Content Warning: Read cautiously if you are a sensitive reader.
Disclaimer: This is purely fictional.
At the center of the empty space stood a boy, no older than eleven.
The wind felt cold against his skin, but it was nothing compared to the tremors running through his body. His legs refused to stop shaking, the weight of the apple pressing down on his head, heavier than anything he ever carried.
A few steps away, a group of men watched, their faces unreadable, some faintly amused. Among them stood Duke Danman—his platinum hair blown by the breeze.
The middle-aged duke gripped a bow, his fingers pulling the string, the arrow's head gleaming under the sunlight of spring. It was pointed directly between the boy's eyes.
"Stop moving!" a knight barked, his voice cutting through the silence that fell briefly in the training grounds.
The boy flinched at the sharp tone.
The Duke laughed, amused and careless.
"Tell him that in this case, it's the opposite. Child, you need to stop breathing if you want to live. Otherwise…" He chuckled, his grey eyes fixed on the apple, no different than a hawk's gaze on its prey.
The boy's chest raced rapidly as he tried to hold his breath, biting his lips. His vision blurred, his knees weakening. He clenched his fists to stop them from trembling, but his body wouldn't obey, betraying him.
The twang of the bowstring rang in his ears.
Something hissed past his face, so fast that even his hair was blown to the back of his head. The apple burst apart, a fragment of it rolling to the ground at his feet.
Gasps and applause rose around him, but the boy could no longer hear them over the pounding of his heart in his ears. Warm liquid spread down his legs, his shorts damp, shame mingling with the terror still clinging at his throat.
Duke Danman stepped forward, his tall figure almost swallowing the boy. He patted his head, the gesture mockingly gentle.
"Told you," the Duke said, grey eyes gleaming with cruel amusement.
The boy looked up at him, his gaze filled with horror. His mouth tasted sour, and he wished to grab a sword from one of the knights and stab the man before him.
"Your Grace!"
A knight rushed into the training grounds, nearly tripping over his own feet.
"You need to see this!"
The Duke raised an eyebrow, annoyance on his face. He dropped the bow on the grass and gestured for the knight to lead the way.
James, who stood beside the Duke, followed from a distance, every step stirring unease in his stomach.
"I hope Cael found the document…" he mumbled.
Every step of their boots echoed loudly against the marble floor, ringing through the corridor.
Outside, sunlight spilled across the yard, the flowers at the edge of the paved road still blooming—and there it was.
A carriage. One James recognized instantly. General Zayden's.
The Duke's voice dropped into a dangerous calm.
"What… is this?"
James's eyes fell on the body lying limp on the ground. For a moment, his mind refused to make sense of the shape. He refused to recognize the figure he knew too well. The details struck him like a hammer—dark hair, slack jaw, skin already paling.
"He is… dead," a knight announced.
James's breath caught.
"C-Cael?!"
"Is he the one you sent to finish your work when you failed?" the Duke asked without looking at him, his voice steady.
James's throat tightened. He nodded, unable to form words. His chest felt like it was caving in. As if he was the one stabbed in the chest, and not Cael, who's shirt was torn due to the knife that pierced his chest.
"Failures," the Duke muttered, his voice carrying the weight of a death sentence. "Bring my whip."
The words made James's blood run cold. He shook his head, stumbling forward.
"N-No. P-Please, Your Grace…" His knees hit the dirt hard, but he barely registered the pain. "I'll fix it. I swear. I'll make it right. I'll bring the document. I will not fail this time!" He shouted, his voice desperate while his hands shook as he reached for the Duke's legs.
The Duke stepped back as if James were something filthy to be touched by.
A knight returned with the weapon—a thick, black whip that seemed to bathe in the darkness.
James's chest tightened. He wanted to run, but his legs wouldn't move. He tried again, his voice cracking. "I'll do it right—please, please…"
The Duke's hand moved. The air split with a sharp, merciless crack.
Agony bloomed across James's back, stealing his breath. He couldn't take in any air in his body.
The second strike came before the first had finished burning. His skin tore; heat and wetness spread under his shirt.
The world around him narrowed with each sound of leather against his flesh, to the gasps he couldn't hold back, to the sickening blows that never seemed to stop. Blows that seemed endless—eternal.
Around them, the knights stood still. Their eyes flickered, their bodies jolted but they didn't move—not even when the blood hit the ground, splashed on their faces.
James didn't blame them. He knew why. Interfere, and it would be them kneeling here instead.
When the Duke finally stopped, his breathing was steady, as if the punishment had cost him nothing. He dropped the whip to the ground, the leather coiling like a dead snake.
"This time, you'd better not disappoint me," he said, gripping James by the hair and forcing his head back.
James's eyes blurred with tears.
"I-I apologize," he sobbed.
The Duke shoved him forward—straight onto Cael's cold, lifeless body—before walking away.
The soldiers followed, their footsteps fading into silence. They knew they weren't allowed to stay. That they would meet the same punishment if Duke Danman learned they helped those who failed to do their tasks properly.
James's hands trembled as he reached for Cael's face.
"I'm sorry, Cael… I should've listened to you," he whispered, voice shaking. "Please forgive me…"
The body didn't move. Didn't answer. Only the wind replied, carrying the smell of blood and dust.
James embraced the body regardless of its stench. Anyone who saw the scene would call him insane. But maybe he was. For losing the man he cherished only because of Duke Danman.
He looked behind, the back of the Duke fading into the long hallways. He glared at him, his eyes filling with rage.
"I will not let you get away with this, Duke Danman," he muttered, clutching onto his dead lover's body. "I'll make you regret it."