House of Wynthorne

All Or Nothing

The news of the m******e at Wynthorne Manor arrived in the dead of night, delivered on parchment stained with hurried ink. High Chancellor Godfrey Ashenford read it in silence, his grip tightening as his eyes scanned the words. He knew it was coming, had always known it would come, but that did not make it any easier.

Aldric had struck again.

The first time, the Union had marched upon Wynthorne Manor with conviction, believing that sheer numbers and firepower would be enough to end him. They had been wrong. He had killed a third of their forces with terrifying ease, his magic relentless, his strikes precise. The survivors had fled, some carrying the broken bodies of their fallen comrades, others running too fast to care.

Then came the second m******e.

The ones left behind had families, friends, people who mourned their loss and burned with the need for justice or vengeance. They gathered, those grieving souls, forming a second force, not trained soldiers, but those with nothing to lose. And Aldric, without hesitation, slaughtered almost all of them.

It was c*****e.

Godfrey closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. The chamber of the Union Council was silent, but he could feel their presence, their anticipation. He placed the parchment down, steepled his fingers, and finally spoke.

“This has gone on long enough.” His voice was quiet but carried the weight of finality. “We cannot allow this monster to continue.”

There was a scoff from across the chamber. Lord Garrick Thorne, arms folded, leaned back in his chair with a smirk that did little to hide his disgust.

“This never should have happened in the first place,” he said. “Our fathers and mothers should have ended him along with his father when they had the chance.”

A heavy silence followed. No one denied it.

Lady Rosalind Tetheridge, ever the voice of restraint, tapped her fingers against the polished wood of the table. “They didn’t, though. They feared the consequences. Feared what the loss of both Aldric and his father might do to the balance.”

Garrick let out a bitter chuckle. “Balance? Is that what you call this? That balance allowed him to live, and now, how many have died because of it?” He turned to the others, eyes burning with accusation. “Aldric has become something we can’t control. He’s killed our people, more than any enemy in history. And yet here we sit, speaking of balance and restraint.”

Godfrey ran a hand down his face, exhaustion creeping into his bones. “They thought they were being merciful,” he said, his voice tight. “They thought sparing a child would mean sparing their own souls. But he is no child now. And if we hesitate any longer, he will become something beyond our reach.”

The chamber remained silent, tension thick in the air.

Finally, Godfrey sat up straighter. “A bounty,” he said. “Four hundred gold pieces for his head.”

A sharp intake of breath from Rosalind. She leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. “That sum will not only attract assassins. It will bring out creatures from the dark corners of the world, things we no longer name. Things that even we do not deal with lightly.”

“Good,” Godfrey said simply. “Let their hunger be his undoing.”

Rosalind hesitated. “You would unleash them upon the world?”

“If it means ending him, then yes.”

And just like that, the decision was made.

Aldric stood at the edge of Wynthorne Manor’s balcony, overlooking the mist-laden trees stretching endlessly into the night.

It was quiet, too quiet.

He used to like the silence, but now, it felt like the moment before the storm, when the air was too still, the wind too hesitant, the world holding its breath.

They were coming for him. Again.

He had expected it. The Union was predictable in its righteousness. But he knew this time would be different. A bounty of that size would send everyone after him: mercenaries, assassins, creatures that lived in the spaces between nightmares.

He wasn’t afraid.

But he was angry.

Behind him, Eleanor stood with her arms crossed, her presence grounding. She had been with him since the beginning. She had seen the boy he had once been, the one who had laughed without hesitation, who had dreamed of things beyond blood and battle.

That boy was gone now.

“You’re thinking too much,” she said.

“I’m thinking just enough.” His voice was calm, but there was an edge beneath it.

She sighed, stepping closer. “You knew they wouldn’t stop.”

Aldric exhaled. “I can handle whatever comes for me. But the others…” His fingers tightened around the stone railing. “They’re not strong enough.”

Eleanor didn’t argue. She knew it was true. No matter how many times they reinforced the wards around the manor, no matter how many protections were put in place, a constant war of attrition would eventually wear them down.

“No one leaves the manor,” Aldric said. “Not for anything. If we need supplies, I’ll get them myself.”

Eleanor tilted her head. “And when they do find a way in?”

His gaze was unwavering. “Then I will make an example of them.”

She studied him for a long moment, then whispered, “You’re not just planning to fight them off, are you?”

Aldric said nothing.

“You’re thinking of doing it, aren’t you?”

Again, nothing.

Eleanor let out a sharp breath, her frustration mounting. “Aldric—”

“I need more,” he interrupted. His voice was quiet, but it carried weight. “They will not stop. And as strong as I am, it is not enough.”

She knew what he meant. And it terrified her.

“You have already done the impossible once,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “You took a second heart and survived it. That should have been the limit.”

“But it isn’t.”

“You don’t even know if it’s possible.”

He turned to her, and for the first time that night, there was something in his expression that made her blood run cold.

“Then I will find out.”

Aldric turned to a locked cabinet, pressing his palm against the intricate sigils carved into the wood. The symbols glowed faintly beneath his touch, their ancient magic stirring in response. A series of metallic clicks echoed in the dimly lit chamber as the locks unlatched one by one, revealing what lay within.

A single, preserved heart, suspended in a glass case, pulsed faintly, as if still alive. The dim, reddish glow from within the organ cast eerie shadows on the surrounding walls. It was not merely a heart, it was a force, a reservoir of something primal, something violent.

Eleanor stood frozen, her breath shallow. “It’s still beating…” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“This heart belonged to an ancient warrior,” Aldric said, his voice low, reverent, and tinged with something else, pride, or perhaps fear. “A man cursed with immortality, impervious to magic, and possessing strength beyond human comprehension. He was almost not human anymore. The curse had changed him.”

Eleanor swallowed hard. “And you took it from him?”

“I won it,” Aldric corrected, his gaze fixed on the pulsing organ as if reliving the moment. “Not through combat, I knew I couldn’t defeat him in battle. Instead, we wagered. If I won, I would claim his heart. If he won, I would serve him until I withered and died.”

She stared at him, her fingers curling into the fabric of her dress. “How did you win?”

Aldric’s lips curled slightly, though there was no humor in his expression. “Luck.”

The warrior had no name, none that time remembered. He was a relic of a forgotten age, cursed by his own hubris, condemned to roam eternity with a body that would never break, never falter, and never rest. His existence was torment, and yet he had never lost a wager, never been outmatched in wits or strength.

The meeting had taken place in the ruins of an ancient fortress, its stones worn by time and whispers of old gods. Aldric had sought him out, guided by texts long buried and tales spoken in hushed warnings. He had prepared himself for every possibility, every trick, except the truth of standing before the cursed warrior.

The man, if he could still be called such, had eyes like hollow stars, vast and endless, filled with knowledge older than the foundations of the Union itself. His presence was oppressive, and Aldric felt, for the first time in years, truly small.

“You seek my heart,” the warrior had said, his voice as deep as the abyss. “You are not the first.”

Aldric, ever composed, had met his gaze. “And yet, I will be the last.”

A low chuckle had rumbled through the ruins. “Bold.”

They had wagered not on strength, nor on magic, but on something more insidious: knowledge. A battle of wits. The rules were simple, a game of riddles, of truths and lies. If Aldric could deceive him, even once, the heart would be his.

For hours, they played, each exchanging a dance of cunning and resolve. Aldric had felt the weight of every syllable, the crushing intellect of an immortal mind pressing against his own. He had nearly lost, more than once. But then, luck. A moment where fate had tilted in his favor, a question so simple it should not have worked.

“What is the one thing you have never had, but always desired?” Aldric had asked.

The warrior scoffed. “A foolish question. I desire nothing.”

Aldric had only smiled. “Then why do you still wager?”

Silence. A pause so deep it had nearly broken the world itself. And then, laughter. Slow, dark, resigned. The warrior had laughed, long and bitter, before reaching into his own chest and pulling free the still-beating heart. The words he had yet to speak would be a warning.

“Power this great does not come without a cost.”

Aldric had taken the heart and left without looking back.

Back in the present, Eleanor exhaled slowly, her gaze locked on the organ as if expecting it to suddenly lunge at her. “Then I pray the man it belonged to does not haunt you.”

Aldric let out a breath, one that sounded almost like a laugh. “If he does, he’ll have to get in line.”

The night of the operation arrived. Candles flickered in the vast chamber, casting elongated shadows against the stone walls. Eleanor’s hands trembled as she prepared the enchanted scalpel, her mind racing with doubts she dared not voice.

Aldric lay on the table, his torso already marked with intricate incantations, glyphs that shimmered faintly under the dim light. He had undergone this procedure before, but this, this was uncharted territory. A third heart. No being had ever attempted such a feat. No being should.

“Last chance to change your mind,” she murmured, her voice barely more than a breath.

He exhaled slowly, steadying himself. “Do it.”

The blade sank into his chest.

Pain, raw and unrelenting, tore through his body. Blood magic surged in violent waves, fighting against the intrusion, resisting the unnatural. The warrior’s heart, ancient, defiant, did not surrender easily. It fought. It screamed through every vein, every nerve, every fiber of his being.

Aldric gritted his teeth, his body seizing as visions flooded his mind, faces twisted in agony, sorcerers long dead whispering warnings, their voices clawing at his sanity.

“You will fall.”

“You will lose yourself.”

“This is not power, it is a curse.”

The chamber trembled. Shadows writhed against the walls, their forms shifting, distorting. Eleanor pressed harder, her hands steady despite the horror unfolding before her. She could feel it, the heart resisting, the magic rebelling.

Aldric roared, his voice raw, primal. He would not break. He would not yield. He could not.

The final stitch was made. The chamber fell silent.

For a long moment, there was nothing. No breath, no movement. Eleanor pressed a trembling hand to his chest, waiting, praying. And then,

A single beat.

Then another. Strong. Unrelenting.

And suddenly Aldric’s eyes snapped open.