New Story! Rise of the Disguised Overlord | Prologue (Ch.0)

A/N: Hello! Me again. Your favorite misspelled villa1n. I have another new story for you guys today - but something a bit different from my usual stuff. I've written about three chapters, so I'm going to post the first two today (the Prologue and the Ch.1) and if you guys like it -- I'll keep posting.

For a quick blurb: This story is about a shy butler named Dimitri, who serves the eons-old Vortigern family. When a murder occurs in the Vortigern house, Dimitri makes a rash decision -- and ends up as the new Overlord of the Valley of Idra, with powers he has no idea what to deal with.

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Prologue: The Vortigerns

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Two things happened simultaneously on the eve of Walpurgis Nacht – one, Dimitri quit his job.

And two, he became the most powerful man in the entire Valley of Idra.

The Great Divine Master Overlord – let’s call him simply the Overlord from now on, for the sake of our collective sanity – was a title that was not given, it was passed down. Specifically, it was passed down through the Vortigern family. A dynasty as old as humankind itself, or at least that was the rumor they liked to purport. A more accurate timetable was probably more like a dynasty as old as the invention of toilet paper.

Such as it was with dictators, the Vortigerns were feared, respected, and routinely hunted for sport. Their status granted them both land and access to otherwise forbidden magic—which is why they had to keep around an elite circle of bodyguards.

Dimitri hadn’t been one of those bodyguards; he had been the butler, or rather, the Butler’s butler. His feeble frame and tendency towards scampering made him very good at opening doors, shutting them, and whispering things like Evening, Sir and Good Morning, Sir, under his breath.

Another thing about the Vortigerns: there were only four of them. The interminably cold and cruel patriarch, Lord Kristoff Vortigern, his daughter, and then his two sons, Rampart and… the other one.

See, Lord Vortigern’s wife had passed away years ago, leaving Rampart Vortigern—the eldest son, and the perfect picture of pedigree and excellence—to be next in line for the throne.

Then there was the youngest. The other one. He had been deeply ill, stricken with a disease that deteriorated the bones and skin. He was so ill that the royal family refused to even publicly release his name, referring to him only as the Second Son; they were that ashamed. When he was allowed a public appearance, for holidays like Walpurgis, he was forced to wear a face-covering mask. A shield protecting the prestige of his father and brother.

Dimitri always hated the way they treated him, like a blight on the family lineage instead of a living, breathing person. He swore to himself that if he was ever able to learn it, to dig through the Vortigern’s papers and unearth it, he’d greet the man by his true name. Nothing else.

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It was on this Walpurgis Day when the Vortigerns’ killer was invited to the castle.

A select few townspeople in the region were always invited for such events, a part of the dictator’s outreach program. Dimitri knew it was a sham, and that they’d most likely be expected to do the Overlord’s dishes and clean his linens, but peasants attended regardless. It could benefit their families, their businesses, their reputation.

Dimitri had clocked the guy immediately. Not as a murderer, but simply as a sham. A social climber. He was unnaturally smooth for a peasant, not in the way that his skin was clear – but in his movements. They were too… thoughtful. The kind of footsteps that told you a man with such a stride was planning something; something devious.

Before Dimitri could bring his concerns to the Chief Butler, the doors to the throne room had already slammed shut, and Dimitri had been sent to the kitchens. The sous chef was away, so he was to fill in on his duties–chopping carrots, folding napkins, arranging silverware. He spent the remainder of the day with a sour feeling in stomach, a bubbling, mounting anxiety as he stirred at a hot pot of bisque, the Overlord’s favorite.

“It’s too goddamn hot in here. I’m going out for a smoke,” the Royal Chef had informed him, just as the soup was about to finish. “Remember to use the white bowls. Vortigern hates the dull gray ones – he’ll throw them at you if you dare to serve him anything in those.”

Dimitri only nodded, watching as the man pulled out his pipe and exited to the courtyard.

Just as he was about to ready ten bowls of bisque for the royal family and their guests, he heard the first scream. It was shrill and ear-bleeding, belonging unmistakably to the second daughter of the Overlord, Leone Vortigern. Then came the next, and the next, until every single member of the Vortigern family had emptied their considerable lungs.

The murders happened in the throne room – which, due to the odd design of the castle, was directly adjoined to the Royal Chef’s kitchen – making Dimitri the first person there; the first person to see the carnage of all four Vortigerns, all six townspeople, and all five guardsmen.

But no sign of the killer.

Simply blood and death and paralyzed faces, their pretty little royal mouths frozen agape in disbelief. Even in death, they looked pretentiously agitated.

Dimitri heard the rush of footsteps echoing down the adjoining hallways, the butlers and the courtyard-posted guards following the screams. Soon, he’d go from the first and only witness, to one of dozens. He’d become a prime suspect in the foulest murder one could commit in the Valley of Idra—and most likely executed the day after next.

So Dimitri did what any sensible peasant would do.

He ripped the mask off the youngest son’s face, and ran.

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[Valley of Idra: Line Of Succession Updated]

[Ancient Rune of Power Transferred]