Rise of the Disguised Overlord | Ch. 2: Return of the Second Son

Dimitri knew it was inevitable. He had to return to the castle, to Reláire. Still, he delayed it for as long as possible, taking the backroads into the peasant area of the village as he paged through as much of his new System as he could manage.

This is so much information… he thought miserably. It’d take him weeks, if not months, to memorize all of the treaties and contracts the Vortigerns had been involved with.

Luckily, treaties and contracts weren’t his main concern; he was concerned with the people. The staff and the guardsmen who would be quizzing him for holes in his disguise, trying to madly ascertain his real identity. 

Fortunately, he had served the Vortigerns for quite awhile, so he was familiar with most of their family lore and history. He had also worked with nearly every member of the Vortigern house staff, so names wouldn’t be a problem.

Plus, the Vortigern's second son had never been a talkative guy. Be it because of his illness or just his disposition - but he was quiet, contained. A man of few, wisely chosen words.

Dimitri had always liked that about him.

—

After successfully sneaking through a series of crop-laden fields and back alleys, his clothes suitably dusted with crop and manure, Dimitri made it, unnoticed, to the house courtyard. 

What he saw did nothing good for his already boiling anxiety.

Hours after the murder, most of Reláire’s nobles were still frantically scattered about the castle yards, gossiping and crying and putting on a show of performative mourning, as nobles loved to do. Dimitri recognized a few faces – prominent Counts and Countesses – but most of them were lesser noblemen, social climbers and less-poor peasants masquerading as Important People.

“The killer could be amongst us right now, does that not terrify you?” one countess murmured, stirring the pot. “He could be sharpening his knives, just waiting for the perfect opportunity to take another–”

“Oh won’t you be quiet, Marg? You’re scaring the children.”

“The children should be scared, Charlotte. They should be absolutely quivering in fear.”

Charming, Dimitri thought.

Quelling his nerves to the best of his ability, he approached the northern gates. A single guard was posted at the entrance, Knight Lorrimar, if Dimitri recalled his name correctly. A sniveling and perpetually uneasy type of man, Lorrimar had worked for the Vortigerns for years, but never rose in the ranks. He was the only man in the entire platoon to earn the perpetual title of Gate Watcher.

But where are the other guards? Dimitri raised his gaze to the east and west yards, finding that the high-ranking guardsmen were doing the unenviable job of quieting and heralding the nobles. Naturally, it was taking all of their attention.

Good, Dimitri thought. I only have to deal with him, then.

Once Lorrimar caught sight of him, his face turned as purple as a plum, and he fell to his knees.

“Young master,” he said, his words as clammy as his hands. “Could it really be you? We – we thought you dead.”

Before Dimitri could open his mouth, Lorrimar had already reached into the post beside him – a shallow chamber of wood that contained the castle bells. He rang the chimes with an urgency, his entire arm vibrating up and down.

“Hear ye, hear ye – the young master lives! The second son has survived!”

Never had an opportunity like this crossed the desk of poor, overlooked Lorrimar, and he was pouring his heart and soul into the performance.

So much for keeping a low-profile.

As the chimes reverberated through the many yards, a collective gasp, followed by a collective shrieking, overtook the nobles, who began clamoring forward towards the gates to see for themselves. The squabbling countesses from before were the first to breach the entrance, each of them landing upon him like wolves upon prey.

“Oh – I just knew he survived! The brave boy!”

“You knew? Not a chance in the five realms that you’re claiming credit for that, Marg. It was I who first suggested the idea –”

"But how did he do it? Gods, he must have run for his life, look at his soiled clothing..."

The mass of aristocrats submerged him in a sea of pressing limbs and relentless questions. They were all seemingly competing to be the first to acknowledge him; they were desperate to earn the favor of the one surviving Vortigern, the newly appointed Overlord.

“Oh, your highness, you look just dashing, must I say –”

“Don’t be crass, Marg, he just lost his entire family –”

“Can’t – breathe –” Dimitri choked out.

With a powerful swoosh, a steel pole slammed down in the middle of the crowd. The noblewomen shrieked, relinquishing Dimitri and fumbling backwards.

“I mustn't remind you all that this is a crime scene. Not a welcoming party.”

At the other end of the pole was the head of Overlord Vortigern’s Knight Circle, Lady Rheya. The foremost swordswoman in all of Reláire, Rheya was handpicked by Vortigern to train his boys and protect his house from intruders.

A job which, evidently, she had failed at.

I assumed she had been one of the dead, but… Dimitri thought, his eyes widening as he met her frigid gaze. 

You see, Rheya had been very close to the Vortigerns, closer than anyone else on the house staff. They took her on vacations, taught her lesser magics, treated her brothers and sisters like royal subjects. 

For all intents and purposes, she was a part of the family.

Dimitri swallowed.

This had the possibility of being very bad.

“Step forward,” she ordered. Dimitri obeyed, anxiously tiptoeing towards her.

She gave him a long, considering onceover. As she got to his face, her lip twitched. I’m dead. There’s no way I’m not dead. Dimitri hadn’t planned for any of the Vortigern’s close staff to survive. There was no way Rheya wouldn’t be able to tell him and the real son apart; she’d clock his poor imitation within seconds.

Realizing the same, the nobles surrounding him had grown silent. What was before an excited fervor had begun to decompose into a suspicious chatter. The longer Rheya remained speechless, the worse it became for him. He had to say something, and say it fast.

“Lady Rheya, I can explain –” he stuttered.

“You all are correct. It’s him,” she interjected, to Dimitri’s great surprise. “It’s the second son.”

“Wait – it is? I mean, of course it is,” Dimitri cleared his throat.

What’s happening?

Despite her confirming words, Rheya didn’t smile. The crowd around him cried and howled like farm animals in celebration, but Rheya remained cold and silent. After staring at him for a moment, she grabbed his arm.

“Come with me,” she said, pulling him towards the castle gates. “Young master.”

—

Rheya tugged him through the crowds and led him into the foyer. Once they were there, she slammed the doors shut and locked them from the inside, making use of all the available security mechanisms: the hatch lock, the rune lock, and the overly conventional key lock.

After ensuring that they were all air-tight, she let out a long exhale.

“Lady Rheya,” Dimitri said, sensing the tension. “Can I just say, it is such a relief to see you unharmed –”

“Oh shut it.”

Rheya slapped him across the face, hard. It left a stinging impact on his cheek, and he blinked rapidly. In all his years at the castle, he had never seen her lose her temper quite like that.

“Don’t say anything,” she said quietly. “And don’t cry. I don’t have the patience.”

Dimitri bit down on his lip, shaking his head up and down affirmatively.

Taking his arm yet again, she led him to the throne room. Dimitri braced himself to see the royals’ bodies strewn about, but all that was left of the massacre were the blood stains on the carpet. Rheya visibly flinched as she crossed the tarp, making sure to step around the outlines of the dead.

After tiptoeing around the bloodstains, Rheya approached Vortigern’s throne. It was a tremendously ornate golden seat, standing at almost seven feet tall from top to bottom. Dimitri had never been allowed this close to it before, and he felt stunned by the level of detail. Entire prophecies were carved into the arms, ancient runes inscribed on the sides.

Without so much as flinching, Rheya used all of her tense, angry muscle to push the seat aside – moving it a few inches to the right. The woman grunted and groaned. It was a very heavy thing to shift, even for someone of Rheya’s strength. She looked frustrated that she couldn’t move it any faster.

Turning her head, she gave Dimitri another cold stare.

“Are you going to help? Or are you just going to stand there looking stupid?”

“Oh? Me?” Dimitri said, realizing very quickly that, yes, him.

He got to his feet and pressed his hands to the side of the throne.

“I’ll warn you, I’m really not very strong…” he said.

Rheya shook her head. “You don’t know that. Push.”

Dimitri wanted to ask her what she meant, but he knew better. He pushed with the full force of his body, expecting it to only move the inch that Rheya moved it, but to his surprise, it soared across the tile, bounding forward and ultimately crashing into the wall with a splintering crack.

“I said push it, not destroy it,” Rheya whispered threateningly, gritting her teeth.

“I – I didn’t know I could…”

Dimitri looked down at his hands as if they weren’t his.

It must be the Overlord class. I hadn’t gotten to the stats page yet…

With the chair halfway across the room, a pressure plate released just below their feet, clicking faintly.

He looked down at the slightly raised tile, his eyebrows raising. I had no idea that was there.

The effects were immediate. The wall behind the throne began to shudder. Rheya stepped towards it, parting the wide, gold curtain that shadowed the wall. Rheya beckoned Dimitri once more, guiding him into a previously concealed room. Once they were inside, her foot fell onto another pressure plate, which moved the wall back into place, draping them both into darkness.

“Here we are,” she said, sighing with a tone of finality. Even in the dark, Dimitri could hear the audible relaxation in her voice.

Rheya shuffled something around in the dark, and a candle glimmered to life. It illuminated the small chamber, which seemed to be a private study room. It was a comfy but claustrophobic place, with several cobwebbed bookshelves, a dust-laden desk, two stools, and a single, triangular window, facing the throne room. It had the shades drawn over it.

Rheya sat on one of the stools, and gestured gruffly for Dimitri to take the other.

“So,” she started, taking off her helmet and placing it on the desk. She rolled her shoulders backwards, cracked her knuckles, and otherwise let the tension run off her body.

After a long moment of uncomfortable silence, she found Dimitri’s eyes.

“Remind me of your name, won’t you?” she began, then raised an eyebrow. “Second son?”