. He spoke firmly, his voice steady despite the tension. "My name is Jolthar," he began, his tone measured but carrying the weight of authority. "I don't know why you've come here with your men or why you sent that... twisted message. Frankly, I don't care. But this place—this barony—it's mine. I won't stand by and let you or anyone else harm it. So I'll say this once: leave here quietly." For a moment, silence hung in the air, the tension so thick it was almost suffocating. Then Dagur chuckled, a deep, mirthless sound that carried a hint of disdain. He leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on the pommel of his saddle as he regarded Jolthar with amused contempt. "Oh, now," Dagur drawled, his voice dripping with mockery. "Is this your new toy, Cleora?" His cold eyes flicked toward her before returning to Jolthar. "Looks tender, doesn't he?" Dagur looked at him like he was nothing more than a plaything, grinning as he licked his lips. Jolthar's face twisted in disgust, his nose scrunching as he took a step back. "Ew, what the fuck, man?" He snapped, his revulsion genuine and unfiltered. Dagur's smirk widened as if Jolthar's reaction amused him. He straightened in the saddle, his tone turning sharp and venomous. "You don't know who you're dealing with, boy. Cleora will drain you dry and leave you to rot once you've outlived your usefulness. That's the kind of snake she is." Preeyonka's gaze fell to her finger, where a blue-hued ring rested delicately on her hand. For a brief moment, her stoic expression melted into a sly smile. Her lips curled upward, and her emerald-green eyes sparkled with intrigue. "Well, well," she murmured to herself, the smile growing broader, "things just got even more interesting." Her reaction sent an involuntary chill through her squad members. Every man and woman under her command had learned to dread that particular expression. They exchanged uneasy glances, each recalling the countless instances when her amusement had led to chaos, bloodshed, or both. None dared speak, but their collective discomfort was palpable. Preeyonka's eyes flicked back to Jolthar, standing resolutely near the fountain, his blade gleaming like liquid silver under the sunlight. She tilted her head, scrutinizing him with newfound interest. A strodem—the ring on her finger and on Jolthar's finger, that's what they are called. She very well knew about such rings—artefacts bound to the offspring of deities, said to grant them power beyond mortal comprehension. They also serve the purpose of storage space. The realization that Jolthar might be one of those chosen descendants made her heart race. Because she herself was one. Dagur, sitting atop his powerful steed, noticed the shift in Jolthar's aura. His sharp eyes missed nothing. Though he himself was no child of the divine, he knew enough about the Strodem and its significance to understand what was unfolding. His smirk deepened as he turned his attention back to Jolthar, then lazily glanced at Cleora. "You've outdone yourself this time, Lady Cleora," he mocked, his voice dripping with condescension. "A pretty strong toy? Impressive. I'll admit, your taste in men has improved." Cleora's face remained composed, though her mind raced. The sudden appearance of Jolthar's blade had caught her off guard. She had no idea how he had summoned such a weapon, nor did she fully grasp its significance. Yet, unlike Dagur or Preeyonka, she remained unaware of the ring's importance. Her confusion was masked by a veil of icy composure, though her sharp eyes studied Jolthar intently, trying to piece together this new puzzle. Jolthar, however, stood unfazed. His grip on Knashii was steady, and his face betrayed no emotion. The faint glow of his power pulsed around the blade in rhythm with his breathing, as if the blade was alive and connected to him in ways no one else could understand. Unlike Dagur and Preeyonka, Jolthar only used the ring for storage purposes, nothing else. It was the sole reason Qalena had given him the ring for. Dagur's patience ran thin. He raised a hand, signalling the grey-skinned warriors behind him to step forward. These were the ogre men, hulking brutes with thick, corded muscles and faces twisted into permanent sneers. Their skin carried a sickly, stone-like texture, and their eyes glimmered with malice. "Take care of that pretty boy," Dagur commanded, his tone as casual as if he were ordering a meal. "Skin him alive. Let's put on a show for the baroness."

Chapter 164 Pretty boy

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