When Sian heard the old man declare that he owed humanity nothing, his control nearly slipped. For a man as disciplined as he was, that alone was telling. His eyes quivered, a faint tremor running through his lashes, and a subtle redness burned at their edges like embers threatening to flare into flame.
Yes—he owed no one. Never had.
The truth of it cut deeper than any sword could. He was not bound to the world, not shackled to gratitude, not chained to duty. Yet still, beneath that façade of cruelty and iron, something softer lived.
Sian's heart—though locked behind iron bars of pride and rage—was the gentlest, most fragile heart imaginable. A heart that had not hardened, despite every reason to do so.
Why? Because fate had carved for him the role of a villain.
After the loss of his family, he should have fully embraced that role. He should have risen as a tyrant, painted in blood, vowing vengeance against a world that had taken everything from him.
