Draxul – Inside one of the tents
Aqua sat, leaning against the pillar behind him. His eyes were lost in silence, but his body screamed in pain. Bruises were scattered across his body, and the shallow wounds on his hands and shoulders told their own story of battle. The doctor worked quickly, but Aqua still tried to maintain his composure, even as the pain overwhelmed him.
As for Dame Barbara, she watched closely, her hands resting on her cheeks, as she always did in difficult moments. Her eyes never left Aqua, observing every movement, every shift in his expression. When the doctor finished treating the wounds, he bowed his head respectfully before leaving, saying: "He needs rest. I believe his condition will improve soon."
Barbara then turned to Aqua with a playful smile, attempting to lighten the tense atmosphere.
Barbara: "Did you hear that? So, you'd better return to Frostnov before my mother arrives and kicks you out."
The dim light from the oil lamps flickered against the walls as Aqua sat, leaning against the wooden pillar, his eyes drifting into emptiness. His wounds still throbbed with pain, but he did not feel it as he should. Something else occupied his mind, something deeper than wounds and scars.
He muttered in a barely audible voice.
Aqua: "I've already lost interest in this war..."
Silence filled the tent, as if time had stopped for a moment. Aqua felt a strange warmth on his left side, a sensation unfamiliar in the battlefield or amidst chaos. He slowly turned his head to find Barbara had moved closer to him, her face calm, her gentle smile slowly forming on her lips, gazing at him just as he had gazed at her before the battle.
He was momentarily flustered, then stammered.
Aqua: "W-What is this... What are you doing?"
Barbara, maintaining her calm smile, replied coolly: "Isn't this your way of greeting others?"
Aqua flinched for a moment, recalling the previous incident... the ridiculous moment when he had approached her in a similar manner without realizing it. Embarrassed, he turned his gaze away, trying to hide his discomfort.
Aqua: "I wasn't in my right mind back then..."
But Barbara didn't avert her eyes from him. She kept staring, smiling as if enjoying seeing him in this state, as if waiting for him to lose his usual composure.
Aqua sighed, giving in: "Alright, alright! I apologize... that's enough already."
Barbara let out a soft laugh, carrying a mix of triumph and amusement, as if she had won a small battle. But soon, her laughter faded, and her smile gradually disappeared as she looked down in silence. In that moment, Aqua felt something strange. The atmosphere grew heavier, as if something unseen was floating between them. He turned to her cautiously. She was staring into emptiness, her eyes no longer carrying their usual spark.
He asked in a low voice, almost a whisper.
Aqua: "Are you okay?"
Barbara flinched slightly, as if Aqua's voice had pulled her from another world. She stared at him briefly, then averted her gaze and forced a smile.
Barbara: "Of course... I wasn't on the frontlines... I didn't… get hurt much… unlike you."
But Aqua was no fool. He noticed how her hands clenched slightly, how her body was tense despite her attempt to appear indifferent. Before he could say anything, Barbara rose from her seat. She walked toward the tent's exit, her steps heavy, slower than they should be.
And just as she reached the tent's opening, Aqua spoke a simple phrase without looking at her.
Aqua :"Take care of yourself."
Barbara suddenly stopped, frozen in place, as if those words had struck something deep within her that she could not control. Aqua didn't know that he had carved those words into her soul, nor that her heart was echoing them louder than her ears had heard them.
She looked outside, but her mind was elsewhere. She couldn't hold it in anymore, couldn't keep that mask intact any longer. Slowly, tears began to fall... one after another... silently, without sobs or cries. But she didn't remain standing for long. She turned abruptly, and in a moment Aqua never expected, she threw herself into his arms.
Aqua was stunned. He had never seen Barbara like this before. He had never seen the weakness she hid beneath her armor of sarcasm and coldness. She trembled, her hands gripping him tightly, as if afraid of losing him like she had lost other things in her life.
Barbara, who had always wielded a smile as her strongest weapon, suddenly crumbled. These weren't just tears but an explosion of repressed emotions, trembling limbs, broken sobs... as if everything she had resisted before had surged all at once, sweeping her away with it.
In a trembling voice, mixed with sobs, she whispered.
Barbara: "I... I was terrified...!"
Her words came out in broken fragments, as if being pulled from the depths of her soul by force. Her voice trembled as she continued, her eyes lost, drowned in fear:
Barbara: "All that blood… all that fighting…!"
Her body shook even more, and she collapsed to her knees, as if the weight of her memories had become unbearable.
With clouded eyes, as if she no longer saw reality, she muttered.
Barbara: "The sound of swords… tearing through bodies… piercing bones… the ringing… it's still in my head… I can't stop it… I can't!"
She pressed her hands against her ears forcefully, as if trying to block out the haunting noise. But it was carved into her mind, pulsing with every beat of her trembling heart.
Aqua sat before her, speechless. This wasn't the Barbara he knew, not the girl who smiled in the face of death, who mocked danger as if it were a game. This was… a human being stripped of her masks, exposed before her own fear, collapsing under the weight of reality.
And for the first time, Aqua realized that true strength wasn't in those who felt no fear or pretended to be unbreakable.
He looked at her... at those eyes that had always sparkled with mischief and indifference, now drowning in terror, shaking beneath the weight of relentless memories. Barbara, who had feared no one, now looked like a lost child caught in a storm she couldn't escape.
A sharp pang struck Aqua's chest… This wasn't what he had expected from her, nor was he prepared to see her in such a vulnerable state. But at the same time, for the first time, he saw her true humanity... beyond the fake smiles and sharp words that concealed her fragility.
In a hushed voice, barely audible even to himself, Aqua murmured.
Aqua : "Barbara..."
He reached out slightly but hesitated. What could he do? How could he ease a pain he couldn't see or understand?
But before he could find an answer, Barbara whispered in a trembling voice, barely escaping between her sobs:
Aqua: "I wasn't as strong as I thought… I was never strong at all."
True strength lies not in never fearing, but in facing that fear... even if it shatters you. In acknowledging weakness.
In a shaking voice, Barbara added.
Barbara: "And you too... take care of yourself… and never come back here."
Aqua was left speechless. He didn't know how to handle this storm of emotions, didn't know how to respond to such raw sincerity laid bare before him.
Barbara lifted her head, wiped her tears with her fingertips, then looked at him with her blue eyes, which still carried a warm glow despite everything.
She smiled, but this time, it was different... a smile filled with promise, certainty, and hope.
Barbara: "I will end this war with my mother… And then… I will come to you myself… Wait for me."
She didn't give him a chance to reply. She turned swiftly and left the tent, leaving behind a trace of emotions Aqua didn't know how to process.
He sat there, staring into the void, while her final words echoed in his mind. He didn't know what the future held…
But he knew one thing.
She would return.
On the other side of the camp, where dim lights flickered over the torn tents and the bloodstains had yet to dry, Marchioness Atris walked slowly, leaning on Ser Variss. Her steps were heavy, yet her gaze still carried the same sharpness as always, as if the pain gnawing at her body was merely a temporary obstacle.
Inside the command tent, amid blood-stained maps and the scent of burnt iron, Atris stood before Variss.
Her eyes were weary, but her resolve remained unshaken.
Atris, in a quiet voice tinged with hidden exhaustion: "Just tell her what she needs to know... Any extra words will only burden her further, a weight she does not need now."
Variss paused for a moment, searching for the right words, but he realized that nothing would make this task any easier. He simply nodded in silence, then turned to leave.
But before he could cross the threshold, Atris's voice reached him... soft, yet laced with unspoken fatigue.
Atris: "Ser Variss... I apologize. I've burdened you more than I should have today."
Variss halted for a brief moment, then turned to her with steady eyes and a tone devoid of hesitation or doubt.
Variss: "Do not say that, my lady. This is my duty."
At that moment, Ser Darren entered. His steps were confident, yet there was a subtle tension in his eyes, as if he carried something unresolved within him. He stopped before them, bowed respectfully, then lifted his head to speak in a formal tone... though beneath it lay a restrained concern.
Darren: "Ser Variss, Marchioness Atris… I hope you are both well. Congratulations on the victory."
Variss inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment, while Atris merely offered a faint smile, despite the exhaustion evident in her features.
Atris: "Thank you, Ser Darren. I have yet to properly commend you for your bravery. You were an integral part of this victory."
Darren, with a reserved smile: I appreciate your words, Lady Atris. But truthfully, something has been weighing on my mind… and I wish to ask you about it, if I may.
Atris, with a slight nod: "Of course, speak."
Darren hesitated for a moment, as if carefully choosing his words, before lifting his gaze to her. His tone was calm but carried an unmistakable curiosity.
Darren: "I saw you fight Nithor Rakalion… and I apologize... I could not intervene, as I was surrounded on all sides. But Nithor… He is a duelist of the highest caliber. It's not easy to escape him, so… how did you survive? I mean… what exactly happened between you two? I did not find his body among the dead."
Atris was silent for several seconds before responding in a low voice, her words carrying an odd weight.
Atris: "I didn't."
Darren, slightly taken aback: "...Pardon? I don't understand."
Atris, her eyes distant, as if recalling the moment with precision: "He stabbed me… then disappeared."
Variss, noticing the shift in her expression, asked cautiously: "Disappeared? What do you mean?"
Atris, tilting her head slightly as if trying to piece together the hazy memory through pain and confusion: "I don't know… I was disoriented at the time. But I am certain he did not fall… He escaped."
For a brief moment, silence fell, as if her words had made them realize that this battle was not truly over. Variss exhaled lightly, then decided to let her rest.
Darren: "I understand. I will leave you now… You need to recover."
Darren turned to leave as well, but before he could step away, Atris called out to him... her voice soft, yet carrying something beyond a mere request.
Atris: "Ser Darren."
He stopped immediately, turning swiftly, his gaze questioning.
Atris, her tone firm, her eyes gleaming with an unreadable meaning: "We have been summoned for an urgent matter… Silvia has already departed. We leave at dawn."
Darren tilted his head slightly in thought, but he did not reply immediately. He simply nodded quietly before continuing on his way, leaving behind unspoken questions and undiscovered answers.
Dreamcrown – The Royal Palace Corridors
Her steps were swift, yet not frantic.
The silence of the corridors was deafening after the noise she had left behind. There was nothing but the sound of her delicate shoes emitting a faint echo on the cold, polished floor tiles—an echo that seemed to amplify the void around her rather than fill it.
The corridors were empty at this late afternoon hour. The slanting rays of the sun crept through the high stained-glass windows, painting squares of golden light on the walls covered in oil paintings of the royal family's legends and great ancestors. Faces peered from the paintings with harsh and arrogant stares, as if judging her from their heights.
Isabele: "Traitor..." Isabele whispered, but her voice was swallowed by the vastness of the corridor and the height of its ceiling. She didn't know if she meant Katerina... or herself.
She continued walking. Her hand was outstretched, her fingertips brushing against the cold wall beside her. The smooth, polished texture of the stone reminded her of the cold grip of Lady Ariana's chair she had sat on just moments before. That chair which had witnessed everything.
Isabele: "Why?" Another word escaped her lips, laden with the weight of the unanswerable question. Why did Katerina do that? And why had she allowed herself to reach this point? And why was it Talia's voice—clear, decisive, merciless—that had uncovered everything, and not her own?
She stopped at a large window overlooking the gardens she had just left. From afar, she saw the spot where the confrontation had taken place. A small white table, a small scene of chaos. But she no longer saw anyone. They had all left.
She pressed her forehead against the cold glass. Closed her eyes. Tried to remember Katerina's face before all of this. Before she became Lady Isabele Windsword, the strong, undefeatable girl. When they were just two children playing in these very corridors.
Isabele: "Katerina..." The name came out louder this time, broken, strange to her ears. She had never said her name that way before. It was always "Kate" or just a commanding look. But the full name... carried a different taste. The taste of loss.
She remembered how Katerina used to hide with her behind the large curtains in the ballroom, both stifling their laughter for fear of being found by the guards.
She remembered how Katerina shared her first secrets about boys with her, under the cover of pillows in her room at night.
She remembered how Katerina once defended her against another girl from a noble family, with a ferocity she never expected from her.
She was her shadow. She was her other voice. She was the only person with whom she felt she didn't need to be "Lady Windsworth" all the time.
And now...
She opened her eyes. Her gaunt reflection was mirrored in the window glass, pale, her eyes reddened but without tears. Pride prevented the tears from falling, but it couldn't stop the pain from carving deep furrows within her.
Isabele: "You should have been by my side..." she whispered to the reflection in the glass, as if addressing her friend. "You should have been here..."
But the reflection was silent. And there was no one else in the long corridor but her. Only the paintings of the ancestors looked at her with silent pity, or perhaps with disdain.
She turned away from the window and continued walking down the corridor. Each step took her further away from the garden and the memories, but brought her closer to the loneliness that began to feel like a thick wall surrounding her.
Isabele: "I am not like you..."
She repeated the phrase she had said to Katerina, but this time there was no anger in it, only confusion and pain. Was this the real reason? Because her father was an Earl, but not with her family's ancient lineage? Because her family, the Windsword family, was always paramount?
But in the game, in secrecy, this hadn't mattered. What mattered was that Katerina understood her without words. She knew what she was thinking before she even uttered it.
And now there was no one left who understood her.
Her feet moved on the cold tiles of the long corridor, each step echoing faintly in the majestic silence. The high leaded windows cast twisting sunbeams like golden pillars, painting squares of light and shadow on the stone walls. The air of the royal palace was heavy with the scent of history and power, a scent resembling that of old papers and forgotten sashes.
And in this silence, where everything around her bore witness to a greatness that wasn't hers, her consciousness slipped backward. She no longer heard the echo of her steps, but heard the rustle of leaves in the gardens of distant Skyroke Palace. She no longer smelled the stone, but smelled the burning oak wood in her father's library, and the aura of suppressed anger and disappointment that seeped from its walls.
The memory confronted her like a painful ghost, coming from that other world where she was the girl who believed the world should bow to her merit. She stopped for a moment, her hand touching the cold wall of the palace, as if searching for an anchor in a reality that began to shake beneath her feet.
Then, she closed her eyes.
And was submerged.
Skyroke Palace – A year ago
The smell of ancient wax and faded leather filled the library of Earl Yukron, mingling with the scent of the oak wood from which the high shelves reaching the vaulted ceiling were made. The fire in the large fireplace crackled softly, as if sighing with every flicker. Isabele stood there, in the middle of the heavy crimson rug that seemed to swallow her feet, and felt as if the walls of the room, filled with paintings of her ancestors glaring down at her, were closing in on her.
Isabele: "Father... Why..." Her voice shattered in the room's silence before it could complete. The tips of her fingers trembled where she clutched her dress behind her back, in a motion where she tried to hold onto her fleeing courage.
Yukron Windsword slowly raised his head from the scattered papers on his desk. His eyes, the color of a stormy, cloudy blue, were tired. It wasn't anger she saw in him first, but a heavy fatigue, like a shadow looming over his stern, stone-carved features.
Yukron: "Not again, Isabele." He whispered, his voice rough like flint, but low, carrying a long-suppressed sigh. "We've ended this discussion."
But courage, or the folly born from despair, pushed her a step forward.
Isabele: "But I'm serious!" Her voice rose, sharp, tinged with a bitterness that had been brewing in her chest for years. "How long must we remain like this?! For a hundred years since this family's founding, we've held the same title! Earl! Always Earl! Why are you not a Marquess? Or even a Duke? Like House Vanheim or Starkov! We are no different from them! Our wealth, our influence, our blood—"
Yukron: "Because we are not Vanheim!!"
The phrase was like a thunderclap. It wasn't just a loud shout, but the explosion of a volcano long dormant. Yukron slammed his grizzled fist onto the desk surface with violence, making the papers jump and the inks sway. He rose from his chair, and his height, which had once seemed majestic, now seemed terrifying. His shadow, stretched by the fire behind him, swallowed half the room and engulfed the small Isabelle in its darkness. "We are not Vanheim, we are not Nightoffer, and we are not Starkov! We are Windsword!"
He roared, the veins in his neck bulging. "When will this get into your head?! We do not wear the glories of others like borrowed robes! We forge our glories with our own hands, we do not beg for them!"
Isabele's body shuddered as if each word were a painful blow. But the blind glue that held her young soul together pushed her once more.
Isabele: "A-and... but! Why?!" Her voice trembled, nervous, almost breaking. "Why do we remain as we are?! It's not as if you haven't worked hard! You have contributed to this kingdom's development! And you have been victorious in its wars over the years! I... I cannot accept that we are 'equal' to Rosefield! Or even Hartley! This—"
Yukron: "Because 'justice' is an illusion sold by court merchants, and you are its biggest buyer."
His voice dropped suddenly. He was no longer shouting. It became quiet, dangerous, like a knife dipped in honey before it sinks into the flesh. He took just one step forward, but the distance between them seemed to have shrunk to a hair's breadth.
Yukron: "You think the world is built on merit? On justice? On who 'deserves' more?" He smiled a bitter smile that didn't reach his eyes. "The world, my naive daughter, is built on myths."
He raised his hands between them, as if holding the invisible threads of those myths. "Vanheim... the myth of their crimson blood, said to descend from ancient Miraphin. Nightoffer... the myth of the night, they withstood a winter that wiped out kingdoms, until the ice itself became their servant. Starkov... the myth of their former family Starlom's glory, with its immeasurable wealth."
He shook his head slowly, and the look of sorrow in his eyes was harsher than his anger. "And us? The Windsword myth is 'toil'. 'Effort'. 'Building from nothing'. And this..." He paused, as if tasting the word's bitterness on his tongue, "...is the weakest myth among them all. Because it is the most real. People don't believe in toil. They believe in magic. They believe in secrets. They believe in power that comes as a miracle."
Yukron looked at his daughter, his gaze holding the depth of centuries of bitter wisdom, his voice becoming like the whisper of wind through cracks of ancient history: "Take the House of Sparoff as an example..."
His words fell like stones into still water, creating ripples of meaning that expanded in the room. "After the War of the Black Sun, when House Starlom shattered like a bottle dropped on rock... The Sparoffs were but minor nobles who remained loyal when others betrayed. And their reward?"
He stopped, his eyes lit by the fireplace as if seeing the scene. "A fistful of dirt. Barren land on Astelaria borders, its size no less than this palace we stand in now!"
He let out a short, dry laugh, utterly joyless. "Meanwhile, the Starkovs and others went on to claim fertile plains and fortified cities."
He stretched out his hand as if grasping the air, mimicking a hold on something trivial. "The Sparoffs... they took that fistful of dirt. And instead of crying over the injustice, they spat on it, mixed it with their sweat, their resolve, and built upon it a fortress of iron and will. They made every grain of sand in it say: this is mine."
His voice lowered to a powerful whisper, filled with rare reverence. "And now? They are the undisputed masters of the Southeast. Their land, which once made others laugh, became the strongest fortress. No bird crosses their sky, no stranger treads their soil without permission. Because they understood... that power is not given, it is extracted from the earth, from resolve, even from despair itself."
He looked directly at her, his gaze holding a final challenge. "They did not ask for a title. They forged a stronger meaning: to be the master of your soil, even if that soil was deemed worthless."
He pointed his weary finger at her: "A title, my little proud one, is not a reward for exertion. It is a story. A story we tell others so they may buy it. And the kingdom needs all kinds of these stories to hold together. It needs Nightoffer's myths to feel authenticity, and it needs Windsword's toil to feel progress. We are a functional necessity, nothing more."
Then he struck his palm against his chest, a hollow blow whose echo reverberated in her heart. "And you... your arrogance is not in wanting more. Your arrogance is in despising your own story. You despise 'Windsword'. You despise the soil from which our roots grew, and you think vanity will sprout roots of gold for you in the skies of others."
He moved closer, until she could see the fatigue carving deep furrows around his eyes, and smell the old tobacco and musty paper that emanated from him: "The shame is not in being the daughter of an Earl. The shame is in being this blind to the value of what is in your hands. The shame is in thinking our battle is to reach the platform of Vanheim or Starkov... while the real battle is to stay on our own platform, and raise it until it becomes higher than all of theirs, without asking the Kingdom for it."
He took her chin with an unsettling gentleness, forcing her to meet the storm in his eyes: "You do not want power, Isabele. You want recognition. And that is the weakest form of power there is. Because it is given, and it can be taken away at any moment. Real power is that which comes from within, imposes itself upon the world, and does not ask it to grant it."
He released her and stepped back, his shadow retreating with him, leaving her standing in the flickering firelight, burdened by the weight of every word, every character that was a nail hammered into the coffin of her innocence, and at the same time, building a new foundation, more cruel, more solid, for her character.
In that heavy silence, Isabele no longer saw her father as a man refusing her ambition. She saw him as the guardian of a harsh reality, refusing to auction their house in the market of noble delusions. And she felt, for the first time, that the title "Earl" was not a ceiling, but a solid floor upon which one could build, if one had the courage to build, instead of screaming because the floor wasn't made of gold.
And this realization was heavier, more painful, than any insult that could have been directed at her.
Because it came from within.
She walked through the corridors of the royal palace with steady strides, the sound of her heels ringing through the vast hallways, mingling with the flickering flames of the torches lining the walls, casting long shadows on the ornate marble floor.
Isabel Windsword was trying to control her thoughts. Despite the storm she had left behind in the garden, she had no luxury to dwell on it now. News from the battlefield was imminent, and her mind refused to drift toward the possibility of defeat.
But what she did not know was that victory, at times… comes at an unbearable price.
At the corner of the hallway leading to the grand hall, her personal attendant appeared, rushing toward her in haste, his breath ragged, his face pale... as if he carried news that burned in his chest like embers.
"Lady Isabel!"
She stopped abruptly, turning to him, her piercing blue eyes locking onto him like blades.
Isabel: "What is it?"
He halted before her, placing a hand on his chest, panting for a moment before speaking in a trembling yet exhilarated voice: "The battle is over, my lady… We have won!"
Her body tensed for a moment before her expression eased slightly.
She closed her eyes for a brief moment, as if allowing the news to sink in, to lift even a fraction of the weight that had been suffocating her. But the relief was fleeting, for the attendant quickly added in a cautious tone...
"Ser Variss is waiting for you in the inner courtyard… He wishes to speak with you."
Isabel: "Variss?" She whispered to herself, a sudden unease creeping into her limbs, though not enough to halt her movements. Without a word, she turned and ran.
She ran as fast as she could, through the stretching corridors, past the grand draperies bearing her family's crest, through the heavy doors of dark wood inlaid with gold.
She ran, and something inside her told her that even this speed would not be enough.
When she reached the inner courtyard, Ser Variss stood there under the flickering torchlight that danced with the cold wind. His posture was upright, as always... the knight who had never once appeared weak or hesitant. But tonight… he was different.
His face was grim, his eyes... laden with unseen wounds... were fixed on her, carrying a weight that seemed unbearable.
Isabel stopped abruptly.
Something in her chest tightened.
Isabel: "Ser Variss…"
He did not smile at her as he always did. He did not speak in that confident voice she had known since childhood. He merely stood there, watching her in silence, as though every word he wished to say had lodged in his throat.
A dreadful feeling pressed against her ribs, slowing her breath…
Isabel: "What happened?"
He did not answer immediately. He took a deep breath, lowered his gaze to the ground for a moment, then lifted his eyes to her and spoke in a heavy voice.
Variss: "Your father… Earl Yukron Windsword … fell in battle."
It was as if the world had come to a halt.
As if something inside her had shattered into scattered pieces, impossible to reassemble.
Isabel: "…What?"
A single word, whispered, barely escaping her lips.
But Variss said no more. He simply held her gaze, as if his eyes alone were enough to make her grasp the truth.
Isabel felt as if time had frozen, as if the air around her had become heavy, suffocating her. Her chest rose and fell slowly, but her breaths never truly reached her lungs, as if her body had forgotten how to breathe.
Something deep inside her collapsed silently, without sound, without tears... only a deadly void expanding within her, dragging with it every sense of life. Variss's words echoed in her mind, but she couldn't comprehend them... she couldn't accept them.
Her eyes remained fixed on him, searching his features for a trick, a lie, anything that would negate what he had said. But his gaze, that heavy gaze carrying all the pain he couldn't put into words, was enough to tear apart the last shred of hope left inside her.
She felt as though her heart had fallen into a bottomless abyss. The sounds around her faded, the palace vanished, the cold night disappeared… and all that remained was silence... a heavy silence that filled her completely, almost suffocating her.
Isabel: "No. No, this is not possible."
Her body took a step back, feeling as if the ground beneath her had turned soft and unstable. "You're lying…"
She whispered the words, but deep down, she knew they were false. Variss never lied. "You…"
Silence. Her hand reached toward her chest, clutching her dress tightly as if trying to hold onto something... anything... to keep herself from collapsing.
But the truth was merciless.
In a fraction of a second, every memory she had shared with her father came rushing back like a flood… His laughter, his stern gaze, the way he used to pat her head when she was a child, the harsh lessons she learned from him, his wars, his victories, his promises... promises he had never broken.
But now, none of it remained.
He was gone. "…Father…"
Her body collapsed.
She fell to her knees, her breath uneven, her voice coming out as if she were suffocating. At first, she did not cry; she merely stared at the ground, as if unable to see anything anymore.
Then… the tears came.
They weren't loud, nor were they sobs. They were silent, heavy tears.
Hot droplets slipped down her cheeks, falling onto the cold ground, while her chest rose and fell as if the very air had suddenly become an enemy too difficult to fight.
Ser Variss did not move. He did not try to comfort her, nor did he offer meaningless words of condolence.
He knew.
Nothing would ease this loss.
So he remained standing there, silent, while Isabel Windsword knelt in the darkness, bearing alone the weight of losing the greatest man she had ever known.
And in the distance, the bells tolled.
Slow, heavy… Bells of victory, and bells of mourning, at the same time.
Above, in the shadows of the high balcony, Talia watched.
She stood there without a word, her icy eyes fixed on the scene below. Isabel kneeling, Variss standing, the bells ringing.
She did not need to hear the words. She did not need an explanation.
She understood.
There was no mistaking the way Isabel's body had fallen, the weight that had bowed her shoulders, the silence that consumed her as if she had been pulled into an abyss with no end.
She had lost her father.
Talia watched for a few moments, her gaze unblinking, refusing to allow herself to feel anything. Then, slowly, she looked away… but with difficulty.
She said nothing, she thought nothing. She simply turned and left, leaving behind a scene that would not be easily forgotten.