POV Elian
The foundation ceremony had finally ended, and we were allowed to see our new home. After leaving the room where we had been with Baronette Javier, we lingered for a while in the courtyard, waiting. The cool afternoon air carried with it the scent of wet stone and burned incense that still drifted from the main hall. The sun was already lowering, painting the sky in shades of orange that reflected against the windows of the newly built building.
We soon found Elise there, accompanied by Lysander. We exchanged words until our mother arrived. Or rather: they spoke, and we only responded. Their words were always long, filled with matters I did not yet have the patience to understand. I tried to strike a conversation with Celestia, but she said little—whether to me or to Emanuelle. There was a distance in her, as if she were always somewhere else, far beyond us. Anthony, as always, remained silent, though I managed to pry a few words out of him—already a small victory.
Then I saw my mother approaching, accompanied by two mages of the Dark Throne. Her expression had changed. Minutes earlier, still in that room, I had seen rage in her eyes—cold, cutting, almost suffocating. Now what lingered there was doubt. I won't pretend to be innocent: I knew she had to make a choice about that family's fate. And even without hearing it from her own mouth, I was certain she chose exactly as I would have.
"We'll wait a little longer, then head home," she said as she reached us. Her voice was steady, but her eyes betrayed the storm still raging within her. "Will you come with us, Elise?"
"No, Maria. I'll return to the village with Lysander and his daughter. We still have business to settle regarding Emanuelle's admission," Elise answered, casting a brief glance at my sister.
So we remained there, waiting for Iolanda, who would escort us back in a Dark Throne carriage. All around us, people passed by—some greeting us with quick bows, others with curious stares. Even at a distance, I could hear whispers cutting the air like blades:
"Did Baronette Javier leave?"
"I saw him being taken away by some Dark Throne mages."
"I heard his son said something about the Ancião Marduk's disciple's sister."
If I could hear them, then my mother surely could as well. I saw it in her body: with each phrase, her shoulders tensed more; her calm face grew shadowed with regret. She did not cry, nor speak of it, but it was clear to me. Doubt was etched across her features.
And in that moment, I caught myself thinking: how many more burdens would she have to carry because of us?
At last, Iolanda emerged from the entrance, Anna at her side. Her expression was serious—more serious than usual.
"Ready to see your house, Maria?" she asked, her voice firm but not harsh.
"Yes. I want to take this dress off and bathe to rest," my mother replied, averting her gaze as if she didn't want anyone to notice the fatigue in her face.
"Very well."
Iolanda asked Anna to fetch the coachman, and she obeyed immediately. Less than ten minutes later, the carriage awaited us, gleaming under the last rays of the setting sun.
"Let's go. It's time for you to see your new home," Iolanda said as she climbed aboard.
We bid farewell to Elise, Lysander, and Celestia. Emanuelle and Anthony entered before me. But I hesitated. I felt I needed to say something to my mother. I turned to her.
"Mother."
"Yes, son?" she answered with that gentle, comforting tone she always used with us. But I knew. Inside, she was torn apart by the decision she had made moments earlier in that room. I saw it in her eyes, in the way her hands trembled slightly even as she tried to hide it.
I wished I could rip that pain out of her and take it into myself. I wished I could absorb all the guilt, all the regret that consumed her. She didn't deserve to suffer from any of it.
If I could divide the pain, the guilt, and the regret of those I love, I would take the greater share—even if it destroyed me.
That was my truest wish. Good people should not carry burdens like that.
"You did nothing wrong, Mother," I said firmly. "I would have made the same choice." I paused, locking my gaze with her tearful eyes. "And know this… we all love you."
The glow in her eyes grew brighter. Tears welled, but with them came something lighter, as though a weight had briefly lifted.
"Thank you, son. I love you all as well," she answered, her voice trembling but filled with truth.
And in that instant, I realized that if my words could bring her even a moment of peace, that alone was enough for me.
★★★
"What a big house!" Emanuelle exclaimed, her eyes wide in wonder as soon as we stepped out of the carriage.
"Are you sure this is really ours?" Anthony asked, lifting his face to take in every detail, as though he still couldn't believe it.
The building before us was solid stone, its windows framed in dark wood, its roof glimmering softly under the sun. It wasn't as large as Elise's home, but it was far greater than our old one.
And at that sight, my mind was inevitably pulled backward, back to the memory of where we once lived. Our old house, built of wood and clay, barely withstood the rains. The kitchen was so small we crowded together at every meal. Only two bedrooms: one tiny for our parents, another slightly larger where Emanuelle, Anthony, and I all slept. The "bathroom"… if it could even be called that, sat outside. In truth, it was just a pit, with a small improvised stall for bathing—nothing more than cold water poured from wooden bowls.
When we moved into Elise's home, the very idea of home had shifted. It was like living in another world. Three bedrooms, aside from hers. A cozy sitting room. A wide kitchen. Two bathrooms inside. And, of course, the infirmary wing, always alive with people coming and going. But it wasn't just the space. What amazed us most were the elemental stones: blocks of blue crystal set into vessels, from which fresh water poured at will; and glowing red rocks, caged in iron frames, heating pots and keeping fires alive without the need for wood.
I remembered our old routine vividly: hauling buckets from the well for drinking and cooking, and fetching water from the southern forest's river for baths. They said no Wild Beasts roamed there—a luck that now seemed almost illusory. It had been a harsh life, yet simple. And in its way, happy…
Now, standing before this stone house, I felt a pressure in my chest. Everything was changing. Improving, yes—but changing. And with every step forward, the past seemed to drift farther away, like a place we could never return to.
"This must have cost a fortune," my mother whispered, awe and disbelief mingling in her voice as she gazed at the house.
And she was right. The construction radiated grandeur—solid walls of rare stone, polished windows, fine work at every corner. Something no common farmers like us could ever dream of. Even our old house of wood and clay, humble as it was, had been considered good for people of our station. But this… this was another world entirely. A stone house was a symbol of status, reserved for wealthy merchants or minor nobles.
"Yes, it was costly," said a deep voice, cutting through the air like a blade. "But nothing your son cannot repay in the future."
We all turned. The Ancião Marduk was there.
To this day, I cannot say how he had arrived so silently. No carriage had approached. No creak of wheels, no hoofbeats. He simply… was there. His presence filled the space like the house's own shadow made flesh.
Behind him came four of the six mages who had formed the protective diamond around us when we first stepped into the filial. Their reinforced cloth armor and Dark Throne emblems gleamed in the fading light. Only Anna was absent—she had remained with us since the carriage.
The air grew heavier. Even unwilling, my body reacted—as if the mere sight of Marduk demanded reverence. His crimson eyes shimmered, not in fury, but with the cold certainty of command.
"Let us go inside," he said, not raising his voice, yet his words rang as command. "I want you to see how it turned out."
My mother only nodded, caught between gratitude and the weight of it all. But I could not keep a thought from rising within me: this was not merely a new house. It was a gift bound to debts yet unpaid—each stone a reminder of that truth.