In the training grounds, where an eerie silence prevailed... except for the sharp sound of a sword slicing through the air.... Raymond was engrossed in his training.
The sword in his hand moved with both grace and violence, each motion calculated with deadly precision, as if it were part of his lethal dance. To him, the sword was not merely a weapon... it was the essence of his existence, the force that kept him alive amidst the chaos that surrounded him.
Then, he suddenly halted, freezing time in an intense stillness.
He took a deep breath, as if attempting to inhale something beyond his reach. Stepping away from his sword, he reached for a bottle of water, drinking slowly, his trembling hands betraying an inner turmoil that lingered in his mind. He wiped his forehead quickly, trying to mask his hidden unease, but the movement was odd... not just a sign of physical exhaustion, but something deeper. His once-hateful, suspicious gray eyes had lost their sharpness; now, they were empty... gray like the very shadows of war itself.
It was as if the battle had consumed him entirely, as if life itself had been reduced to these moments, caught between the wars he fought and the void he lived in.
But then, suddenly, he smiled.
As if a flicker of light had pierced his dark world. As if something distant, somewhere out there, granted him a hope he couldn't rid himself of.
He knew someone was waiting for him.
He knew someone filled his heart with love and worry.
And that hope was what restored his balance, granting him the strength to keep going.
He let out a quiet sigh, then set the bottle aside and reclaimed his sword. The next strike was more challenging, more forceful. But in that moment, he wasn't fighting for anything... except himself.
And he didn't know if that sword would protect him from the cruelty of the world or from the self that had lost its way in tangled paths.
But the silence of the night didn't last long…
The sound of hurried footsteps tore through the stillness like a siren forewarning disaster.
Raymond turned swiftly, strands of his short red hair flicking across his eyes.
Before he could even register the scene, he saw Rinus charging toward him with frantic desperation, his breath ragged, his face pale... like a man haunted by a ghost from the depths of the past.
The head servant, gasping, barely forming words: "L… Lord Raymond! You must… You must come immediately!"
Raymond's gray eyes narrowed. He wasn't one to panic easily, but seeing Rinus in this state unsettled him. A cold sense of danger crept into his chest.
Raymond, in a low, sharp voice: "What is it?"
The head servant swallowed hard, his voice trembling: "It's the seal of His Grace, Duke Vanheim. Her Grace… Duchess Sabrina… she…"
But he didn't finish. He couldn't.
And Raymond didn't ask.
He didn't need to hear more. He saw everything in the man's shaken eyes.
The sound of the water bottle hitting the ground was the last thing he heard before turning away, his steps firm, accelerating with each passing second.
Something inside him was screaming.
But he silenced it.
He tore the seal off the letter and read its contents.
There were only a few words.
Yet they carried the weight of the world upon his shoulders.
| "Brother… Come back quickly. Mother has died." |
He didn't need anything more.
Slowly, he lifted his gaze toward the horizon. The sky was heavy with dark clouds, and the wind howled through the vast courtyard, stirring the dust between the ancient stones. A light drizzle fell like a somber veil over the castle, streaming down the weathered stone walls... yet it washed away nothing of the weight in his chest.
The wind wailed between the rocks, and the mist crept forward like faceless specters. No voices, no city noise, no signs of life… as if the world itself mourned with him.
But the mountains did not bow, the sky did not break, and the wind did not carry the echo of the devastating news. How had nothing changed? How had time not stopped?
His eyes widened, but his face remained expressionless.
For a moment, he didn't know what he felt.
Was it anger?
Was it grief?
Was it shock?
Or a blend of everything?
Something new... something he had never experienced before... began to burn inside him.
Then, without a second thought, he ran at full speed.
The head servant called after him: "Lord Raymond!"
But he didn't stop.
He didn't turn back.
He leapt onto his horse and pressed his heels into its sides.
He charged forward like a storm, racing the wind, and with every image of his mother flashing through his mind, he pushed faster.
She was the only woman who had ever loved him without asking for anything in return.
four hours later…
Novarth Palace – At the Crimson Gate
He arrived at the gates of the grand palace. His horse panted heavily, and Raymond patted its neck, as if thanking it for enduring the journey.
There was no time for more.
As he advanced, guards blocked his path, weapons raised.
One of them spoke firmly: "Damn it, you again!? What do you want now!?"
But before Raymond could respond, a quiet yet commanding voice came from behind the gate.
"Stand down."
The gate creaked open slowly, revealing Talia Vanheim, his younger sister.
Her face was streaked with tears, her body trembling beneath the weight of sorrow.
Talia, her voice broken: "He's my brother… Raymond."
The guards' eyes widened, their hands shaking as they clutched their swords. In an instant, they lowered their weapons and bowed their heads in respect. Raymond, upon seeing his sister's tear-streaked face, clenched his fists.
He stepped forward slowly, stopping right in front of her.
He looked into her grief-stricken eyes and spoke in a low voice, carrying the weight of everything he had buried within himself his whole life.
Raymond: "All my life… I never let anyone bring all of you to tears. I was the shield that blocked the pain before it could ever reach you. But today… I stand powerless. Because the one tear I couldn't stop… was the one shed for our mother.".
His words carried a heaviness Talia could no longer bear.
In a moment of weakness, she collapsed into his arms, sobbing. He held her close, resting his hand on her head in silence.
He wasn't good with words.
But he knew how to be a pillar for those who needed him... even without saying a thing.
Inside the palace courtyard…
As they entered, Deon Vanheim, their youngest brother, was waiting. He stepped out of the palace doors, his movements heavy, his face pale, his eyes swollen from crying. For a few seconds, they just stared at each other.
Then, without hesitation, Deon rushed forward and embraced him tightly. Two silent tears slid down his cheeks, carrying the weight of loss and longing.
Deon, his voice choked: "I missed you… I never thought you'd return to us."
Raymond didn't respond immediately.
He remained silent, staring at his younger brother in his arms, feeling a burden he couldn't describe. Finally, in a faint voice, he whispered: "Neither did I… I never thought my return would be because of something like this."
It was a wound he never anticipated.
He never imagined that he would return to this palace... the one he had left behind so many years ago... only to witness its collapse.
As Deon began crying again, Raymond lifted his head and wiped his tears roughly, as if they were something unbefitting of him.
Raymond, firmly but with hidden warmth: "If I see any of you crying again… I will leave this place and never return."
Deon froze for a moment before swallowing his tears, trying to hold himself together despite the burning pain inside him. Then, amidst all this sorrow, he smiled faintly… as if he had found something familiar within the chaos.
Raymond remained silent, staring into the emptiness before him. Then, he shifted his gaze back to his brother…
Raymond: "So… how did she die?"
Deon's face tensed for a moment, as if the very words were choking him. He didn't know how to respond, so he turned toward Talia, who was standing behind Raymond. She shook her head in refusal, her eyes filled with deep worry, silently pleading with him not to speak.
Deon hesitated, his voice breaking as he spoke.
Deon: "I... I don't know. We entered her chamber and found her lying on the floor... and... and... the blood…"
Raymond closed his eyes for a moment, unwilling to hear more.
Raymond: "Alright, I understand."
The three of them moved together toward the interior of the mansion, but Deon suddenly stopped, his face pale and tense.
Deon: "But… there's something you need to see… before we go to the funeral."
They ascended the stairs together to the upper floor, where Duke Vanheim's chamber was located.
The air in the chamber wasn't just heavy; it was rancid. It clung to the back of the throat, a putrid sweetness of decay and stale wine, undercut by the sharp, metallic ghost of ozone from some long-past magical outburst. They ascended the stairs not as a family, but as a funeral procession of three, each step on the creaking wood a hammer blow in the suffocating silence.
Deon's hand hesitated on the charred doorknob, the brass still bearing the faint, shimmering residue of a containment spell. When the door swung open, the smell hit them like a physical blow—a wall of neglect and madness.
The room was a cathedral of ruin. It wasn't merely disarray; it was a violent, frozen snapshot of agony. The walls were not just burned; they were scorched in great, blackened swirls, as if a giant, panicked hand had tried to claw its way through the stone. The furniture wasn't just overturned; it was splintered, disemboweled, their innards of stuffing and sawdust spilled across the floor like viscera. The torn curtains hung like flayed skin, and in the scant moonlight cutting through the grime-coated window, a fine dust of plaster and ash still sifted slowly through the air, a perpetual, silent snow falling on a grave.
And in the darkest corner, where the shadows pooled thickest, sat the Duke.
Blatir Vanheim, the Crimson Serpent, was reduced to a shuddering knot of humanity on the floor. His fine clothes were torn and stained, his hair a wild, greasy mane. But it was the sound that seized the soul—a low, continuous moan, like a wounded animal, punctuated by frantic, wet whispers. He would rock forward, his forehead almost touching his knees, then jerk back as if struck, his hands—elegant, lethal hands that had once signed death warrants and tender love letters with equal grace—clawing at his own face, leaving red trails on his pallid skin. He was arguing, pleading, cursing with someone only he could see.
"He's been like this since… since she died," Deon whispered, his voice hollow, his eyes lost in the horror. It was the tone of a man who had long since run out of tears, leaving only a barren, aching void.
Raymond's gaze was analytical, dissecting the scene, yet a faint muscle twitched in his jaw. Talia turned her face away entirely, a hand flying to her mouth, not in disgust, but in a futile attempt to stifle a wave of visceral, empathetic pain.
Then Raymond stepped forward. His boots crunched on debris, each step a deliberate violation of the sacred space of his father's insanity. He did not call him 'Father'.
Raymond: "What are you doing…?"
His voice was low, cold, and precise. It didn't echo; it was absorbed by the room's oppressive gloom, but it cut through Blatir's muttering like a scalpel.
The Duke's head snapped up. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated into black pools that swallowed the blue of his irises whole. They were windows into a starless, screaming night. For a terrifying second, there was no recognition—only the feral panic of a cornered beast.
Then, a spark. A connection to a reality that only fueled his rage. With a shriek that was more raw throat than voice, he seized a heavy crystal glass from the floor—its contents long since evaporated or spilled to stain the rug—and hurled it with shocking violence.
Blatir: "Get out!!! What is a stray like you doing here!!? You insolent wretch!! Did you come too late?!!... This is all because of you!!!"
Spittle flew from his lips. A thick, ropy vein throbbed at his temple, threatening to burst. He was a portrait of magnificent ruin, every regal line of his face twisted into a grotesque mask of grief and hatred.
Blatir: "She asked about you every day!" he roared, his voice cracking under the strain, each word a ragged sob of fury. "She never stopped talking about you! Even in her final nights, she couldn't rest, she couldn't sleep… Where were you when she was bedridden?!! Where were you when she collapsed before me every night?!!"
The accusations hung in the toxic air, jagged and sharp. Raymond stood immobile, a statue in the storm of his father's breakdown. The words, designed to maim and guilt, seemed to shatter against an impossible calm. When he spoke again, his voice was not defensive. It was a flat, deadly recitation of fact, each syllable a nail in a coffin.
Raymond: "I was exiled."
The silence that followed was profound, broken only by the Duke's wet, ragged breathing.
Blatir: "I don't even know if you were aware of it…" Raymond continued, his eyes never leaving his father's contorted face. "But I came. Many times. I brought medicine and food and stood at the gates of this cursed estate… But your guards stopped me every time. I wasn't even allowed to see her shadow. I would leave the supplies and walk away… without knowing if they ever reached her."
For a heartbeat, something flickered in the depths of Blatir's madness—not understanding, but a fracture, a moment of dreadful cognitive dissonance. The world he had built in his head did not have room for this version of events. It was an existential threat.
And so, the madness defended itself. It erupted.
Blati: "Liar!!! Get out!! Get out of here!!! GET OUT!!!"
He scrambled on the floor, grabbing not just a glass now, but a book, a shattered piece of wood, hurling them with blind, screaming fury. Objects smashed against the wall inches from Raymond's head, showering him with splinters and dust.
Raymond did not move. He did not flinch. He absorbed the tempest with an unsettling passivity, his expression unchanging. He let the last echo of his father's screams die against the ruined walls. Then, without another word, without a look back at the broken thing that had been his father, he turned.
His exit was not a retreat. It was a withdrawal. Each step away was measured, final, the calm, steady steps of a man walking away from a grave he had already finished mourning. He left behind the stench of madness, the devastating portrait of ruin, and the chilling certainty that some wounds are so deep, they are not just of the mind or heart—they are of the very soul, and they fester in the dark, forever.
The moment Deon shut the door behind them, Blatir's screams and incoherent mutterings echoed from within… a blend of pain and madness that lingered with them long after they had left.
They walked down the corridor in silence, each step dragging a heavier weight than the last. The torches along the stone walls flickered, casting trembling shadows that seemed almost alive—like echoes of the fractured mind they had just abandoned.
Deon's jaw clenched, his knuckles white as his hands tightened at his sides. He did not speak; words would have been too fragile, too shallow to contain the storm twisting in his chest. Raymond, though composed on the surface, could feel the residue of that madness clinging to him like smoke, seeping into his thoughts. He tried to shake it off, but the memory of Blatir's eyes—burning with delirium and despair—kept returning, uninvited.
At the corridor's end, the silence grew unbearable. Not the silence of peace, but the kind that gnawed at the soul, filling it with unanswered questions. Was Blatir's breakdown the price of knowledge? Of power? Or was it simply the inevitable fate of men who stare too long into the abyss?
And so they moved forward, carrying with them not just the mission that awaited, but the haunting truth they had just witnessed: that madness was not a distant shadow, but a reflection—one that might, in time, stare back at them from the mirror.
After hours of silent travel, the convoy moved through vast lands in horse-drawn carriages, the only sound breaking the stillness being the rhythmic clatter of hooves. The carriage carrying their mother's shroud followed behind, while Raymond, Deon, and Talia rode in the front carriage. A somber quiet and deep unease settled between them as they approached the place where they would bid their final farewell.
As they neared the cliffside overlooking a deep valley reflecting the calm blue sea, the gathering of noble families appeared in the distance. The carriages came to a halt, aligning with the assembled clans and distinguished figures.
Raymond was the first to step down from the lead carriage, walking forward without glancing at the expectant faces around him. He knew this was not the time for such things.
While Talia and Deon greeted the attendees, Raymond continued forward, indifferent to everything around him. As he approached where King Irvin and Lucas Nightover awaited, he noticed the whispers among the noble families, the exchanged glances filled with intrigue. When he finally reached the king, he halted and bowed slowly, the gesture marked by an unmistakable solemnity.
Irvin, his voice heavy with sorrow: "I share in your grief, Raymond. No one can truly understand your loss."
Raymond, his voice steady: "Thank you, Your Majesty."
Then, his gaze shifted to Lucas, who stood beside the king, watching him with enigmatic eyes.
Lucas, quietly: "I know it's difficult… I'm sorry for your loss, son."
Raymond lowered his head slightly, avoiding direct eye contact, then spoke in a faint, nearly inaudible voice.
Raymond: "Thank you… Duke Nightover."
Lucas, unexpectedly: "Did your father not attend?"
Raymond took a deep breath, pausing for a moment before raising his head and speaking with profound sorrow.
Raymond: "No… He's not well."
Lucas studied him for a moment, running a hand over his chin as he hummed in thought, then spoke with sincere concern.
Lucas: "He needs someone by his side… Don't forget that."
Raymond pondered his words for a moment, shedding some of his burdens, but before he could dwell on it further, he turned to continue walking. However, a sudden voice...
"Your Majesty"...
caught his attention, making him turn quickly to witness something unusual.
It was the king's Guard, Ser Darren Castro, who was supposed to be in the king's service, kneeling before Lucas. Lucas placed a gentle hand on the guard's shoulder and spoke in a quiet voice.
Lucas: "Rise, Ser Darren."
Darren stood and walked beside Lucas, engaging in a private conversation away from the crowd's view, leaving Raymond deep in thought. He couldn't fully grasp the significance of the moment, but a strange realization began to take shape in his mind. Five years had passed since King Irvin's rule, yet there was more to the picture than met the eye.
Raymond's gaze drifted back to the scene before him, and he continued walking toward the burial site. The land there was green, covered with vibrant wildflowers, yet the specific spot chosen for the grave was different. The soil was dry, devoid of any growth, as if it had been prepared for this purpose alone.
He felt the weight of the moment creeping into him and paused for a few seconds, his eyes drifting away from the fresh grave before sinking into distant memories.
Time pulled him back to another place, Seven months ago, where he and his mother had stood in almost the same spot.
Raymond had been standing there, staring into the distant horizon, where the sea met the sky in indistinct lines. The wind gently played with his hair. Nearby, the voice of his mother, Duchess Sabrina Cypher, could be heard.
She sat on the ground, among the wildflowers, inhaling their scent as if drawing life itself from them.
Sabrina: "When will you come home, Raymond?"
Raymond took a deep breath, one deep enough to cover an old wound in his heart, then answered in a low voice.
Raymond: "...I can't."
Sabrina: "Your father… I can talk to him… So please, come back."
Raymond remained silent, unable to respond, his heart locked away behind the walls he had built around himself.
Sabrina, hesitantly: "Raymond, this is what sons must do. You need to return, to stand by your father."
Then, without waiting for an answer, she added in a fragile voice, one that resembled a cold breeze slipping through a closed window.
Sabrina, more insistently: "If it's marriage that troubles you, we can find a way around it... Don't worry, he'll surely understand when we talk to him together."
Raymond, sighing with a sharp tone: "He wants me to be his heir, Mother. "He wants me to inherit his cursed legacy! How will I be of any use to him if I refuse marriage?!"
Silence. The wind howled through the trees around them. Raymond looked down at the ground, struggling to steady his breath, weighed down by resentment.
Raymond, in a harsher voice: "He doesn't see us as his children, but as pawns... tools to extend his influence and preserve his legacy even after his death."
A heavy silence passed. Sabrina gazed at the ground as if searching for words that could calm the storm in his heart.
Then she whispered softly, as if trying to find something alive in the midst of all this emptiness.
Sabrina: "Here, in this exact place… I want you to bury me."
Raymond's eyes widened in shock as he suddenly turned to look at his mother. She was smiling broadly, her expression light and carefree. Then she chuckled.
Sabrina: "Hahaha… I finally got you to turn around. Look at your face!… you look like you've seen a ghost. Hahahaha."
But despite her teasing, the tension and unease never left Raymond's heart. He stared at her as she lay on the ground laughing, as if nothing else in the world mattered.
Raymond: "Mother! That's not funny!"
he said, standing on the tips of his toes as if the ground beneath him was beginning to crumble.
Yet her laughter did not stop. It continued, blending into the horizon, intertwining with the whispers of the wind from the sea, leaving a deep mark in his heart... like a specter that could never be erased. Her laughter, despite its lightness, filled the emptiness around him, seeping into his soul, reminding him of times he could never reclaim.
Then, suddenly, he returned to the present.
Raymond gripped the shovel and threw himself into work, avoiding any conversation. His hands moved automatically, as if trying to escape emotions he couldn't face. Deon joined him, his eyes heavy with silence and sorrow, sharing the task in a deadly quiet.
Eyes followed them closely. The nobles watched with silent curiosity, unspoken questions hidden in their gazes. But none of them approached, nor dared to intervene.
The air was heavy, cold, as if everything around them was waiting for something. Even time itself seemed to slow, clinging to the earth, refusing to move in a place that now bore the very presence of death.
When the pit was finally dug, time became heavier still. Now, it was time to carry the shroud.
They lifted it, and as they moved toward the carriage, Raymond climbed up first. He stood there for a long moment, his thoughts drifting between pain and memory, his eyes locked onto his mother's face... now pale, as if time had drained all color from her.
Slowly, he pulled back the cloth covering her face and stood gazing at her. It was a painful moment, where every memory and sorrow he had buried surfaced all at once. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, but the silence around him was stronger than his will. Something inside him crumbled. And when his attempts to contain his emotions failed, a single, heavy tear fell onto his mother's cheek... a reflection of the deep sorrow within him.
Deon, watching his brother in that moment, felt something strange. In Raymond's eyes, he saw disappointment, pain, and a helplessness he couldn't describe. He couldn't fathom the weight of Raymond's grief, nor did he know how to comfort him in this suffocating silence.
As Raymond's tear fell onto his mother's cheek, Deon's gaze remained fixed on his brother, as though they were both trapped in the same sorrow... each expressing it in his own way.
Deon could only whisper to himself: "Brother… this is the first time I've ever seen you cry…"
The moment weighed heavily on him. He had always known his brother as someone strong, unwavering. But now, a different part of Raymond had been revealed... one he had always kept hidden.
His heart filled with sorrow, yet at the same time, something like hope stirred within him. As if, despite the cruelty of this moment, it might make his brother stronger.
Raymond, however, felt a chilling cold seep into his heart, as though the tears that fell onto his mother's face were only the beginning of a new storm of pain.
But it didn't stop him.
Instead, it pushed him forward... down this inevitable path.
He knew the moment of farewell had come, yet it felt as if time was slipping away from him, just like all the moments of his life he had tried so hard to avoid.
Raymond quickly wiped his tears, but his eyes caught something else.
On his mother's neck... there, he saw it.
A deep, sharp wound. Crimson red.
Silence froze the moment. Deon saw it too.
Without hesitation, he climbed onto the carriage and gently covered their mother's face, as if trying to conceal what could not be seen.
Deon: "Come, brother… They are waiting for us."
Raymond took a deep breath, gathered his strength, and lifted the shroud alongside his brother. They walked toward the grave, their footsteps the only sound in the quiet air... like a mournful rhythm played by the earth itself.
At the gravesite, they carefully placed the shroud onto the mechanism that would lower it. As it descended smoothly into the grave, the soil around them was slowly filled in.
And with every handful of earth, the distance between them and their mother grew.
Nearby, Marquess Leon Cypher stood expressionless, his eyes fixed on the emptiness ahead, showing no sign of emotion.
A voice broke the silence.
Earl 'Virion Rosefield', a man in his forties. with orange hair and a finely decorated armor, whispered to him in a low, deep tone.
Virion: "Aren't you going to say anything? She was your damn sister."
Deon caught a quick glance at them, but Leon Cypher remained still for a moment before finally breathing out and replying in a faint voice.
Leon: "House Cypher does not mourn its dead."
Virion stepped closer, his voice a low growl in Leon's ear, like thunder in the silent moment.
Virion: "I didn't ask if you'd mourn her, you damned fox. I asked about your duty as family. You should at least say something to her sons."
He spat the words with quiet anger before turning away to speak with Lucas Nightover, leaving Leon Cypher motionless, indifferent... as if Vyron's words had meant nothing.
At that moment, Deon glanced at them briefly, then quickly shifted his focus back to the task at hand.
When the grave was finally sealed, a worker approached the metal plate, raising his chisel to engrave the name.
But then, a voice... soft yet carrying immense weight... cut through the air.
"Just… Sabrina."
The worker hesitated. "…What?"
Deon stood nearby, his gaze unyielding, his lips tight as if restraining himself from saying more.
His eyes held not just anger, but something deeper... contempt, disappointment… and perhaps, a hidden pain.
Deon, sharply: "Just Sabrina!."
Then, as if refusing to be questioned further, he added coldly, defiantly.
Deon: "How many duchesses named Sabrina are there, anyway? She doesn't need a noble title to be remembered..."
Deon's jaw tightened, and he took a deep breath, but when he spoke, his voice was weighed down by something indescribable... not just anger, but the heavy burden of emotions struggling within him.
Deon: "My mother wasn't just a name carved into a lineage, nor a title inherited by nobles as if it meant nothing... She was greater than that. The name alone is enough, because it's not the letters that make her memorable... but who she was."
His words were slow, but they didn't need to be shouted to carry their full weight. For a moment, it seemed as though the air itself had turned colder, as if even the carved stone before him understood the magnitude of the loss he spoke of.
His objection wasn't just about the title... it was a complete rejection of everything the name "Cypher" now represented to him.
The worker felt a wave of tension, his eyes shifting between Deon and Raymond. He hesitated but noticed that Raymond didn't object. Instead, he gave him a slight nod. Taking a deep breath, the worker quickly stood up and left without another word.
Leon Cypher remained still, a faint smile on his face despite the deafening silence around him. His smile held many meanings, none of which were spoken. Meanwhile, the inscription on the metal plaque... forever marking this chapter of their lives... read: "The Duchess, Sabrina." The full name remained suspended in the air, just as her death had. The words were carefully etched, embodying both respect and reverence.
When everything was done, the gathering stood in solemn silence, paying their quiet respects.
Amid the scene, Raymond was lost in thought. His mind was clouded with confusion, and his heart weighed with unease. The wound he had discovered on his mother's neck only deepened his suspicions. He no longer believed her death was a mere accident... something dark lurked behind it all.
As the funeral concluded, families slowly began to disperse, but Raymond remained motionless. He stood beside the grave, his eyes fixed on the ground, deeply contemplating everything that had transpired. His mind was methodically rearranging events, trying to piece everything together.
While others drifted away, Deon engaged in a quiet conversation with Talia nearby. However, Raymond couldn't focus on their words. His thoughts remained consumed by the mark he had seen on his mother's neck. It was no ordinary wound... it was clearly the result of a powerful strike. And the question that plagued him the most was…
Raymond: "[Who could have done something like this?.... What should I do?]"
Raymond asked himself, replaying the sequence of events in his mind.
He stood staring at the horizon, his eyes lost in the vast blue of the ocean. The wind howled around him, ruffling his hair, but it did nothing to disturb his thoughts. Instead, it carried him back to the memory engraved deep within him... Days ago, when he had returned and met his mother in this very place.
His mother, Sabrina, had been sitting beside him, tending to the flowers that had grown between the rocks, as if refusing to acknowledge the harshness of nature. She suddenly lifted her head toward him, her eyes gleaming with curiosity.
Sabrina, warmly: "Is there a girl you like, my son?"
Raymond was caught off guard by the question. For a moment, he was speechless, then he averted his gaze to the ground and muttered softly.
Raymond: "...Yes."
Sabrina set the flowers aside and leaned closer with childlike excitement, placing a hand on his shoulder and looking at him eagerly.
Sabrina: "Who? Do I know her?!"
Raymond lifted his gaze toward Liana, who was adjusting the saddle on his horse. She wore a faded black dress... simple, yet it suited her.
He watched her in silence, but his mother had no patience for his hesitation. She turned with curiosity.
She saw the girl standing there, engrossed in a book, seemingly oblivious to her surroundings. Sabrina glanced back at Raymond, her eyes sparkling with realization before she let out a soft chuckle.
Sabrina, excitedly: "Is it... her?!"
Raymond turned his face away, but the slight redness in his cheeks betrayed him. At that moment, Sabrina suddenly stood up and started running toward the girl.
Raymond, flustered: "Mother! Wait!... She doesn't know!"
Sabrina, still walking briskly: "I just want to meet her!"
Liana turned, her eyes widening in panic as she saw Duchess Sabrina and Lord Raymond approaching her quickly. She tensed and muttered anxiously.
"Oh no... They're coming toward me!"
With trembling hands, she hastily adjusted her appearance, smoothing her hair and dress, trying to compose herself. When Sabrina reached her, Liana cautiously stepped forward, glancing at Raymond, who gave her a look that said he had no control over his mother.
Sabrina, slightly out of breath from running, observed Liana intently before gently placing her hands on her cheeks.
Sabrina, warmly: "Beautiful... What a lovely young lady you are."
The girl's face flushed, and she grew flustered, bowing shyly as she stammered.
Liana: "Th-thank you... Your Majesty..."
A brief silence followed before the girl lifted her head, only to see Duchess Sabrina Cypher pressing her lips together as if stifling a laugh. But in that moment, Lord Raymond Vanheim could no longer hold back... he let out a quiet chuckle.
Sabrina's eyes widened in shock. She turned swiftly toward him, stunned by what she had just heard.
Raymond, realizing what he had done, quickly looked away, trying to regain his composure.
Despite herself, Sabrina couldn't suppress her emotions. Her eyes shimmered with warmth, and a silent tear slid down her cheek. She stepped closer to her son, cupping his face with her hand.
Sabrina: "I haven't heard that beautiful laugh in years..."
Liana watched the scene with curiosity... this was the first time she had seen Raymond like this. She couldn't help but comment teasingly.
Liana: "I didn't know you could get flustered like this."
Raymond shot her an irritated look, about to retort. "You...!" But another soft chuckle escaped Sabrina before she turned back to her son, smiling brightly.
Sabrina: "I understand now... Is she the one who makes you happy?"
Raymond tensed and averted his gaze again, avoiding the question. Meanwhile, the girl's eyes widened in confusion, unaware of what was unfolding.
Sabrina turned to her, stepping closer, her gentle approach making Liana feel self-conscious, though she wasn't sure why. Taking Liana's hands in hers, Sabrina asked kindly.
Sabrina: "What's your name, dear?"
Liana hesitated for a moment before answering nervously.
Liana: "its... Liana..."
Sabrina waited for her to continue, but Liana said nothing more. She glanced at Raymond as if seeking help, but he remained silent.
Sabrina, softly smiling: "...And?"
Liana remained quiet, prompting Sabrina to raise an intrigued eyebrow. She turned to Raymond, who stepped forward and spoke firmly.
Raymond: "Mother… that's enough."
He gently took his mother's hand, trying to end the conversation. Meanwhile, Liana had already withdrawn her hands from Sabrina's grasp, turning her face away.
Sabrina didn't understand. She tried to ask again.
Sabrina: "I meant your last name..."
but in that moment, Raymond stopped her immediately, his voice carrying a stern warning.
Raymond: "Mother!… That's enough already."
When she felt his tightened grip on her wrist, Sabrina realized something unusual was going on. Her eyes widened slightly, and she whispered in shock.
Sabrina: ".... A commoner?... Is she from the lower class?"
Raymond's expression darkened, his eyes narrowing as he answered coldly.
Raymond shot her a sharp look, his eyes narrowing and his expression growing darker before he responded coldly.
Raymond: "Yes, mother. And now you know why my father insisted on that marriage… because he would never approve of this."
Sabrina was taken aback, then smiled. While Liana was adjusting the saddle, she mounted the horse, ready to leave. But Sabrina suddenly approached and gently stopped her.
"Wait."
Liana paused for a moment and glanced at Raymond, who gave her a slight nod, signaling her to dismount. She sighed lightly before complying. The moment her feet touched the ground, Sabrina surprised her by pulling her into a firm embrace, holding her close with a reassuring smile. Liana felt warmth in her hug and noticed the tears that had slipped onto the lady's cheek.
Sabrina, in a warm tone, her hand brushing softly over Liana's cheek, her eyes glimmering with maternal tenderness: "My dear… I'm sorry if I've wronged you. Don't be sad, it will only harm your beautiful skin."
A faint smile, fragile and fleeting, curved upon Liana's lips, like sunlight breaking through thin clouds. "It's alright…" she whispered, her voice almost childlike, uncertain whether she truly believed the words.
But before she could step back, Sabrina's expression shifted. The warmth lingered in her eyes, yet her voice grew sharper, edged with something more searching.
Sabrina, leaning in slightly, her tone steady and deliberate: "Now… who are you?"
The question fell into the room like a stone into still water, rippling through the silence. Liana blinked, caught off guard. A strange unease stirred inside her chest, a sensation she couldn't quite name. She turned instinctively toward Raymond, her eyes pleading for clarity, but found only his mirrored bewilderment.
Liana, hesitantly, her voice faltering: "M… me? I don't understand…"
Sabrina's gaze was unwavering, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly as though she were peeling back layers unseen.
Sabrina: "Your name… What is your full name?"
Liana's breath caught. Her lips parted, but no sound came for a moment. Then, with a flustered tone, she stammered: "I… I already told you!"
Sabrina straightened her posture, her tone no longer tender, but firm, insistent, as if she were addressing not a girl, but a truth demanding to be spoken. "No… You didn't tell me your full name. Your father's name."
The air seemed to thicken. Liana froze, her thoughts scattering like startled birds. For a second, she looked lost—adrift between confusion and something deeper, a quiet fear she couldn't define.
Liana, puzzled, her brows knitting: "You don't know him…"
Sabrina did not yield. Her voice pressed on, softer, yet with unshakable resolve. "Just humor me…"
For a heartbeat, Liana hesitated. The silence stretched, heavy and expectant. Her gaze shifted again to Raymond. This time, she caught the faintest nod from him—a small, subtle gesture that told her to trust, to follow through. The weight of that look steadied her trembling breath.
With her chest rising and falling, she finally spoke, her voice subdued, like the confession of something long guarded: "His name is… Peterson."
A hush fell. Sabrina closed her eyes for a moment, as though committing the name to memory, as though tasting the shape of it upon her soul. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet, almost reverent: "So… your name is Liana Peterson."
The words carried no judgment, only acceptance. A smile bloomed gently on her lips—warm, reassuring, maternal in its fullness. She placed a hand lightly on Liana's shoulder, her touch steady, anchoring.
Sabrina: "Never be ashamed of your origins or your family. Say it with pride… to anyone."
And for the first time in what felt like forever, Liana felt her name resonate not as a burden, but as something whole, something hers.
She paused, then looked at her thoughtfully before continuing.
Sabrina: "But… if you wish, you may say Liana Vanheim.'"
Liana's eyes widened in shock, her entire body tensing. She turned to Raymond in disbelief, but he averted his gaze, avoiding her eyes.
Her breath hitched, and she took a step back, whispering in a trembling voice.
Liana: "N… no… I can't… I can't, my lady!"
But Sabrina did not step back. Instead, she smiled gently and lifted a hand, softly caressing Liana's cheek before whispering in a quiet voice, laced with playful sarcasm.
Sabrina: "I like you… so I'll steal you away."
Liana's eyes widened, her cheeks burning with embarrassment, while Sabrina let out a lighthearted laugh.
After a moment of stunned silence, Liana couldn't help but smile along with her, as if an unseen magic had melted her into the warmth of the moment.
Then, with a bright smile and eyes gleaming with excitement, Sabrina leaned slightly closer and said,
Sabrina: "I want you for my son… So, what do you say?"
Liana felt as if her heart had slipped out of her control, pounding wildly, as though the world had gone silent around her. Her lips trembled as she turned to Raymond, who was staring at her just as intently.
For a long moment, their gazes remained locked, time seemingly frozen between them. She tried to speak, but her voice came out as a mere whisper.
Liana: "I…"
But before she could finish, Raymond finally moved. He turned to meet her gaze directly, making her heart race even faster. She couldn't look away from him, and he couldn't look away from her either.
In that moment, Sabrina smiled gently, as if she understood what neither of them had yet said. Then, with quiet confidence, Liana finally spoke.
Liana: "I will... accept."
Before Liana could even process her own words, Sabrina let out a delighted gasp and pulled her into a sudden, tight embrace, making the girl stumble slightly. Then, grabbing her hand, she tugged her forward like an excited child dragging a friend into a new adventure.
Sabrina: "Come, there's so much I want to talk to you about!"
They laughed together, caught between surprise and shyness, while Liana glanced back, trying to comprehend what was happening.
And there, in the background, Raymond stood still, watching them in silence. His face remained composed, but a faint smile touched his lips... one he could not… or perhaps did not wish to suppress.
Raymond returned to the present, The waves crashed violently against the rocks below the cliff, as if warning of an impending storm.
Raymond stood at the edge, his eyes lost in the vast horizon, seeing nothing but the endless ocean merging with the sky. The noise around him was deafening, yet all he could hear was silence… a silence that was broken only by a familiar voice... soft, yet carrying something indescribable within it.
"Won't you even greet me?"
Raymond turned slowly, as if his body resisted movement, only to find Aqua Nightover standing before him.
On the other side. Talia, The wind pursued her—pursued her memories—as if it longed to cast them from the cliff's edge into the savage waves that shattered the rocks below. Her elder brother Raymond's words still rang in her ears like an alarm bell: "Take care of Deon… he may seem fine now… but he carries within him far more than he can bear."
She walked with slow, heavy steps, as though the earth itself were pulling at her feet. Then she saw him.
He sat at the cliff's edge, still as a statue carved from ancient grief. His back was to her, slightly bent forward—not with the burden of weight, but like a bow drawn taut, brimming with an immense, contained energy waiting for release. His gaze was fixed upon the horizon, where the ocean devoured the last light of day. He did not look like a fugitive. He looked like a commander surveying an army of unrealized possibilities.
She began to approach, but a flood of memory swept her away—dragging her back to only hours earlier…
Novarth Palace – Deon Vanhaim's chamber
They were not ordinary sounds of breaking. They were the sound of a world collapsing. Hoarse cries, muffled and choked, rose between the groans of splintering wood and the flutter of torn papers. She pushed the door open slowly, and silence fell upon her like dread.
The room once known for its cold, calculated elegance resembled a battlefield. Chairs overturned, the writing desk split by a violent blow, and scraps of paper—plans, numbers, diagrams—scattered through the air like the feathers of a dead bird.
And at the heart of this chaos stood Deon. But he was not the Deon she knew. He was a ghost of him. His sharp eyes, once trained to read beyond the lines, were sunken and red, overflowing with a rage too vast for his body to contain. His tears were furious, searing, salt-stained—drying upon his cheeks only to fall again, a testament to an inner war he had finally lost.
He turned to a small mirror on the wall, staring at his distorted reflection through its cracks, then struck it with his fist. It shattered into dozens of fragments. Yet he followed it, pounding the remaining shards with his bare hand, until blood spilled, mingling with broken glass.
He was not crying. He was bleeding his soul.
Talia pushed the door wide and rushed toward him, but stopped a few steps short. His collapse—first to his knees, then to the ground—was more painful than all the destruction. He fell like a statue whose base had crumbled. His young frame slumped, drained, defeated.
And words poured from his lips, hoarse, broken, drowning in saliva, tears, and blood: "We were supposed to go together… all of us…"
Talia closed her eyes for a moment, as he struck the floor with his bloody fist, muttering in a guttural voice filled with curse and lament: "I… promised you… I promised… that we would escape together…"
Those words were not meant for her. They were for their mother—the gentle woman who had taught him cunning and self-belief… and who, only moments ago, had left this world, carrying with her their secret dream.
Talia's eyes gleamed with a flood of tears she could no longer restrain. Then Deon's voice broke open, filled with the unbearable bitterness of shattered hope: "We were… we were! We were going to be free… we were going to leave, and live in peace… in a place where there was no father, no sword, no cursed throne!"
He looked at his bloodied hands as if seeing them for the first time. Drops of crimson fell onto the remnants of the mirror, painting a mad portrait of pain. "I… worked so hard… I worked so hard for this!!! I planned, I wove, I gathered… everything for that moment! Why did you leave me halfway? Why leave me to carry it alone?!"
He screamed—not like a man refusing fate, but like one blindsided by a vast emptiness in the map of his existence. It was not a cry of defiance, but a wrenching interrogation of the universe. "What's the meaning of it all?!"
The words burst from deep within his throat, charged with sparks of rage and despair, as his wounded fists, soaked in the traces of his private battle, pounded the floor with a weight not only of flesh, but of crushing hopelessness. "What am I striving for now?! How can I keep building when the foundation of the dream is gone!?"
The question was not directed at her, nor even at himself. It was hurled at the silence left in their mother's absence, at the void carved by the collapse of their shared dream. He interrogated the ruined room, as if begging it to return the shredded papers, the burned-out plans that had suddenly lost their worth, for the partner they had been written for no longer existed.
In his voice there was no trace of the father's military wrath that refused defeat. Instead, there was the bewilderment of the clever child who had solved every equation in the world—except the riddle of death and loss.
He whispered, in a broken tone: "If all this building was for a freedom we would share… then who am I building for now, alone…?"
Despair draped every word. Moving slowly, drained, he leaned against the shattered wall and drew his head between his knees. His voice sank, dissolving into a fractured whisper, laden with grief far older than his years: "Our dream… was… to be free… free… to find freedom…"
Now, on the cliff's edge.
Talia returned to the present, to the image of her brother sitting at the brink in that eerie calm after the storm. Every shard of glass, every drop of blood, every broken whisper still lived vividly in her memory.
She no longer saw a broken boy. She saw "the young spider"—the man who had spun his web from gold and truths, who had made nobles dance upon unseen threads. But she also saw the price. She saw the weight he carried upon his shoulders: the weight of his mother's dreams, the freedom of his siblings, the weight of a kingdom not yet built.
She walked to him with steps muted by the cries of gulls and the roar of the waves. She said nothing. She sat beside him on the cold rock, wrapped her arms around his, and rested her head against his shoulder, which still trembled beneath its facade of strength.
He turned to her. His eyes no longer bore traces of tears or fury. They had become windows to an ocean of thought—calm, cold, terrifying in its resolve. He offered her a faint smile, devoid of familiar warmth, yet filled with the sharp nobility that defined him.
Deon: "Don't be afraid, Talia," he said, his quiet voice reaching into the depths. "The waves out there…" He gestured toward the clashing horizon. "… are nothing but obstacles. And obstacles aren't defeated with anger, but by sailing around them—or by building stronger ships."
He looked at his hands, where the wounds had already begun to form small crusts. "Sometimes mirrors must break for us to see beyond the reflection. Sometimes we must shatter… to remake ourselves stronger."
Then he looked back at her, and in his eyes burned that familiar glow—the glow of the merchant who weighed everything, the dreamer who refused to surrender. "I made her a promise. And I keep my promises. Perhaps not in the way we dreamed…"
He paused, then said with quiet finality: "…But we will be free. Not by running, but by building. I will build us a kingdom, stone by stone, so that no one—not a father, nor fate itself—will ever shake its foundations."
His gaze returned to the ocean. It was no longer a place of escape, but a vast chessboard. "Freedom is not bought through flight… it is bought through strength. And I will be strong enough to purchase it for all of us."
Talia sat in silence, hearing the roar of the waves crash against the rock of her younger brother's will—a will that had never been anyone's shadow. And she realized that Raymond had been right.
Deon was not hiding more than he could bear. He had resolved, in his broken depths, to bear far more than anyone could imagine.
On the northern edge, Aqua stood beside him. At that moment, the cold wind blew faintly. Meanwhile, Lucas Nightover watched the scene in silence. His sharp eyes, accustomed to the battlefield, seemed to carry the weight of years of war. But this time, he wasn't looking at an enemy... he was looking at something far more complicated… his son.
Not long after, Earl Julian Hartley joined him, standing quietly at his side before speaking in a calm voice tinged with warmth.
Julian: "The youth, huh… You must be proud of him."
Lucas did not shift his gaze. Instead, he answered in a low voice, devoid of any clear emotion.
Lucas: "Proud of what exactly?"
Julian looked at him in surprise, then gave a slight smile and shrugged.
Julian: "Your son, of course. He has made a name for himself that nearly surpasses all of Arcadia. They call him 'Ice death,' the young lord who has fought in five battles and has never lost. The second youngest in history to earn the title of 'Swod Master'."
Lucas remained silent for a moment, as if the words stirred nothing within him, then he replied coldly.
Lucas: "And is that something to be proud of?"
Julian raised his eyebrows slightly, then let out a soft, sarcastic laugh.
Julian: "To the people? Of course. Especially Blatir. If he were in your place now, he would be proclaiming his achievements at every gathering. He would probably even try to make him king…"
Lucas finally turned his gaze to him, his voice low but sharp.
Lucas: "I wouldn't be surprised. He would have done that… if only his son had wanted to inherit him. Speaking of sons… Raymond, he is the opposite of mine. I see him as wiser, more cunning than his age might suggest. Though he hasn't even reached twenty, he has stood alongside his father in three brutal battles... not just as a mere fighter, but as a merciless sword, ending the battle before his foes even realized they had lost.
His swordsmanship far exceeds his years. He doesn't rely on strength alone, but on quick thinking and the ability to exploit every weakness. It's as if he sees battle as painting a canvas, choosing precisely when to strike, where, and how to finish everything with a single decisive move."
He fell silent for a moment, took a deep breath, then continued in a quiet voice, as if recalling memories.
Lucas: "He once dueled the Tenth King, Rohayden. He was still a teenager then, but he wasn't just a boy wielding a sword… he was the heir of Vanheim, and the blood in his veins would not accept defeat.
To him, it was all just a joke. Ten moves... that's all it took to bring the king to his knees, leaving him there, questioning how a boy his age could defeat him. He meant no insult by it, merely the innocent playfulness of a teenager who had yet to learn that the thrones of kings do not tolerate jokes. But Rohayden saw it differently... he saw only an insult, a wound to his pride, a slap to his arrogant ego.
He was not a man who accepted defeat… not even in a mere display between two swords. So, the moment he stood back up, he did not look at Raymond. Instead, he looked at the guards who had witnessed his fall.
He did not speak, did not shout. He simply raised his hand… and ordered the beheading of every single guard who had seen the duel. He did not hesitate, did not retract, did not explain. One by one, they fell before him, their eyes still carrying the shock, as if they had not yet realized they were dead. The sound of swords slicing through flesh, the thud of heads hitting the ground, the scent of blood soaking the air… it was not just punishment... it was a lesson.
And in less than a minute, heads rolled to the ground.
Raymond did not move. He did not scream. He did not try to stop the massacre. He stood there, watching in silence, his eyes wandering between the piled corpses, the eyes that had not yet closed, the blood tracing long lines on the arena floor.
And when it was all over, the king finally lifted his gaze to him and spoke in a low voice, yet one that carried everything he needed to say....
This is your fault...
Then he stepped closer, placed a hand on his shoulder, and whispered in a cold voice.
Never forget, Raymond, some lessons are etched in blood.
Then he turned and walked away as if nothing had happened.
That was the moment Raymond Vanheim realized... monsters are not born… they are made."
A heavy silence followed, as if the weight of Lucas's words had settled upon Julian's shoulders. He showed no obvious shock, but he could not hide the slight shift in his expression.... the fleeting distraction in his eyes, as though trying to process the scene Lucas had just painted before him.
Slowly, he turned, letting his gaze drift across the field until it settled on Raymond, standing in the distance beside Aqua. He wasn't doing anything remarkable... just standing still, arms crossed, head tilted slightly, as if their conversation meant nothing to him.
But Julian didn't need more than that.
In Raymond's eyes, there was no sorrow, no regret, not even pride. Only a deadly calm... the kind that resembles the silence before a storm, or perhaps… the silence that follows one.
Julian exhaled softly, as if the weight of the words he had heard was seeping into his breath. He wasn't sure what disturbed him more... the story itself, or the way Lucas had told it, with chilling indifference, as if what had happened was just another detail in a long tale of blood and silence.
He let his gaze shift away from Raymond, stopping at Aqua, who stood beside him, silent as always. But there was something in his eyes that made Julian wonder. That look he carried held something of a challenge, but Julian knew it was merely a hint of suppressed emotions... perhaps due to the restraints imposed upon him by his father.
Julian: "Well… on another note, do you plan to do anything for your son?"
Lucas returned his gaze to the horizon, as if the question didn't concern him, then replied dryly.
Lucas: "Like what, Lord Hartley?"
Julian turned his gaze back to Lucas and spoke calmly, but firmly.
Julian: "What is your problem with him?"
His tone was more of an inquiry than an objection, but he was irritated by the constant pressure Lucas placed on Aqua.
Julian: "Your son is not a child, Lucas. You can't keep caging him like this, as if you fear every step he might take. Perhaps it's time to let him find his own path, rather than making these restraints an obstacle in his way."
Lucas's tone suddenly sharpened, as if the words had struck a sensitive nerve.
Lucas: "He is emotional, Julian."
Julian frowned slightly, trying to understand what he meant, then asked cautiously.
Julian: "And what's wrong with that?"
Lucas exhaled in frustration, his eyes gleaming with something akin to suppressed anger.
Lucas: "My son is not a hero, nor a seeker of glory, nor even a man who makes decisions with a rational mind. He is a fighter... not because war is his duty, but because it is his pleasure. He stands on the battlefield not to win, nor to protect anyone, but because he enjoys the feel of the sword in his hand and the thrill that courses through his veins with every strike.
He is not sick, not sadistic, nor does he seek blood for blood's sake… but he also does not fight for a cause. He chooses the most dangerous path, not out of necessity, but because he desires it. He follows his passion, not his reason, and that… that is what frightens me."
Lucas fell silent for a moment, then added in a heavy voice.
Lucas: "A soldier fights for his homeland. A king wages war for his throne. A man defends those he loves. But what of someone who fights simply because he loves to fight?"
His voice grew colder.
Lucas: "My son is a child in a warrior's body. And the question I do not have an answer for is…"
He paused, then added in a grim tone.
"When will he understand that war is not just a game? And when will he realize that those who love battle… either kill, or get killed?"
Julian sighed and averted his gaze forward as if trying to see things from a different perspective. Then, he spoke in a calm voice.
Julian: "You're just exaggerating."
Lucas turned to him, fixing him with a cold stare before speaking in a tone devoid of any hesitation.
Lucas: "He lost in the Draxul battle."
Julian frowned visibly, trying to recall the details, then spoke slowly.
Julian: "What? No, he didn't. He won."
But Lucas didn't seem convinced. Instead, he clenched his jaw and responded with a sharper voice.
Lucas: "If it weren't for the intervention of Blatir's eldest son and Earl Nicholas Sparoff, he would be buried under our feet right now!"
The cold wind rose again, dragging behind it a heavy silence, like a shadow stretching between those standing there. Breaking it was harder than anyone dared to attempt. But suddenly, a voice came from the left... quiet, yet sharp as a blade, making them turn instinctively.
"I agree with you."
Lucas turned to his left, his eyes landing on Duchess Atris Starkov, who approached with confident steps until she stood beside him.
Atris, in a steady yet reproachful tone: In truth, your son acted recklessly in that battle. Do you know where he was while the soldiers were training and preparing for the attack? … He was sleeping.
She paused for a moment, as if granting her words additional weight, then continued sharply.
Atris: "He woke up to fight in his nightclothes... without armor, not even a helmet."
Silence crept back, but this time it was heavier, charged with something invisible. Then, Lucas broke it, his voice low yet carrying his anger, as he muttered to himself, gritting his teeth.
Lucas, in a sharp tone: "Thousands of men died that night… and he was playing around…
He turned to Earl Julian directly, his eyes narrowing with determination.
Lucas: "This is what I meant, Lord Hartley."
But his words halted suddenly when he noticed Julian's face. He wasn't listening. Instead, he was staring intently at Atris, as if her presence had stirred something deep within him.
As for her, she kept her gaze fixed forward, indifferent to the eyes watching her.
Lucas sighed and broke the tension by stepping forward, drawing closer to Julian and whispering in a low voice.
Lucas: "Her former husband… was the very man who saved my son last night, Lord Hartley."
For a moment, it seemed as if Julian had registered those words, but he didn't show any immediate reaction. He merely remained silent before replying without averting his gaze from her.
Julian, with cold sarcasm: "You said it yourself...'former'…"
Lucas didn't comment, nor did he wait for a response. He simply continued on his way, uninterested in whatever remained of the unspoken conversation.
Meanwhile, Aqua stood beside Raymond, watching him with a curious gaze before asking in a calm, unassuming tone.
Aqua: "How are you? I haven't seen you since the end of the battle."
Raymond didn't turn to him. He merely whispered in a trembling voice, as if forcing the words out.
Raymond: "I'm not okay."
Then, without warning, he moved away quickly, heading toward the cliff's edge.
Raymond: "Come, let's go quickly."
A faint smile formed on Aqua's lips, not one of understanding or confusion.
Aqua: "Where to?"
But Raymond didn't answer. He simply continued along the massive rocks forming a rugged path leading to a natural arena... no fences, no boundaries, just a flat rock hanging over the ocean, resembling a dueling ground destined to be the last for anyone who set foot on it.
Aqua stood at the edge, looking down at the crashing waves below. He exhaled audibly before whispering with indifference.
Aqua: "You do know that if you fall from here, the only thing left of you will be a story to tell… don't you?"
But before he could finish his words, something flashed before his eyes... a blade rushing toward him with deadly speed. Raymond lunged forward, attacking without warning, without mercy, aiming a brutal, lethal strike straight to the heart.
Raymond: "That is… if I lose."
Aqua didn't think... he moved instantly. His body flowed like water, dodging the attack with seamless grace, but the wind from the strike sent strands of his hair flying. Raymond fixed him with burning eyes, his lips stiff with rage.
Aqua stared at him for a moment, then smiled... a clear smirk of mockery.
Aqua: "So that's it… you want to take your anger out on me?"
Raymond, shouting: "Shut up and draw your sword!"
Aqua didn't argue. He simply unsheathed his sword. The movement was slow, almost ritualistic. He raised it before his face, studying the blade for a moment as if greeting an old companion… then steadied his stance.
Raymond charged like a storm, moving with brutal speed, his sword cutting through the air with ferocity.
The swords clashed.
Sparks flew, the echoes of metal filled the space. Strike, evade, another strike, a swift turn, then a quick retreat.
It was a fight between two men without much difference between them… but in this moment, one was fighting to escape something inside him... while the other was merely observing.
And the observer… always had the upper hand.