After burying Thoren's lifeless body, Nujah returned home.
His face was blank.
His emotions—blurred, unreachable.
Had he forgotten how to feel?
Or did he simply know that if he let himself feel, even for a moment, he would fall apart?
The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
Just as he reached the stairs, a faint sound reached him—muffled crying behind a locked door.
Lyra's room.
He stepped closer, knocked softly.
> "Lyra? Open the door. I just want to talk."
Silence.
Then, a trembling whisper between sobs:
> "Go away…"
> "Please. I just—"
> "I DON'T WANT YOU! I DON'T WANT ANY OF YOU!"
Her words cut like blades.
But Nujah didn't move.
He stood there in silence, one hand resting lightly against the cold wood.
Then, with a heavy breath, he turned and walked away.
As he moved through the empty corridor toward the family salon, only one thought kept echoing in his mind:
> "Something's wrong. Terribly wrong. And I still don't know everything."
---
He reached Zirelda's door just as the tailor stepped out, looking pleased with himself.
Nujah knocked and entered.
Zirelda stood by the mirror, adjusting the folds of an ornate gown. Cassar lounged on the divan with a glass of wine. The air smelled of perfume and pride.
Without raising her eyes, Zirelda said:
> "The garments?"
Nujah stepped forward and handed them over. Then he spoke, voice low but clear:
> "Thoren… is dead."
The room froze for a moment.
The tailor stopped moving.
Cassar slowly turned his head.
Zirelda blinked once, then sighed—almost wistfully.
> "What a pity. He was fun to break."
Nujah's jaw clenched.
> "Who… are these garments for?" he asked carefully.
Zirelda's eyes snapped to him.
Without hesitation, she slapped him hard across the face.
His head snapped to the side.
> "Don't concern yourself with matters that don't belong to you," she hissed. "Unless you want to end up like your pathetic brother."
Nujah didn't flinch.
> "She's six years old," he said, voice rising with restrained rage. "Six."
Zirelda's fingers curled around her cane. Her arm lifted to strike—
But the door swung open.
Vareth.
He stepped in with the confidence of a prince and the coldness of a butcher.
> "Enough," he said flatly. "Lord Alvaren Deyros will be here soon with his guard. I won't have blood on the rugs."
Zirelda rolled her eyes but lowered the cane.
Vareth marched to Nujah, grabbed him by the hair, and shoved him toward the hallway.
> "Go. Do what you always do in that little hole you call a room."
Zirelda adjusted the sleeves of her gown and whispered to Cassar:
> "Now there are only three children left."
The door closed behind Nujah.
Then—
a distant announcement, echoing from the courtyard below:
> "In celebration of Lady Seren Valinea, sister to King Arthur, a festival shall be held this day. All citizens welcome."
Nujah's breath caught in his throat.
> "Seren Valinea… If anyone in this cursed land can help, it's her."
---
He ran.
Back to his room—
Lifted the mattress—
Beneath it, the wooden decoy he had crafted for moments like this: a false Nujah, shaped and clothed to fool anyone passing by.
He covered it, placed an empty bottle on the floor as if discarded in sleep, and threw on his cloak.
He quietly slipped out of the house and blended into the morning crowd.
---
The crowd had already gathered outside the Church of Calvenhold.
Hundreds of citizens, all hoping for a glimpse of the High Sister.
Nujah couldn't wait in line.
There wasn't time.
He moved through the shadows behind the church—
Found a side wall—
Climbed.
His arms burned, legs ached, but he made it to the upper window.
Inside: a private study.
Seren Valinea sat writing calmly at her desk. Two guards stood at attention.
Nujah slipped in silently.
The wooden floor creaked.
Then, without hesitation, he dropped to his knees, hands behind his head, and shouted:
> "I'm not an assassin! Please—this is a life or death matter!"
Both guards turned instantly, spears drawn and leveled at his throat.
> "DOWN! NOW!"
But he was already down, forehead pressed to the floor.
> "Please… I beg you. Just hear me out…"
Seren looked up slowly.
Beneath the veil of her black habit, her eyes locked onto the boy trembling on the ground.
He wasn't just afraid.
There was belief in his voice.
A raw, desperate kind of truth.
She raised one hand—graceful, firm.
The guards paused, then stepped back.
Nujah didn't rise.
He kept speaking, breathless.
> "My name is Nujah. I was born into the Vantess family… but I am not one of them."
> "I buried my brother today. They're preparing my little sister for marriage. She's six."
> "I don't have time. My family will stop me. Whatever it takes."
> "They say you are the only one in this kingdom who still believes in justice."
> "Please… Just listen to me. Once. That's all I ask."
> "If you wish to punish me after, I'll accept it. But first—please—help me."
Silence.
Then Seren turned to the guards.
> "Leave us."
The doors shut behind them.
She stood.
Her robe, stitched with gold, swept softly across the floor. Her presence—like wind in candlelight.
She stepped toward Nujah.
Knelt before him.
Lifted his chin gently with one hand.
> "Look into my eyes."
Nujah met her gaze.
And in that moment…
She knew.
He was telling the truth.