Sir Varro stared at Khaos like he was something unholy. Not a boy—but a threat. A question no one had the answer to. Slowly, he stepped forward and took the sword from Khaos's shaking hand. The blade dripped black blood. The weight of it, the truth of it, spoke louder than anything Khaos could say.
Two more knights emerged from the trees. One of them gagged at the smell. The other turned pale at the sight of the bodies.
"Get Lord Dylan out of here," Varro ordered, voice tight. "He's in shock."
The moment they touched him, Dylan began to cry harder—loud enough for everyone to hear.
"He killed them. Cedric… Lena… he killed them…"
The lie took root.
Khaos said nothing. He didn't have the words. Not for the burning in his chest. Not for the way the truth suddenly felt useless.
They didn't ask him what happened.
They didn't even look him in the eye.
By the time they led him back into the village, chains wrapped his wrists. Blood still stained his tunic. And the crowd that gathered at the gates didn't see a child returning from a fight.
They saw a monster dragging a corpse behind his shadow.
Later that night…
Whispers carried like wildfire through Velmira.
"He summoned it."
"It was the curse in his blood."
"The way his father looked when he vanished—same eyes. Same madness."
"Why is he even allowed to live near the barrier?"
"If he can kill one Xylen, what else is he hiding?"
Sir Rothan watched it all from the shadows.
He stood beside the prison hut where they'd locked Khaos, arms folded, jaw tight. The boy sat inside, unmoving, staring at the wall. Still caked in dried blood. Still shaking.
"He didn't do it," Rothan muttered to the other knight on guard.
The man shrugged. "Doesn't matter now. The nobles are calling for his trial."
"A trial?" Rothan's voice dropped low.
The other knight glanced away. "It's not a trial. Not really. It's just a matter of how loud they want the execution to be."
Rothan turned and walked away before he said something he couldn't take back.
The next morning,
Khaos was dragged into the public square—chained, bruised, and filthy. A temporary platform had been built overnight. Wooden, tall, surrounded by armored guards and angry faces.
Dozens of villagers stood at the edges, whispering behind hands.
But it was the nobles who sat in chairs of carved oak, their robes too clean for the blood in the air.
Lord Caldus Ferrin an imposing noble in his mid-forties he has slicked-back hair, with streaks of iron gray at the temples with pale gold eyes. He did not march—he glided, cloak trailing behind him like shadows peeling from the earth. Gold-trimmed boots struck the dirt path without a sound, and his gaze swept the smoldering forest like a hawk searching for prey.
His eyes found Dylan first.
"My son," he said, his voice cool and steady, no faster than the wind.
Then his gaze turned to Khaos—bloodied, exhausted, defiant.
He didn't speak to Khaos. He didn't need to. The slight raise of his brow said everything.
This boy breathes too long
Lord Ferrin, Dylan's father, took the center seat.
He didn't look at his son once. Only at Khaos.
"We gather not for vengeance," he began, voice calm, "but for answers."
Lies always sound softest when dressed in civility.
Khaos lifted his eyes. "They brought it in. I saw it happen. The beast—"
"You killed two noble heirs," Ferrin snapped, the mask slipping for just a second. "You desecrated their bodies. And now you dare to speak?"
"I saved Dylan—"
"Enough!" The voice came from behind. Dylan stood, bandaged, pale. "I watched him do it! We tried to stop him, but he lured us into the woods!"
Khaos growled. "You're lying."
Gasps rose.
But Dylan didn't falter.
"I was scared," he whimpered. "I didn't know how to say it. But Cedric and Lena… they followed him. He was dragging meat, trying to lure something out. He wanted to prove he wasn't cursed."
Rothan, in the crowd, clenched a fist.
They've flipped the story completely, he thought. And no one will stop them.
A few voices from the crowd hesitated.
Old Mrs. Klen, the healer who once treated Khaos's fever, said softly, "But… if he really did it… how did he survive?"
"Magic," someone whispered.
"Darkness," said another.
"A deal with the Xylen," a third hissed.
It didn't matter that it made no sense.
People weren't searching for truth. They were searching for comfort. And blaming Khaos made the world feel safer.
But not everyone agreed.
A boy near the back, no older than ten, clenched his fists. He looked like he wanted to speak—but his father pulled him back.
A woman in a merchant's shawl stared hard at Ferrin. Her son had died seven years ago—killed in the first breach. She never looked at Khaos with hate. Only pity.
And Rothan… Rothan stepped back into the shadows, already planning.
He couldn't stop this wave. Not yet.
But he could protect the boy from drowning in it.
Lord Ferrin's voice echoed across the square.
"Khaos, son of traitors. You are found guilty by the testimony of the last noble survivor and the witness of blood. You are hereby sentenced to confinement until your fate is decided."
Not death—not yet.
But close enough.
The people cheered. Others just watched.
And Khaos, eyes dull, was dragged back toward the prison.
As they pulled him away, his gaze met Rothan's—just for a second.
And the knight nodded, barely noticeable.
Not all of them wanted him dead.
But for now, most did.
And that was enough to break something inside him