Dreamcrown – Inside a Tavern
Hours had passed since the meeting. The tavern was crowded with murmured voices and dim lights flickering against the walls. Duke Blatir sat alone, drinking heavily, lost in complete despair. The table before him was utterly shattered... a reflection of his crumbling state. His right hand was covered in blood, stained with pain and regret. He downed the last sip from his cup, then buried his face in his hands as if the entire world had collapsed around him. He felt nothing but the crushing weight of life and the disappointment that wrapped around his heart.
At that moment, the silence of the tavern was broken by a low voice from the chair beside him.
"Here, let's drink together."
Blatir lifted his gaze swiftly. The voice was familiar. A quick glance, and he recognized the man beside him... Marquis Leon Cypher, watching him with a calm smile, seemingly enjoying the chaos around them.
Blatir frowned for a moment, then his eyes drifted back to the ruined table, as if it mirrored the turmoil within him.
Leon: "What's wrong, dear brother-in-law?… Is something troubling you?"
Blatir, grasping his empty cup, quickly glanced around. The bartender was nowhere to be seen, so he reached for the glass Leon had offered him. He drank it in one gulp, feeling the fiery burn of the liquor course through his body, bringing a fleeting sense of relief... a desperate attempt to escape the dark reality that consumed him.
Leon, glancing around calmly: "You know, you can always tell me how you feel… if you think it would help."
Blatir, his voice sharp as he stared at the table: "And why would I trust the 'Smiley Fox'..."
Leon sighed, letting out a quiet chuckle. "Hahaha… I've always hated that title."
Leon smirked as he watched Blatir shift through a storm of emotions, as if something unseen was pressing against his mind, unraveling his composure. There was something strange in the air, something creeping into Blatir's thoughts like wisps of smoke. His breathing grew heavier, his senses distorted... colors seemed brighter, sounds sharper... though he knew nothing had changed.
Leon leaned in, his face close to Blatir's ear. His whisper was deep, his words striking like lightning, charged with an invisible weight that burrowed into his mind.
Leon, whispering: "Do you know that those who lose everything… become the most dangerous? But those who believe they have gained everything… are more fragile than you can imagine.
You, Blatir… stand at the edge of the abyss. The moment you were closest to the throne, it slipped through your fingers like a mirage. Your loss is not just a fall from power… it is a defeat at the hands of the man who has always been an obstacle in your path... the man who stole everything from you while you thought you were in control."
Blatir gasped. His mind was more clouded than ever, every word Leon spoke igniting in his head like fire, burning hotter with each passing second. His limbs tingled, his eyes fluttered erratically. Something inside him... or perhaps something external... was breaking his grip on reality.
Leon stepped closer, his eyes gleaming with a sly, cold light, his voice slipping out in a hushed whisper—like a thread of poison seeping into the depths of the soul.
Leon, whispering: "Twenty years, Blatir… Twenty years you were the kingdom's sword and shield. You were the first to mount your horse, the first to charge into battle, and the last to leave the field. Your body is scarred with wounds, your hands stained with the blood of enemies unknown to those who dared call themselves kings.
You bowed… you knelt… time and again before men who had no lineage to the crown, no true right to rule, save for a pitiful scrap of parchment they called the Law of the Royal Chosen One. Kings born without honor, without merit—seated on the throne only because fate smiled on them at birth… while you, Vanheim, fought, built, and mended a kingdom that was crumbling."
Leon paused, a cold smile cutting across his lips, before lowering his voice further—so soft it seemed meant for Blatir's ear alone.
Leon: "And now… when that law has finally been broken by the king's own hand… did they give you the crown? Did they place it where it belongs? No… they set it upon the head of a shadow who merely sat beside the king on a comfortable chair, while you drowned in mud and blood. A man who never carried a sword, who never knew the taste of fire, who never felt the bite of fear… will be made king, while you sit here drowning your grief in a cup… after spending your life for them."
Blatir's breath shuddered, his chest rising and falling violently. His fingers trembled over the shattered table as if searching for something to break. His veins pulsed as though ready to burst, his face flushed under the pressure of boiling rage. His eyes glimmered with a dark, feverish light—torment and madness interwoven—until even the air around him seemed to grow heavier, tighter.
Leon tilted his head slightly, his smile slipping away from the human and curving into a demonic mask as he whispered his final words.
Leon: "Tell me, Blatir… what injustice is greater than having your whole life stolen… only for your throne to be stolen too?"
The air was thick with tension, as if the entire tavern was waiting for Blatir to explode. His body trembled with fury, his eyes twisted with madness. Suddenly, he slammed his fist against the table with all his strength. The already broken table splintered further, fragments crashing to the ground as his voice roared through the tavern.
In a flash of uncontrollable rage, Blatir lunged at Leon, his hands clamping around his throat with brutal force. Leon's body shuddered for a moment, but he quickly regained his eerie composure. Even as he struggled for air, words escaped his lips... ragged, yet powerful enough to carve themselves into Blatier's mind like fire.
Leon, with a strained smile: "They took it from you… They stole the throne from you, Blatir Vanheim!"
Blatir's eyes blazed with fury, his voice shaking the tavern's walls. "Silence! I don't want to hear your nonsense!"
But Leon, his sinister smile lingering like a creeping shadow, continued speaking, his voice slithering into Blatir's mind like a devil's whisper.
Leon, struggling to speak: "That crown… will be placed upon Nightover's head… while you sit here, broken, drowning in drink after spending your life fighting for that throne. Who is more worthy than you?! Who deserves to rule this kingdom more than you?!"
And then... something snapped.
Blatir erupted in a black fury, roaring like a wounded beast.
Blatie: "I said, shut up!"
He lifted Leon by the throat with shaking, enraged hands, ready to smash his head against the table... but suddenly…
"King Vanheim!…" "King Vanheim!…"
The words echoed through the tavern, shaking the air and silencing the noise.
Blatir froze for a moment, his heart pounding wildly. He turned slowly to see dozens of men standing behind him, their faces burning with anger, their eyes shining with passion, chanting his name... demanding that he reclaim his right.
A man from the crowd, his voice filled with furious conviction: "Duke Blatir!! Please, don't let them steal what is yours!"
Another man, shouting: "Yes! That so-called 'Duke Nightover' can't even wield a sword, yet they want to crown him king?! There is only one man worthy of the throne!"
"King Vanheim!…" "King Vanheim!…"
"King Vanheim!…" "King Vanheim!…"
Blatir's hands trembled. He felt something surge through his veins, something he hadn't felt in a long time… Anger? No. It was more than that. It was power. It was righteousness. It was fate itself calling to him.
He suddenly released Leon, who collapsed to the ground, gasping for air... but his eyes gleamed with triumph.
Slowly, he sat up, adjusting his disheveled clothing, watching Blatier freeze in place, staring into the distance, his mind consumed by a storm of emotions.
Leon, his voice quiet, yet carving itself into Blatir's soul: "You deserve the throne… Everyone knows it. They fear you because you are stronger than them… because you are the true king of Arcadia."
Blatir's heartbeat thundered in his chest. His breath quickened... rage, pride, vengeance… everything swirled into a single, unstoppable force.
He stormed out of the tavern, vanishing into the roaring chants of his name.
"King Vanheim!…" "King Vanheim!…"
Leon watched him disappear, then exhaled softly. Dusting off his sleeve, he slowly sat back down, picking up his glass of wine.
A man from the crowd approached him cautiously, his voice uncertain. "Did we do well, my lord?"
Leon gazed at his wine for a moment, watching the liquid swirl inside the glass. Then, he raised it slightly before answering with a cold, knowing smile.
Leon, his voice smooth and quiet: "Well done… very well done."
Then he took another sip, as the shadows around him deepened.... something lurking beneath them, waiting for the perfect moment… to strike.
Castrophil Castle – Raymond Returns to His Keep
Raymond stepped through the heavy gates in utter silence, his footsteps carrying the weight of something unseen.
The cold wind rustled the leaves in the garden, but he paid them no mind as he walked across the stone pathway toward the grand entrance. Fatigue gnawed at his bones, yet what awaited him at the threshold would erase all traces of exhaustion—replacing them with something far more… piercing.
While he was about to step onto the stairs leading inside, a weary voice pierced the air... a weak voice, yet burdened with an unseen weight.
"My lord…"
His steps halted. He turned sharply to the right, and there, against the stone wall, he saw Rinus. His face was smeared with blood, his shirt torn, his steps unsteady as if resisting collapse.
Raymond's eyes widened in shock, but before he could utter a word, Rinus finally crumpled to the ground.
Raymond: "Rinus!"
Raymond called out as he rushed toward him, kneeling beside him, catching him before he fully fell.
Raymond: "What happened here?! Who did this to you?!"
But Rinus didn't respond immediately. His breath was ragged, his half-closed eyes carrying a weight far heavier than mere physical pain. Moments passed before he finally whispered in a faint voice, barely escaping his dry lips.
Rinus: "That lady who came with you…"
Raymond's expression froze, as if time itself had stopped in that instant. He swallowed hard, then stammered in confusion.
Raymond: "W-What?… What happened to her? Is she okay?!"
Rinus, leaning against the wall, closed his eyes for a moment, as if gathering his strength to say what couldn't be left unsaid. Then, slowly, he opened them again, looking at Raymond with an expression laced with regret and betrayal.
Rinus: "She… took everything… and left."
His words struck Raymond's mind like a blade. The air around him grew heavier, his blood frozen in his veins. He stared at Rinus, unable to believe it.
Raymond: "...What?"
The word escaped him in a whisper, barely audible. He needed denial, an explanation... anything to change this catastrophic reality. But he got nothing.
Raymond: "She did this?"
He looked into Rinus's eyes, searching for any sign, any denial… but all he found was suffocating silence. Then, finally, Rinus's voice came... weak but clear.
Rinus: "Yes…"
At that moment, it wasn't just a word. It was a slap without a hand, a stab without a blade, a fall without an end.
A single short word, yet it echoed inside his mind, colliding against the walls of his soul, reshaping it with brutal force, tearing apart everything that had once held firm inside him. It felt as if the air in his lungs had suddenly vanished, as if something invisible had ripped his heart from his chest and was slowly crushing it before his eyes. His mind refused to accept it... screamed, fought, desperately seeking an explanation… any explanation.
How? How could she do this? How could she turn from a dream he longed to make real into a nightmare devouring him alive?
But despite his resistance, his mind couldn't ignore the reality before him. He couldn't deny Rinus's bloodstained body, his dimmed eyes, his voice devoid of hesitation. The truth was undeniable.
Then came the breaking point.
Something inside him shattered. Not just anger, but a crushing sense of ruin... of losing control, as if someone had yanked the ground from beneath his feet while he walked toward an abyss.
A storm of emotions consumed him in an instant... betrayal, deception, helplessness, disgust at himself, at his blind trust, at his failure to see what had been clear from the start.
Raymond didn't realize how his body moved. It wasn't a conscious decision but a raw, instinctive reaction to the emotional chaos overwhelming him.
He suddenly turned, as if some unseen force had pushed him, and drove his fist into the stone wall beside him.
The impact was violent. Small stones crumbled, searing pain shot from his knuckles up his arm... but none of that mattered. It wasn't even enough.
He gritted his teeth, clenched his fist again, and struck the wall once more. He wasn't hitting the wall; he was hitting himself... his naivety, his weakness in seeing the truth before it destroyed him.
A growl, filled with fury and anguish, erupted from deep within him, as if it had been bleeding inside him for too long, waiting to burst. He pressed his fist against the wall, veins taut, then leaned his forehead against the stone, striking it slowly, over and over, staring at the ground, as if physical pain was the only thing tethering him to reality.
But he didn't feel the pain. Nothing he did could compare to the agony raging within him... the pain that didn't stem from wounds or blows… but from betrayal.
Raymond moved slowly, then stepped through the doorway with heavy steps, his eyes scanning the scene before him. The manor was small, modest, lacking the grandeur typical of noble estates. But even this simplicity, even this minimal order, was now gone.
Everything was ruined.
The wooden cabinet near the entrance was violently forced open, its drawers broken, as if someone had tried to yank them out when they failed to unlock them. Papers were scattered across the floor... some torn, some trampled with dirt-stained footprints. A chair lay overturned, and the small glass lamp that had always rested on the table beside the couch was shattered, its shards strewn everywhere.
There was a quiet chaos.
Raymond took it all in… but he didn't care. As if his eyes didn't truly see what was in front of him. As if what had shattered wasn't just furniture… but something deeper. Something within his soul.
He felt his body... his heart pounding violently, as if trying to break through his ribs.
Then, slowly, he looked down at his feet and muttered in a voice so faint he barely heard it himself.
"Why…?"
He said it as if not expecting an answer. As if asking the void itself, pleading for time to turn back and explain how this happened... how it all ended like this.
Memories flooded his mind all at once.
Her laughter, her gaze, the way she spoke... everything had seemed real… but it wasn't. It had been a masterful deception, or perhaps something else... something he had yet to understand.
He turned away slowly. Picking up a cloth from the table, he folded it in his hands with an odd precision, as if his mind was grasping for anything... anything to do to keep himself together. Then, he moved toward the small desk in the corner, opened one of the few drawers left intact, and pulled out a bottle of antiseptic and some bandages.
He stepped outside.
Rinus was still struggling to sit up, wiping the dried blood from his forehead. Raymond approached him wordlessly, knelt beside him, and began wrapping the disinfected cloth around his wound with calm, steady hands… but without warmth.
Rinus remained silent for a moment before speaking in a weak voice.
Rinus: "I… don't know why she did it."
Raymond paused for a moment but didn't look at him. Rinus continued, his tone filled with hesitation.
Rinus: "I heard noises coming from your room, and when I entered, I saw her rummaging through your belongings… She was taking everything of value. I tried to ask her why, but…"
He fell silent for a few seconds, then continued, as if the words were too heavy to say.
Rinus: "She attacked me with the vase of mourning lilies… the one on your desk."
Raymond finally lifted his gaze, looking at him, but said nothing.
Then Rinus added, in a quieter voice.
Rinus: "Your mother loved that vase…"
At that moment, something clenched inside Raymond. A feeling he couldn't quite name... something between sorrow… anger… and utter emptiness.
He said nothing, only turned his face away for a moment before murmuring in a barely audible voice.
Raymond: "Stay here. Get some rest."
Rinus lifted his head slightly, looking at him.
Rinus: "Where are you going?"
Raymond stood slowly, glancing toward the nearby stables before answering, his voice low but sharp.
Raymond: "I'll find out why she did this."
Rinus followed his gaze, then spoke hesitantly.
Rinus: "She... took a horse and rode off in a hurry."
He paused, then added regretfully, "I'm really sorry. I tried to stop her, but…"
Raymond didn't look at him. He only spoke in a cold, steady voice.
Raymond: "It's fine."
Then, after a brief silence, he added, "Now, I know where she'll be."
Saveros – Raispon – Inside a Tavern
The place was bustling with noise, tables packed with men drinking, chatting, and laughing loudly. The scent of tobacco and alcohol mixed in the air, blending with the aroma of aged wood and the sweat of workers, merchants, and thieves who frequented the establishment.
At the counter, Liana stood.
Her hands pressed firmly against the polished wood, her fingers tensing with every passing moment. Her strong face held a sharp expression, but her eyes showed a flicker of unease.
Liana: "What the hell is going on?!"
She snapped, glaring impatiently at the man in front of her. "Why is this taking so long? I told you, it's good merchandise... I got it from a noble's estate, that's all... Wilder!"
'Wilder,' A man across from her was massive, his heavy build leaning toward raw strength. His swollen belly strained against his leather belt, while his worn-out shirt barely contained his weight. His pale skin contrasted with his sharp features... his nose was prominent, and his small eyes moved slowly, observing the situation before he raised his mug to his lips, taking a long sip before replying in a cold voice.
Wilder: "No need to worry, Liana... There's no rush. It's not like someone's chasing you, is it?"
Her expression froze for a moment. Despite trying to hide her nerves, tension showed in the way she clenched her fingers against the counter. She tried to maintain her composure and replied in a more serious but still sharp tone.
Liana: "Cut the crap. I've been here for half an hour! Just give me my share already!"
Wilder: "Alright, alright, no need to shout," he said with boredom, turning to one of the workers behind him. He took a small leather pouch from him and placed it on the counter in front of her with a faint thud. It wasn't large, but it carried enough weight to bring a slight sense of relief to her.
Wilder: "You'll get what we agreed on… but Samuel isn't too happy about what your sweetheart did to him," he said, tapping the pouch with his thick fingers. "So, we had to compensate him… with your share, of course."
She didn't say anything. She simply reached out, grabbed the pouch, tucked it into her bag, and sealed it tightly.
Under the dim lights that swayed with the smoke of candles, amidst the stench of sour wine and human sweat, three men sat at a worn wooden table near the wall. One of them, known among the patrons as Bran Kaldry, was a drunkard who had lost half his teeth, his voice hoarse as though it dragged behind it long nights of howling and brawling in streets that no longer remembered his name.
The two men beside him laughed at every word he spat, until he leaned forward, his cup swaying in his hand, his voice velvet but heavy with a strange curiosity as he said: "My uncle… he was a servant in House Rosefield. Do you know what he told me? About their son… Danny Rosefield."
One of the men guffawed and slammed his cup against the table: "Hah? Who's that? As far as I know, that house had only one girl… that pale little orange… what's her name?"
But Bran did not laugh. He clenched his fingers tightly and struck the cup against the wooden table, a sharp sound that stirred what fragments of silence remained around them. His reddened eyes glowed as if drink had turned them into embers: "No!… They had a son. A beautiful one. Not handsome like any boy… but with a beauty that drew women—and men—around him like flies to honey."
The men roared with laughter, one nearly falling from his chair: "Ha-ha-ha! You're mad drunk! Handsome… beautiful… and what then? Did he become the capital's beauty queen?"
Yet the laughter died little by little when Bran leaned closer, his features tightening with a sobriety that did not belong to a drunk, his voice sharp as a blade cutting the ear: "Not handsome… but beauty the world had not seen before. A beauty… that was a curse."
The two men exchanged uneasy glances before one muttered, "Man… enough. You're creeping me out more now…"
But Bran did not stop. He began to recount, his voice no longer the babble of a drunk, but as though he had seen it all with his own eyes, as though he carried an entire night sealed inside his chest:
"On a rainy night, twenty years ago, a child was born. His hair was golden, like drowned sunlight, and his eyes a dark gold, as if they had inherited the color of the last sunset. His features were a mirror of his mother, Nira Malacard.
House Rosefield rejoiced, for the long-awaited heir had arrived. The firstborn was a daughter, but now they had a son… the future of the house was secure.
But as the years passed, he was not merely another child. He was something strange… his beauty unnatural. He was temptation walking on two legs. Everyone around him was drawn to him. Even the handmaids tasked with his care ceased to be mere servants; they became prisoners of his charm. One could not stop kissing his cheeks, another gazed at him as though he were a sacred icon.
And when Nira learned of this? She did not grow angry. She did not discipline them. She did not forbid them. She laughed… praised them… and considered it her pride.
Her son, to her, was more than a child. He was a celestial gift, a piece of paradise placed in her hands. She carried him to gatherings and banquets, flaunted him before the ladies of the court, and shielded him from anything that might mar his skin or complexion. And not only that. The Viscountess Nira Malacard, consumed by her obsession with her son, forbade him anything of knighthood. She never let him touch a sword, never let him mount a horse, never even let him learn the art of dueling as the noble boys of his age did. To her, every part of his body was a treasure to be preserved… skin that the sun must never scar, muscles that must never bend.
She sat him at tables, pressed books and scrolls into his hands, drowning him in lessons and study. Not out of love for knowledge, but out of fear that training would spoil some piece of his beauty. She saw him as a painting that must never be touched, a crystal goblet that must remain spotless, never chipped.
As for Earl Virion Rosefield, the man who had ascended to his title two years before his son's birth, he was known for an iron grip and cunning beyond his peers. In the court and beyond, no one dared call him by name alone. A title had clung to him, greater than his own name: the Iron Stag. A name born of his house's sigil, but given weight by his unbending severity, his rule that knew neither mercy nor softness. Just as the stag stands proud in the forest as a symbol of might, he stood proud in Arcadia—but with antlers of iron that could never be broken. He was the youngest ever to bear the title of Earl in Arcadia, not yet twenty-two.
At first, Virion cared little for his wife's behavior. He saw in it the excess of a loving mother. He did not wish to quarrel, nor did he intervene. On the contrary, he felt relief when he saw his wife smile with a rare sincerity as she stroked their son's golden hair, as if her sorrows had been erased, as if she had been reborn in that moment.
But… in his eyes there lingered caution. Shadows whispered to him that something was not natural. That smile was not a mother's smile, but a woman's who had found her idol.
He kept silent for a long time, until a day came when he could contain his doubts no longer. He sat with her and tried to speak plainly: "We should let him out in the air. Let him train. Let him live as boys do."
But she burst into tears, collapsing before him. Her sobs were real, but not the tears of a mother fearing for her child's safety—they were tears of a mother fearing the loss of possession. She cried, trembling: "It doesn't matter if he's no knight! It doesn't matter if he never bears a sword! He will serve you with his mind, his wit! He is a gift from the heavens… do not let him be wasted!"
Virion stared at her in silence, realizing something in his wife had broken. She was no longer the woman he had married, but a shadow of a woman possessed by a hidden madness.
Still… he tried.
On a clear morning, he secretly took his son out hunting, away from her eyes, hoping to return to him some natural manhood denied him.
But when they returned to the castle… they did not find a home, but chaos. The great hall looked like a battlefield. Shattered furniture, broken dishes, floors drowned in food and spilled wine. And at the center… she was there.
Nira, in hysteria. Her hair disheveled, her body rocking, shaking herself back and forth like a child robbed of her toy. She mumbled incoherent words, gasped for breath, her eyes bulging as if she had seen horror itself.
And when she saw her husband and son return… she did not scold. She did not scream. She lunged with madness, clutching her son so fiercely she nearly suffocated him. She pressed him to her chest, whispering fevered words into his ear, while the boy trembled in her arms. The fear in his eyes was not for his father… but for her.
Then she turned to her husband, her face drowned in tears, her voice broken: "You will not take him from me… you will not… he is mine… my little angel!!"
Virion said not a word. He did not argue. He knew any attempt to pry the boy away would break her completely—and perhaps kill her.
From that moment, he surrendered. He left her to tighten her hold upon the boy. No maid was allowed to approach him. No one was permitted to touch him or even speak to him. His world was hers alone.
She pulled his strings as she wished, as if he were a puppet.
And the child, in his silence, understood. He knew he no longer lived his own life, but the life his mother had chosen for him… a life of coldness… a life of chains.
The situation remained unchanged as the boy reached twelve years of age.
On a pitch-black night, when the sky seemed to hold its breath over the castle, and Viscountess Nira slept beside her husband, the boy lay in his chamber, immersed in a brief, fleeting innocence of sleep he knew only in these rare moments.
Yet, there, in the long, dark corridor, stood a man known to all. Ser Darleth Vernott, a knight who had served House Rosefield for fifteen years. He had seen the boy's birth, watched him grow year after year, as if time itself had bound them together in a connection no one dared speak of.
He stood before the door, hand on the handle, his eyes holding something that was not loyalty, but something else… something that should not have existed.
He opened the door.
Inside the chamber, a maid bent over the boy, her hand almost brushing his hair. She turned to him, trembling, frozen with fear. But he did not raise a sword. Instead, he approached her with a deliberately angry tone: "How dare you!?"
She faltered, stammered, and bent to justify her presence. But his voice cut her off coldly: "I will overlook this night… leave."
She obeyed swiftly, fleeing the chamber and leaving the door half-open behind her.
He remained… standing by the bed, observing the sleeping child's face. There was a sickness in his gaze; a mixture of twisted protection and corrupt desire.
No one knew what happened afterward.
Yet the maid, the one dismissed that night, returned days later to tell a story no one dared believe.
She said she entered the room after dawn to check on the boy. She found him seated in the corner, silent, unmoving, staring into nothingness. His body trembled like a drenched bird, and his eyes gazed blankly as though he had lost the ability to see the world.
She told my uncle, The family's chauffeur, that she had approached him, tried to speak, but he did not respond. Her attempts took a long time until he finally whispered, his voice hoarse and fractured: "Darleth… hold me… grip my wrist and shoulder… try to…"
Then he stopped. His tears preceded his words.
He told her he had screamed, screamed until the walls shuddered, forcing the knight to leave quickly before acting further.
When Viscountess Nira learned of it, the family's maid had disappeared under mysterious circumstances, then, Nira showed neither anger nor fear. She concealed the incident… approached her son, held him close, and with a contradictory gentleness given the horror she had heard, whispered: "Say nothing. Do not mention this to anyone."
The boy trembled, looking up at her with wide, pleading eyes, as if he could not understand. But her gaze was not that of a mother protecting her child. It was the gaze of a woman guarding her secret… the secret of her beauty. Her face was sharp, like a blade, allowing no objection. Then, with a twisted smile, she stroked his hair, patted his head, and whispered in his ear: "You are… my little angel."
There was no tenderness in that word.
It was a chain. A seal that would silence him forever.
From that night, when his mother became a wall surrounding him from every side, the child became a prisoner without a clear cell—a prisoner in his mother's chest, in her arms, in her poisoned words that masqueraded as sacred affection but were in truth shackles. No one approached him anymore, no maid, no governess, no knight… he had no freedom to exist. He became a mirror that reflected only her, a "son" who lived only to the measure she permitted.
As the years passed, fate was no kinder. The tragedy repeated. Seven times he was assaulted—men abusing their power, women dominated by a sick desire to possess. Each time, he ran to his mother, clinging to her dress, stammering broken words… yet she was never an ear that listened. She was the wall that silenced, the shadow that hid.
Even the fifth time, when he collapsed into her arms and whispered what had happened, she responded with a split smile of madness:
"It would be wasted if we do not use this gift that the heavens have granted us… wouldn't it, my angel?"
Those words were no comfort…
They were another dagger… plunged into the heart of the child.
Only then did something break inside him. He no longer screamed, no longer complained, no longer trusted. He began to swallow his pain as he swallowed air—without tears, without protest.
And so, the seeds of hatred grew within him. Seeds that were watered only by betrayal, nurtured only by silence. He came to loathe humans, their faces, their eyes, their touch… he despised everything that made them human.
Eight years passed, and the boy became a man. Handsome, radiant, courted by the women of the capital, his presence heralded by whispers among the nobles. Yet behind his beauty, something else lurked… a mind nourished by darkness, a thought born from the womb of madness.
He was not merely a young man wandering the palaces. He drew women in with his charm, with a smile that resembled a mask rather than a heart. They would enter his chambers secretly, captivated by a glitter they did not realize was a trap. But he sought neither body nor relationship. Instead, he planted in their minds the seeds of a strange, terrifying, malevolent idea: "Your beauty is yours… but let no one exploit it. The only way to preserve it… is to keep it for yourself."
The room sank into the flickering candlelight, casting jagged shadows across the cold stone walls. The scent of melted wax and ancient wood filled the heavy air. She stood there, in a corner of shadow, like a phantom arriving unbidden. Her voice was like water trickling beneath ice, afraid that it would melt and vanish.
"I… I made a mistake. I shouldn't have come here… I… I'm sorry, young master. Your reputation could suffer if anyone knew I was here."
Danny turned to her slowly, not as if startled by her presence, but as if he had been waiting. There were no careless movements in him; every gesture was deliberate, measured. He smiled, but the fire in his eyes was not warm. "They know?" he said, his voice like silk brushing cold metal. "Let them. Humans live only by curiosity, and die only by their ignorance."
He stepped forward—two steps, three—measuring the distance to his prey.
"But you… you are not here for them. Do you know why you really came?"
She drew in a trembling breath, her voice quivering like a fallen leaf in the wind.
"Because… I love you."
A dry, faint laugh escaped him, like glass breaking underfoot. "'I love you'… a pretty phrase. Different from any lie whispered in gilded palaces. Different from the faces they powder to hide the ugliness of their souls."
He dropped to his knees before her suddenly, not in humility, but to bring himself to her eye level. His voice became quieter, sharper."Tell me… do you love your beauty?"
She faltered, stepping slightly back, but the shadow was behind her. "What… do you mean?"
He tilted his head, letting the light play on half of his face, leaving the other half in dark shadow. "I mean that humans love what they possess, fearing to have it taken away. Your beauty, my dear, is not yours. It belongs to every eye that gazes, every man who desires, every woman who envies. Do you understand?… You do not own yourself."
Her breathing quickened; he could hear her heartbeat from where he stood. "But… beauty is a gift from the heavens, isn't it?"
His smile widened, cold and sharp like a knife's blade. "Heavens…? If the heavens gave you beauty, they also gave men to gnaw at it, as beasts gnaw at prey. Do you call that a gift?"
He paused for a moment, letting the next words pierce the terrible silence. "No. It is a curse. And curses… are broken only with blood."
The girl stared at him, unable to move a single muscle. Her fear was pure at first, as sharp as a blade, but something in his absolute calm, in his sick certainty, planted a seed of poisoned awe within her. He moved as if the entire world obeyed his will, as if the laws of good and evil were mere tales told by the weak to hide from the darkness.
He came closer. He reached out, his cold fingers touching her trembling cheek. A light, contemplative touch, like one handling a rare artifact before destroying it to preserve its beauty forever for oneself.
"To preserve your beauty…" Danny whispered, his voice like an ancient prophecy carved into stone in a forgotten grave. "To make it yours alone, away from their filthy hands, away from their hungry eyes… this is the only salvation.
Skinning the face… is not mutilation. It is the preservation of beauty. It is the final signature."
Her whole body trembled. The spell had broken. "Sk… skinning…? Skinning what!?" she shouted, retreating until she hit the cold stone wall. "You… are insane!! There is no longer any doubt!"
Danny stood as if carved from the ice of the night itself. He showed no tension, no provocation—only absolute relaxation, silent confidence like rock. His back was straight, shoulders low without effort, as if the weight of the world did not concern him.
His eyes were empty. Not empty of feeling, but of an excess of sensation for something only he could see. They were windows opened onto a still darkness, gleaming with a cold inner glow, like embers forgotten in a grave. They did not blink, they did not shift, but drilled through whoever stood before him, as if they were gazing beyond, not at them.
His hands moved slowly and deliberately—not like one fighting or striking, but like a teacher explaining a simple lesson to someone who did not understand. His motions were economical, calculated, each gesture carrying weight and meaning. One hand might rise slightly, palm up, as though presenting a self-evident idea. His fingers did not tremble, did not stiffen, but swayed with a frightening grace, tracing invisible shapes in the air to clarify his words.
Danny smiled, a thin and sorrowful smile. "Mad?" he said, his eyes glowing in the dark with a quiet, shadowed light, like coal smoldering beneath cold ash. "The mad ones are those who let their bodies be used as tools for the desires of others… those who smile while being drained to the bone, and thank those who devour them. But I… I give you freedom. The freedom for your beauty to belong to you, forever. A freedom that never comes cheap."
His tone was calm, flat, almost didactic. He delivered an absolute truth—obvious to him—with a cold logic that admitted no debate. Madness did not lie in his shouting, but in his absolute calm. Murder did not lie in violence, but in his terrible conviction that what he was doing was the purest form of liberation and beauty.
He fell silent for a moment, and the silence was heavier than any word. Then he leaned closer, until she could feel the heat of his breath upon her skin. He whispered into her ear, his final words like drops of sweet poison: "They won't understand this. They will say I'm a killer. But you… you will understand. Because when you see your blood flow, you will realize you are finally free of them. All of them."
He raised his hand again, but this time not to touch. The movement was slow, deliberate, as if time itself had stiffened, forced to bear witness to the ritual. His hand moved as though cutting through an invisible veil between two worlds.
A muffled, strangled scream tore from the girl's throat. The candles shivered, nearly died. She tried to resist—raised her frail hands, pushed with all her remaining strength against his chest, screamed again—but her voice shattered against the dark walls like cloth against stone. Every struggle failed; his strength was iron, unyielding, as though the very air had betrayed her and turned into invisible chains.
Then… there was no sound but a soft, wet noise.
Then… silence.
Darkness fell suddenly—not the darkness of snuffed candles, but an inner blackness, the kind that blooms inside the skull. A heavy silence wrapped the room, swallowed by the cold stone. The shadow watching from the corners stretched and spread, coiling around the two bodies like a living beast, sealing every window, blocking every crack, stamping fate shut.
There was nothing left but him. And the void. And the merciless night that stared out through his eyes.
On the floor, there was no longer a "she," no longer a face belonging to anyone. There was only his masterpiece: beauty, pure, absolute, freed from the bondage of belonging.
Seven faces had gone into the dark. Seven women… each deceived by a deadly idea, each turned into a faceless corpse.
Danny Rosefield did not see himself as a criminal, but as a "scholar" who had forged a new theory of beauty, ownership, and freedom. He saw what he did as liberation—liberating beauty from the vulgarity of mankind.
But when genius is born in a broken heart, it is nothing but a curse.
And the eighth victim… was not merely another crime. She was his end.
The night in the outskirts of the capital was pitch-black, pressing upon the silence as though testing the resolve of anyone daring to walk its winding roads. Three weeks of ceaseless searching had not eased the gnawing anxiety in the hearts of the Starlum family. The disappearance of the Duke Deyamers Starlum's granddaughter, the daughter of Earl Randolph, was no mere incident; it was a shock that shook the veins of the entire capital.
Alfred Starlum, the one-eyed lion, a young man hardened in the midst of this chaos, led the search with a mind sharp and restless to the point of burning. Every street, every tavern, every mixed salon of pleasure was a chance to trace some sign of his sister's vanishing. It was not simply duty, but a responsibility seared with anger, and the shame of every minute passing without resolution.
When he heard of the "Phantom of Beauty," it was not the name alone that drew him, but the rumors themselves: seven of the kingdom's most beautiful women vanished under mysterious circumstances—always from those mixed salons of pleasure.
Step by cautious step, Alfred worked with his cousin, Atris. He sent her with a few disguised guards into those salons to bait the abductor, but two weeks passed with no trace. A silent despair began to creep into his thoughts, yet his resolve still burned.
After two weeks of relentless search, when the capital itself seemed ready to surrender to mere rumor, Alfred found himself before a modest salon in the city's outskirts, hidden in the heavy shadows of old buildings. The rusty wooden door creaked faintly as it opened, as if the place itself warned him not to enter. He stepped in cautiously, his eyes darting, searching for any sign of his sister—or of some lurking hand.
Inside, the air was damp, heavy with the scent of tobacco and old candles. An old man sat behind the counter, moving slowly, his eyes scanning the corners as though forever expecting a guest he no longer trusted. Alfred stood tall and began the exchange quietly, though his voice was edged, tinged with both resolve and veiled threat: "Your daughter… she vanished some time ago, didn't she?"
The old man trembled slightly, answered in a faint, wavering tone: "Yes… months ago. No trace since.
Leave, if you have nothing more—your men came days ago, and I told them everything…"
Alfred stepped closer, every motion calculated, as if even the smallest gesture might uncover a buried truth. "I apologize, but I have a few more questions. Before she disappeared—did she meet anyone? Anyone suspicious?"
The man shook his head slowly, his voice frail: "No… nothing I recall precisely… but there was a man, sitting in the corner… staring at her… strangely… I tried to throw him out, but he disappeared afterward."
Alfred's brows knit, curiosity sharpened. "Describe him. What did he look like?"
The old man paused, exhaled slowly, and finally said: "I can't… I think he wore a hood… I don't remember."
Alfred stood in silence, his mind spinning with possibilities. He was about to leave when the man muttered a few slow, hesitant words: "He was… truly a weakling…"
Alfred's head snapped up, his eyes flashing like blades. "What do you mean by that?"
The man, after a pause, replied with a trembling voice: "He was stopped… by two men from the neighborhood gang… the kind who rob anyone who looks wealthy. But this man… didn't resist… he handed over his money without a fight… after being thrown to the ground."
For a heartbeat, Alfred's pulse froze. His mind began weaving every fragment together like hidden threads: a weak man… wealthy… a stranger… the image warped into focus before him.
"Is there more? Any small detail? Anything else like that?"
The old man shook his head, his memory like a fog that would not clear. Alfred rose in silence, his eyes locked on the man, digging as if to unearth the truth itself. Each step he took toward the door carried the weight of anger and calculation; his mind raced, measuring, weighing every possibility.
He stopped at the doorway, his thoughts plunging into a storm of tangled ideas. A weak man… wealthy… the old man's words were incomplete keys, yet something within Alfred sparked, illuminating a hidden gap in the puzzle.
Suddenly, he remembered… his sister's voice, the words whispered softly, yet etched into his mind for years: "I've found my prince charming! He's so enchanting!"
His chest tightened, surprise and suspicion colliding with anger, and a question burst from his lips before he could contain it…
He turned slowly, his body taut, his piercing gaze burning into the old man's soul, and spoke in a low voice, heavy with determination and dawning dread:
"Was this man… strangely handsome?"
The old man froze, his hand trembling over the counter, his eyes widening as if struck by a buried memory breaking violently to the surface.
"Y-yes!!" he stammered, "Yes… yes! I remember… something strange… yes! I even thought… I thought it was a woman when I first saw him!"
Silence fell. A crushing silence, like the weight of the world pressed onto Alfred's chest. The air around him thickened, every breath a burden. His fists clenched, as if to seize reality itself.
Slowly, he turned back, his eyes never leaving the old man, his body taut with certainty, with rage laced by disbelief. Each step on the wooden floor echoed the truth he had just uncovered.
He walked on, steady, every muscle straining with tension and anticipation, his men trailing silently behind, feeling the heaviness of the moment—as if time itself had halted, and everything was about to change, from this discovery onward.
Nine days were all it took for the forces of House Starlum, led by Duke Deyamers Starlum, to assemble—gathered like a wall of iron and blood, carving their way toward the valley of Deerhollow. The mist coiled around the valley as though trying to conceal the savagery of the battle to come.
At the first entry, chaos and cries erupted, the stench of dust mingled with smoke as the forces of House Rosefield hurled burning stones from the cliffs above. Two hundred men fell in an instant, and the earth quaked beneath the warriors' feet. Those moments—when House Starlum faltered—would later be remembered as the Battle of the Mountain Meteors, a black mark in their history.
Alfred, the one-eyed lion, stood before his father, the Duke, his heart pounding violently, demanding the banner of command. The Duke did not hesitate, nor did he doubt the youth's ability, and placed the banner in his hands—as though the fate of the war hung between his grip. Alfred took five hundred cavalry and two thousand infantry, and began to plan with lethal precision: half the soldiers would advance from the northeast, slipping through the forests, while the other half would push from the northwest, cutting through the river path. The Rosefields, in their frenzy, split their forces to cover both sides, unaware that the true strength of House Starlum exceeded their numbers, and that the only road to their fortress—Deerhollow Valley—had been left exposed due to a shortage of men.
Alfred led three hundred cavalry and nine hundred archers straight through the valley, striking at the very heart of the defense. When the Rosefields discovered their maneuver, they rushed to set an ambush: five hundred knights and three hundred footmen lined the ridges of the valley, raining down volleys of burning stones. The Starlums resisted the siege, using the rocks and caves for cover, but the price was the loss of one hundred and ninety men.
When the Rosefields realized their trap of stones no longer held, they advanced to fight face to face. Yet they had not accounted for another strategy: more than eight hundred archers had been readied, loosing their arrows at the enemy's forward and flanking lines. Blood ran thick, and the Rosefields lost over a hundred men, their advantage on the heights broken.
House Starlum pressed forward with renewed confidence, their swords clashing amid the uproar of battle. At the heart of the chaos, Ser Talathios led his battalion, the outcome of his clash uncertain. More than half of Starlum's forces were archers, yet they encircled the enemy in a deadly ring, striking from the sides, while the vanguard—led by Alfred—cut through with unyielding resolve.
The battle was sealed when Alfred brought his blade down upon Talathios's head, blood soaking the ground, proclaiming victory an hour before its end. The battle was thereafter named "The Arrows of the Stars."
Alfred did not rush forward at once, but waited until the knights he had dispatched to both flanks returned, so they could charge together from the valley. Duke Deyamers Starlum and his son Randolph advanced with pride and admiration for the young man who had turned the tide of battle. The ranks of the Rosefields broke, retreating into the forest and leaving the valley empty behind them.
The forces of House Starlum stood tall, an unyielding wall, on the road leading to the forest that shielded Castle Rosefield. The sounds of battle faded little by little, yet dread and tension still lingered in the air. Before them rose Earl Virion Rosefield, his face a mixture of awe and solemnity, as he spoke in a quiet voice, heavy with defeat: "Your Gace! There is no need for more bloodshed!…"
Duke Deyamers Starloom stepped forward, his eyes burning with anger and pride: "Blood became inevitable the moment you took the girl and stained our honor… Words ceased to matter the instant you stood against us as we came to reclaim it!"
Then the Earl tilted his head, his eyes glimmering with both sincerity and fear: "What if I hand you the culprit? I had no knowledge of what transpired, I swear to you, my lord duke! I would have disowned him long ago, if not for his mother. But she is gone now… nothing binds me to his defense."
Cautiously, Rosefield knights advanced, carrying young Danny Rosefield in their grasp. Though bound, Danny walked with brazen arrogance, head held high, defiance flashing in his eyes. As he passed his father, he whispered in his ear: "I never knew you protected me… Father."
The Earl's eyes widened in shock as the guards dragged Danny forward and cast him at the feet of the Starlooms.
Duke Deyamers lifted his head, glaring down at Danny with disdain and fury. Danny smiled a vile smile. The duke's voice thundered, harsh and resonant: "How dare you, wretch… Do you even grasp what you have wrought?"
Danny's voice came sharp as a blade: "You ought to see your granddaughter's face… Oh, I forgot… she no longer has one. She has found her rest forever."
The duke froze. A roar burst from Randolph Starlum, raw and furious, setting the air ablaze. The duke raised his sword, ready to end the boy himself, but Alfred's voice rang out from horseback, filled with fire and wrath: "Grandfather! Let me sever his neck myself. You don't need to soil your hands with his vile blood!"
Alfred's single eye blazed with fury, sparks that seemed to burn the very air around him. His grip was so tight his fingers nearly broke skin, blood staining his palm with the sheer force of his rage—pure power drawn from love and loss. His breath came fast, erratic as a racing heartbeat, yet his will was steady, unshaken. Slowly, the duke returned his sword to its sheath, stepping back as awe crept into his joints, recognizing that a brother's vengeance for his sister was purer, stronger, and more unyielding than any wrath or authority of his own.
Alfred the One-Eyed Lion stepped forward. The Phantom of Beauty, Danny's mocking voice slithered forth: "I heard you were the one who uncovered it all. I'd have welcomed you into my precious collection… But alas, I'd already filled the last place—your sister was the final—"
He never finished. Alfred's hand rose, and in a flash, Danny's head was severed, spinning through the air before thudding to the earth. Blood poured over the soil, spattering his father's armor. Virion Rosefield closed his eyes in anguish, swallowed in shame and defeat.
As the sun set, silence reigned. The war was over—the shortest the kingdom had ever seen—but its cost was heavy. House Rosefield swore to pay a yearly tribute of two thousand gold coins.
House Starlum returned home, proud, yet their procession was wrapped in silence, weighed down by the blood spilled. It was no triumph in the usual sense—no celebrations, only a strange mingling of relief and sorrow. Vengeance had been achieved, but it carved a wound that would never truly heal. Glory etched itself into history, yet was tainted by bitter memories and faces lost forever. The long-awaited chapter closed not with joy, but with the echo of pain that made victory feel heavier, and truer.
Bran Caldrey looked upon the men around him, his voice deep and steady, carrying the weight of history: "Some, when they recall this short war—the shortest in the kingdom's history—think it was but a passing conflict. But the truth is far greater… It is a testament to the greatness of the One-Eyed lion… Alfred Starlum.
Confusion long lingered among historians and the people of the realm about House Starlum. Some believed the true strength that raised the house and restored its stature lay not with Duke Randolph, but with his son, Alfred the One-Eyed Lion. To them, it was Alfred's cunning and insight that forged the family's glory, while Randolph was but the figurehead shielding his son's growing influence. Thus, tales diverged—some immortalized the father as the foundation stone, while others insisted Alfred was the hidden power, the mind that birthed the legend.
His years were few, yet they brimmed with valor and discovery, until his life ended on Darkheart Isle to the west of the kingdom. There, on a mission of exploration, he fell into an ambush by Nightforce troops. The battle became legend: seventy men at Alfred's side against four hundred Frostmoon and Rakalion soldiers. Yet he did not yield, nor did he surrender.
He left behind a legacy of courage and brilliance—a legacy that can never be erased from the memory of the kingdom."
The men stood silent, reflecting on Bran Caldrey's words, feeling the weight of achievement, and the greatness of a man who became a legend before history had even written his name.
Elsewhere inside the bar. A loud laughter erupted from the corner of the tavern.
A group of men sat around a round table, their mugs clinking together as they exchanged crude jokes. One of them, a man with a thick beard and unkempt hair, raised his mug and laughed loudly.
"That damn cat! This is the Fourth time she's pulled off her dirty tricks!"
Another man, leaning back in his chair, turned his head toward her with a smug grin.
"Hmm... But Liana, this time you took a really long time… haha… Did you like that bastard or what?"
Their laughter echoed around the tavern, but she didn't move.
Suddenly, Wilder stood up, the chair scraping sharply beneath his weight, drawing everyone's attention. He shot the men a sharp glare before barking in his dry, rough voice.
Wilder: "If you have nothing worthwhile to say, then shut the hell up."
A heavy silence settled for a moment. The men exchanged glances, one of them pretending to cough, while the others lowered their heads, avoiding his piercing gaze.
Liana remained where she was, her hand clenched tightly around her bag, her fingers digging into the taut leather as if trying to release her tension through that single point. Slowly, she closed it, then exhaled silently, slinging it over her shoulder.
But before she could take a single step forward, she stopped.
Wilder was watching her closely, but his voice remained calm, laced with curiosity.
Wilder: "I haven't seen you like this since your first day here, Liana…"
She paused for a moment, lifting her gaze toward Wilder, her heart still beating fast as she tried to balance her emotions.
Wilder continued slowly, as if reading beyond her expression.
Wilder: "Usually, you take the money, say something stupid, and leave, acting like you don't care about anything in this world. But now... you look like someone who just lost something important."
Liana took a deep breath, as if trying to gather her scattered thoughts. Then, she slowly sat down on the chair, as if sitting would help calm her. She placed her hands over her face, running them down as if trying to wipe away the exhaustion and confusion clouding her features.
She looked away, pressing her lips together as if the words were difficult to form.
Liana: "I... I don't know... Maybe it's because I'm thinking, or maybe because I've started to see things differently."
Wilder leaned his arm on the table, a genuine flicker of curiosity in his eyes.
Wilder: "Differently? How?"
Liana glanced at the pouch in her hand, as if seeing it for the first time, every detail now stirring new questions.
Liana: "Tell me, Wilder... why are we different?"
Wilder smirked lightly, raising an eyebrow at her.
Wilder: "Because we weren't born from the same lovely mother, hahahaha…"
Then he stopped, his smirk fading into a half-smile, as if suddenly realizing the depth of the question... one that hid more than it revealed.
Wilder: "Hmm... well, because of circumstances. Because the pain we carry isn't the same, and because we see the world through different eyes… But I don't think that's what you meant."
Liana spoke quietly, as if talking more to herself than to him.
Liana: "I think differences are what make life more complicated. You, for example, find comfort in working here, not caring about tomorrow. You laugh and treat people as if they're just passing customers in your life. But I… I can't do that."
Wilder: "I don't think it's that simple. I laugh because if I don't, I'll become something I don't want to be. We wear the masks that help us survive… But tonight, you're not wearing yours. And that makes me wonder… what's weighing on your heart so much?"
Liana lowered her gaze, whispering in a barely audible voice.
Liana: "My family..."
Wilder waited patiently.
Wilder: "...What about them?"
Liana, bitterly: "They're alive, if that's what you're asking. But life itself… isn't in them."
Wilder fell silent for a moment, trying to grasp the weight of her words.
Liana continued in a low voice, though she fought to remain composed.
Liana: "I live in the emptiness between what I need and what I can't have. My mother… works until she forgets she's exhausted. My little brother doesn't ask about my father anymore, as if forgetting is the only way to survive. And Ray... I mean... he… ah… never mind."
She stopped abruptly, as if stopping herself from saying his full name.
Wilder placed his hand on the table, close to hers but without touching it. His voice was calm but deep.
Wilder: "But I don't understand. Where does 'Ray' fit into all of this?"
Liana froze, as if those two letters alone carried more weight than anything else.
She whispered, avoiding saying his name.
Liana: "He… he's the reason I can't see differences the way I used to. I thought I understood people, understood their motives. But when it comes to him… I can't decide if he's close or distant, real or an illusion, my salvation… or my downfall."
Wilder studied her for a moment, then said in a low voice.
Wilder: "Sometimes, the people who leave the deepest marks on us… are the ones we never truly understand."
Liana finally looked at him, her eyes carrying more than she could put into words.
Liana: "Or maybe… they're the ones who understand us more than we'd like to admit."
A moment of silence passed.
Wilder noticed her hand still gripping the pouch tightly, as if afraid to lose it—or lose herself along with it.
With a small but sorrowful smile, he said.
Liana: "No matter what you're going through, remember… difference isn't always a curse. Sometimes… it's the only thing that makes us who we are."
Liana sighed slowly.
Liana : "Maybe… but I don't have the luxury of thinking that way right now."
At that moment, the wooden door of the tavern creaked open slowly, cutting through the noise.
Silence fell for a moment… Everyone turned toward the entrance, and slowly… Liana turned as well.
It was Raymond. He stood there firmly, his posture straight, his eyes empty... cold as the night's shadows. But he didn't need to speak.
Liana's eyes widened in shock. For a moment, she froze in place.
Then, suddenly, she moved. She spun toward the back door, her eyes glinting with a hidden tension, but…
"Why…?"
Just one word, but it made her pause... for a moment.