Chapter 11 – The Saint's Burden
The sun rose slow over the Draeven square, spilling pale gold over a scene of ruin.
The snow was red.Not the soft red of falling leaves, but the deep, metallic stain of life spilled and frozen in place. Ninety-nine corpses lay where they had fallen, black-clad shadows twisted at impossible angles. The air hung heavy with the scent of iron, so thick it seemed to coat the tongue.
At the center stood Rigorus.
His white hair was no longer white. It hung in damp crimson strands, clinging to the sharp lines of his jaw. His robe was torn in several places, exposing the hard, scarred muscle beneath — each mark a story of the year he had vanished into isolation. His eyes were half-closed, not from peace, but from the weight pressing against him.
To the clan watching from shuttered windows, he was divine. Unshaken. Untouchable.To Naelira, he was a man who could barely take another step.
She moved before she could think, boots crunching softly over snow. She slid an arm under his, her frame small but steady against him.
"You're hurt," she said quietly.
Rigorus didn't answer, but the faint shift of his weight toward her was all the answer she needed. He could have let the healers in his own household tend to him, but instead, he had walked here.
Her home was small but warm, the scent of dried herbs drifting in the air. She eased him onto the edge of her bed, peeling back the tattered robe. The sight made her pause — not from shyness, but from the sheer number of scars carved into his skin.
"You should have let the clan's doctors—"
"I wanted you," Rigorus said, his voice quiet but certain.
For a time, the only sound was water being poured into a basin, cloth wrung out, the slow rhythm of her cleaning each wound. Then, Naelira stilled.
"What is it you want from me, Rigorus?" Her voice trembled despite her effort to keep it steady. "What do you see for us? Is this… just passing time until you walk back into war?"
Rigorus lifted his gaze to hers, and for a moment, the weight of the world seemed to pause.
"This is new to me," he said. "I've never been with anyone like this before. I don't know the rules. But when I look at you, there's a pull I can't ignore. I think… it is love. So do I love you?" His voice softened. "Yes. I do."
Naelira's cheeks warmed, her hands resuming their work. "Tch… then maybe you should learn to love yourself too. Look at all these scars." Her tone was playful, but her touch was gentle.
Their eyes met — the first time since he had returned from isolation — and in that gaze was a quiet surrender neither tried to resist.
Later, Naelira rested against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, when a knock came at the door.
"Naelira. Rigorus," a voice called from outside. "The mother of the clan requests your presence — both of you."
They exchanged a glance. Naelira swallowed hard; she had never spoken to Celestia directly.
The walk to Celestia's chambers was slow, deliberate. Guards along the corridors stiffened as Rigorus passed, eyes flicking toward Naelira but quickly looking away — not out of disrespect, but out of a new awareness. The two of them together was not a sight anyone had expected.
Naelira's hand brushed against Rigorus's once, and he didn't pull away.
At the chamber doors, they were met by two sentries in polished armor who opened the way without a word.
Celestia sat propped on a bed draped in crimson silks, her silver-streaked hair spilling over one shoulder. Age had not dulled her beauty, nor her sharpness. Her eyes lit with warmth as they entered.
"Sit," she said. "Both of you."
They obeyed, though Naelira sat a step behind Rigorus.
"You two should make me a grandmother before I pass," Celestia said suddenly, her lips curling into a mischievous smile.
Rigorus blinked, caught off guard. "Mother…" His voice held rare embarrassment.
Celestia's chuckle was low. "Well, will she be the new queen, Rigorus?"
"She is the one I love," he answered plainly.
"Then make her a Draeven," Celestia replied without hesitation.
She motioned to Naelira. "Come here, child."
Naelira stepped forward and bowed her head. "It's a pleasure to be in your presence, clan queen."
"No, no, no — skip the formalities," Celestia said, waving it off with a laugh. "Do you love Rigorus?"
"Yes," Naelira said without pause. "I do love Rigorus."
"That's all I wanted to hear. Your words are truthful — I can feel it. If I had heard a doubt, I would have ordered the guards to arrest you for life." Her smile deepened. "But it seems my son is quite lucky — to have made a girl as beautiful as you his. I can already smell Draeven blood in you."
Naelira didn't fully understand the last part, but she felt the sincerity in Celestia's voice. She had grown up hearing her mother speak of Celestia's kindness and beauty, and now she saw it for herself.
A week passed in rare peace.
The Draeven streets were lively again. Warriors trained openly, vendors called from their stalls, and laughter returned to the courtyards. Rigorus was greeted with respectful nods wherever he walked, and though some eyes still held awe and fear, there was pride there too.
Naelira found herself adjusting to her new visibility. Whispers followed her in the market — not cruel ones, but the curious murmurs of people wondering if she truly was the woman who held the Saint's heart.
But peace is a liar.
It began with a rumble — deep and rolling — followed by a sound like the world itself breaking.
The main gates exploded inward. Ironwood doors, thick enough to stop siege rams, flew through the air like splinters, smashing into stone walls. Guards at the entrance were flung across the snow, their bodies tumbling until they lay still halfway across the clan grounds.
And then he stepped through.
Dreadmaul.
A giant in human form, his skin the color of weathered rock, every step cracking the frozen earth. His aura poured out like molten lead, thick and suffocating, seeping into every corner of the clan's territory.
From his chambers, Rigorus felt it — that same murderous intent he had once found lingering in his sister's wounds.
He's here.
Rigorus rose from his meditation like a storm breaking, his halo flaring into existence. Red light trembled in the air behind him, bright enough to stain the walls. Without even reaching for his robe, bare chest scarred and unhidden, he moved.
To those watching, he vanished.
To Dreadmaul, there was only a blur — and then a fist driving deep into his gut.
The blow ripped the breath from his lungs, sending him hurtling back through the gates, into the forest beyond. Trees splintered one after another as his body smashed through them, each impact throwing snow into the air.
When he finally stopped, coughing blood into the snow, his lips curled into a grin. Laughter rolled from him in heavy, echoing bursts, each one shaking the branches above.
"Oh… it is you," he said, wiping his mouth. His grin widened. "Yes… yes!" His laughter grew louder, sharp as steel. "You shall join your sister today, Saint!"
Rigorus stepped into the treeline, his halo burning brighter, the snow at his feet beginning to steam.
"Then you've walked into your grave," he said, his voice cold enough to freeze the air between them.