Chapter 65: We laugh last
The western quarter of Vitium belonged to House Carrion Fang long before the city’s current walls had been raised. It belonged to them before trade routes formed. Before noble houses drew territorial lines on maps. Before merchants transformed portions of the city into districts of wealth and comfort. The Carrion Fangs had settled the western lands when they were little more than blood-soaked hunting grounds filled with starving beasts, wandering predators, and scattered corpses left behind by endless conflicts. Most houses would have abandoned such land. The Carrion Fangs had looked upon it and seen opportunity. Centuries later that philosophy remained visible in every stone of their fortress.
Carrion Fang Citadel rose above the western district like the exposed skeleton of some colossal predator that had died while trying to devour the city itself. Unlike the elegant spires of House Stanthall or the darkly beautiful estates of House Nightloom, the citadel possessed no interest in refinement. It was a fortress first. A home second. A statement third.
Its outer walls towered nearly thirty meters above the surrounding streets. Constructed from black basalt quarried from the volcanic reaches beyond Vitium, the stone possessed a rough texture that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Time had scarred every section of the walls. Cracks stretched across sections of stone. Ancient repairs remained visible. Entire portions displayed impact marks left by siege engines from conflicts that had occurred generations ago. The Carrion Fangs deliberately refused to hide such damage. Scars proved survival. Survival proved strength. Strength required no further justification.
The walls themselves appeared alive beneath the glow of evening lanterns. Hundreds of carved predator skulls protruded from the stone. Hyenas. Abyssal jackals. Bone vultures. Carrion drakes. Leucrotta. Every predator species associated with the house appeared somewhere upon the fortress exterior. Rainwater flowed through their mouths during storms, creating the appearance of black blood weeping from countless stone jaws.
Above the main gate hung the symbol feared throughout Vitium.
The First Devourer. The massive skull dominated the entrance. Even from hundreds of meters away it drew attention.
Its elongated fangs framed a hollow maw while a circular ring of inward-pointing teeth surrounded the skull like the jaws of a second predator attempting to consume the first. Torn crimson banners hung beneath the insignia. Wind caused them to sway slowly like strips of flayed flesh.
Beneath the symbol rested the house words.
WE LAUGH LAST
Every visitor entering the citadel passed beneath those words. Every servant ,merchant, soldier, noble and prisoner.
The Carrion Fangs ensured nobody forgot whose territory they entered.
Beyond the gate stretched the Plaza of Teeth.
The enormous courtyard occupied nearly a quarter of the fortress interior and served as the heart of daily activity. Unlike the decorative gardens maintained by other noble houses, the plaza contained no flowers and no fountains. Instead it was divided into military zones. Training circles occupied the center. Weapon racks lined entire sections of stone walls. Beast pens filled one side of the courtyard. Armories occupied another. Everywhere there existed movement.
Children practiced combat forms beneath veteran instructors. Warriors sparred with steel weapons. Beast handlers trained hunting animals. Scouts prepared expeditions. Hunters returned carrying trophies. The sounds never ceased. Steel striking steel. Commands shouted. Predators growling. The rhythmic pounding of feet against stone. To outsiders it felt chaotic.
To House Carrion Fang it felt like home.
The plaza led into the Hall of Consumption.
The hall stretched nearly one hundred and twenty meters from entrance to throne.
Massive pillars carved from single pieces of basalt supported the ceiling. Each pillar resembled the open jaws of some enormous predator frozen mid-bite. Rows of crimson lanterns cast blood-colored illumination across black stone floors. Crimson mineral veins naturally present within the stone reflected the light in unsettling ways.
Many visitors initially believed liquid blood flowed beneath the floor. The illusion never entirely disappeared. Mounted along the walls hung relics from centuries of warfare. Weapons. Skulls. Broken standards. Ancient armor. The remains of defeated enemies.
Unlike many noble houses, House Carrion Fang displayed trophies from its defeats as well as its victories. One wall held shattered shields carried by warriors who died protecting the citadel during an invasion three centuries earlier.
Failure taught lessons. Lessons preserved survival. Survival justified remembrance.
At the far end rested the Fang Throne.
No craftsman could have created such a thing.
The throne had been carved directly from the skeleton of an Elder Carrion Drake slain by a former Matriarch nearly four hundred years ago. Massive vertebrae formed the seat itself. Curving ribs rose behind it. The enormous skull loomed overhead, its fangs extending downward like a canopy of bone.
Anyone seated upon the throne appeared trapped within the skeleton. The illusion was intentional. House Carrion Fang believed rulers did not command death. They merely sat temporarily inside its jaws.
Beneath the Hall of Consumption lay the Marrow Vaults.
The vaults represented the true wealth of House Carrion Fang.
Miles of underground chambers extended beneath the citadel. Cold. Silent. Dark. Entire halls contained skeletons of extinct predators. Rows of preserved organs floated within alchemical preservation cylinders. Monstrous hearts larger than wagons pulsed slowly within containment arrays. Venom glands harvested from apex predators rested behind reinforced barriers. Every specimen possessed value.
Every specimen represented future knowledge. Future weapons. Future power.
Some chambers contained creatures that remained alive. Or mostly alive. The Carrion Fangs considered death a resource. The Marrow Vaults existed to ensure no resource was ever wasted.
Beyond the vaults lay the Blood Kennels.
Visitors often heard them before they saw them. Howls echoed constantly through reinforced corridors. Deep growls reverberated through stone. The kennels housed the house’s most prized hunting beasts. Grave Hounds. Bonejackals. Rotmanes. Carrion Stalkers. Entire bloodlines selectively bred across centuries.
Many noble houses maintained war beasts. The Carrion Fangs maintained dynasties of war beasts. Each lineage possessed records stretching back generations. Each creature’s ancestry was known. Each trait carefully cultivated.
Many beasts living within the kennels were worth more than entire commoner districts. Yet none of them received as much attention as the Matriarch’s personal collection housed deeper within.
The Red Kennels. A restricted section forbidden to nearly everyone. Predators captured from Cruentus. Experimental breeding stock. Rare beasts considered impossible to domesticate. Creatures so dangerous that even veteran handlers approached with caution. The Matriarch personally oversaw their maintenance.
Many within the house whispered that some of the beasts obeyed her better than they obeyed their own instincts. Higher within the fortress stood the Tower of the Fang. The Matriarch’s residence.
Unlike the extravagant manors of lesser nobles, the tower contained surprisingly little luxury. Maps dominated the walls. Military reports covered enormous tables. Hunting records occupied shelves stretching from floor to ceiling. Entire rooms existed solely to store intelligence gathered across Vitium.
At the tower summit sat Matriarch Vespera Carrion Fang. Night had descended upon the citadel. Through enormous windows she could see the fortress alive below. Lanterns illuminated the training grounds. Patrols moved along the walls. Hunters returned through the gate. The First Devourer loomed over everything. The Matriarch studied reports in silence. Trade agreements. Military readiness. Border patrol activity. Potential political threats. Nothing escaped her attention.
A ruler who ignored information deserved whatever happened next.
A knock sounded. The chamber door opened. An attendant entered. He bowed immediately.
"Matriarch." She did not look up.
"Speak."
"A message from Temple of Caedis."
That drew her attention.
Rhazira. The thought emerged immediately. The attendant approached and presented a sealed report. Vespera accepted it. The room remained silent except for the turning of parchment. The report described a disciplinary incident. Witness statements. Administrative findings. A commoner Shadow Scholar. A confrontation. A death.
The responsible party- Rhazira Carrion Fang.
The attendant remained motionless. Waiting. Most nobles would have reacted. Anger. Concern. Embarrassment. Political calculation.
The Matriarch finished reading. Placed the report upon her desk. Then gazed through the tower windows toward the distant city. For several moments she said nothing. The attendant began sweating. Finally Vespera spoke. Almost amused and with laughter mixed in her tone.
"They should be glad she didn’t kill a High Cleric."
The attendant blinked. Unsure whether he had heard correctly. The Matriarch had already returned to her reports. The matter was settled. A commoner scholar was unfortunate. A High Cleric would have created paperwork. Outside the tower the bells of Carrion Fang Citadel began to ring. The sound rolled across the fortress.
Across the Plaza of Teeth. Across the Hall of Consumption. Across the Blood Kennels. Across the ancient walls. And beneath the looming skull of the First Devourer, the fortress continued exactly as it always had. Training. Hunting. Planning. Preparing. Waiting.
Because House Carrion Fang understood a truth most of Vitium preferred to forget. Everything died eventually. The wise simply learned how to profit from it. The sound rolled through the western district. Across black walls. Across beast kennels. Across training grounds. Across ancient towers.
And above it all the skull of the First Devourer remained motionless beneath crimson torchlight while the house words carved beneath it seemed almost alive within the darkness.
We laugh last.
