The room was too quiet. Too still. The guards' words rang in his ears over and over, echoing endlessly in his head like a curse, like a cruel joke. But no matter how many times he told himself it couldn't be true, no matter how many ways he tried to reason with it, nothing changed.
At first, Rowan didn't cry. He just went still. Numb. She was gone.
He remembered stumbling forward, begging to see her just once, but the man refused coldly. Rowan lashed out, anger snapping through the haze, only to be shoved back like he was nothing. A second later, the heavy door closed. The footsteps faded. And that was it. His world had fallen apart in a single moment.
The next few days passed in a fog. He didn't leave his room, didn't eat, didn't move, didn't speak. He just lay on his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, drowning in silence. Time lost meaning. Days bled into each other. What was the point of training now? Of getting stronger? She was gone. The only reason he'd endured everything—the humiliation, the isolation, the pain—was to one day walk back to her side and say, I did it. Now he would never get that chance.
On the fourth day, something inside him cracked.
He dragged himself to the training yard. His sword felt heavier than before, his hands trembling as he lifted it. He tried to swing once, twice, then stopped. The blade fell from his fingers, clattering against the ground. He stood there for a long time, staring down at it, then turned and walked away. He returned to bed, and stayed there.
The grief hollowed him. The silence screamed.
House Vexlaar had taken his mother from him. They were the reason she was imprisoned in the first place. They were the ones who used her as a pawn. And now she was dead.
"She told me she was fine…" He remembered her smile, her soft voice, the way she held him like everything would be okay. They lied. They let her die. Or worse, they killed her.
The pain in his chest twisted into something darker. Sharper. Pure hatred.
He sat up slowly, the cold light of early morning spilling across the floor. If she had been taken from him, if someone had stolen her life, then he couldn't let this go. But if he wanted to find the truth, if he wanted revenge, he had to become stronger. Much stronger.
Two days later, Rowan stood in the training yard again. This time, his grip on the sword was firm. He swung until his arms ached. Then he kept going. He trained every day, alone. Without instruction. Without rest. His eyes held something colder now, sharper. There were no outbursts, no yelling. Just quiet, endless repetition. Strike. Parry. Block. Step. Again.
Six months slipped by, and Rowan was eleven now.
He had returned to Glavenreach Woods to train. He slept less, ate only when he had to. Some days, he didn't speak a single word. He didn't want to. Glavenreach had become his second home. The beasts there grew easier to fight. His movements became sharper, quicker, more precise. Even without formal instruction, he could feel it. He was growing stronger.
This morning was no different. He packed his worn gear and headed to the woods. As he approached the outer estate gate, he heard laughter.
Three boys stood waiting. Gaven. Jorren. Malik.
He hadn't seen them in months.
Gaven stepped forward, smirking. "Oh, Little Rowan. I suddenly remembered—you promised us six gold coins if we helped you find out about your dear mother. Three before, three after."
Rowan stopped. "...Wait here," he said quietly. "I'll go get it."
Gaven raised an eyebrow. "Now it's six. It's been months, remember? With interest."
Rowan met his eyes for a moment, then nodded. "Alright."
That caught them off guard.
Gaven blinked, then laughed. "Hah! Don't worry, we'll come with you. Make sure you don't forget."
By now, it was clear. They weren't here for coins. They were here to torment him again, just like always.
As they followed him, their words started."Still not coming to the training grounds, Nerathali?""What happened to your dream of becoming a knight, rat?""Guess being useless finally got to him."
Rowan kept walking.
But then Jorren said it.
"We heard your little Nerathali mother died in prison like a dog."
The world went silent. Rowan stopped walking. The air itself seemed to still. The wind no longer moved the trees. Even the sun felt colder.
He turned slowly, deliberately, and before anyone could speak, his fist slammed into Jorren's face with a sickening crack.
Blood exploded from Jorren's nose as he stumbled backward, crashing into the dirt, screaming.
"What the hell!?" Gaven shouted, stepping back in shock. "You finally got some guts, huh?!"
But Rowan didn't answer. He was already moving again.
He launched himself at Gaven with a roar, fury erupting like a dam bursting. He tackled him to the ground, fists flying, one strike, then two, then five, hammering into Gaven's face until his lip split and his eyes rolled.
Gaven managed to scream, "Get him off!" but Rowan didn't stop.
A knee cracked against Gaven's ribs. Another punch to the side of his jaw left him choking on blood.
Malik tried to pull him away from behind, but Rowan twisted violently, grabbed him by the collar, and slammed his head into Malik's nose. Malik reeled back, dazed, and Rowan took the chance to drive his fist into the boy's stomach. Malik folded forward. Then a savage elbow crashed down on the back of Malik's neck. He collapsed, wheezing.
Jorren was crawling away, leaving a red trail on the stone path.
Rowan turned on him next.
"Rowan—!" Jorren screamed, raising his arms to shield his face.
But Rowan didn't care. He grabbed Jorren by the shirt and dragged him up just to smash him down again. His fists rained down, raw, merciless.
"You don't get to talk about her," Rowan hissed, voice trembling with rage. A punch to the gut. "You don't get to speak her name." Another to the jaw. "She trusted me." Another. "She thought she'd live." He hit him again. And again. His knuckles split. Blood wasn't just theirs anymore. "You all laughed while she suffered!"
Jorren didn't respond. None of them did now. They were still breathing, but barely.
By now, Gaven lay unmoving, face swollen and slick with blood. Malik groaned faintly, twitching. Jorren's face was almost unrecognizable, puffy, red, smeared with blood and tears.
And Rowan still wasn't done.
He stood over them, chest heaving, vision blurred with rage and pain. His arms trembled. His breath was ragged. His mind was a blur of his mother's smile, her voice telling him she was fine, the day the guard said she was gone. Gone. Just like that.
He raised his bloodied fist again.
"Enough!"
Shouts rang out from down the path. Guards sprinted in, pulling Rowan away with force.
"Stop, boy! You'll kill them!"
Rowan didn't resist at first. He stood there, fists clenched, body shaking.
One guard shoved him hard, snapping him back to reality. "Go home. And don't leave the estate until this gets investigated."
Rowan didn't respond. He didn't even look at them.
He glanced one last time at the three bodies crumpled on the ground, then turned and walked away in silence, blood dripping from his fingers, fury still burning in his chest.
He returned home, clothes torn, hands bruised, and knuckles caked in dried blood. His breathing had evened out, but the fire in his chest still smoldered.
He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his hands. He didn't regret it. Not a single strike. His only regret was that he hadn't killed them. Those worms who dared spit on his mother's name, who dared mock her death like it meant nothing, they should have died screaming.
The rage simmered beneath his skin, steady and silent, coiling in his gut like a serpent waiting for the next flicker of movement. But the storm passed eventually, retreating behind a cold stillness.
Then came the knock.
Three slow raps on the door, firm and deliberate.
Rowan stood, wiping his hands on a cloth without breaking his gaze from the door.
When he opened it, a butler stood waiting, flanked by four armed guards in polished black and crimson armor, House Vexlaar's elite.
The butler's expression was unreadable, eyes flicking down briefly to the bruises on Rowan's fists.
"You are summoned," the man said calmly. "By the Duke himself. He awaits in the main hall."
Rowan didn't flinch. He simply nodded, voice quiet. "I'll come."
The guards stepped aside as he followed, his footsteps echoing down the silent corridor.
Whatever this was about, punishment, interrogation, spectacle, he didn't care. Let them beat him. Let them try.
He was done bowing his head. He was done staying quiet. Now they could deal with what they created.