The estate that had once roared with life was now silent.
No clang of steel from the training yards. No laughter of servants in the gardens. No warm calls of cooks from the kitchens. The sprawling ducal grounds, once a monument to prosperity, lay in ruin—blood stains on walls, broken doors dangling by their hinges, the faint stench of death carried still by the wind though the storm had passed.
Of all who had lived here—hundreds of soldiers, retainers, servants, kin—fewer than ten remained. Survivors. Shattered fragments of a dynasty. And of those, most had already scattered. Some fled in fear, unwilling to shoulder the burden of a doomed house. Some whispered apologies and vanished into the night. The loyalty that once held them together was brittle; fear outweighed honor.
In the end, only one stayed.
Her name was Elara. A maid barely sixteen, still more a girl than a woman. Her parents had both worked in the estate—her father among the stable hands, her mother a seamstress for the duchess. But now they lay among the countless dead. Elara had lived only because of cruel chance—she had been away on the night of the massacre, given a day's leave to visit a relative. Fate had spared her, though it left her utterly alone.
She stood now in Alex's ruined chamber, clutching a small wooden tray, upon which sat a vial of medicine she had bartered desperately from a village apothecary. Her hands trembled as she stepped forward.
"Young master…" Her voice cracked, soft and uncertain, yet filled with determination. She set the tray upon the table beside his bed. "Please take this medicine. It will… it will help your wounds heal."
Alex sat propped against a wall, his complexion pale, his breathing shallow. The bandages at his side were stained through. His crimson eyes flicked toward her, tired and distant. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, slowly, he reached for the vial.
But his gaze lingered on her face, and his lips parted. "Elara… you don't have to force yourself to come here." His voice was rough, weakened but firm. "You've lost everything too. Your parents… your home. You should grieve them, not burden yourself with me. Visiting their graves must already weigh on you."
Elara's lips quivered. Tears shimmered in her eyes, but she shook her head stubbornly. "No, young master." Her voice broke but steadied again. "My parents swore that our family would serve House Ardent until our last breath. They gave their lives to that vow. And even though… even though you are the last one left…" She swallowed, her tears spilling freely now. "I will fulfill their oath. I will serve you. Not because I am forced, but because it is all I have left."
Her words struck Alex like a blade to the heart. He wanted to tell her to leave, to save herself, but her eyes—red with grief yet burning with loyalty—silenced him.
He said nothing more. He took the medicine and drank it in silence, the bitter liquid burning down his throat.
Time passed in heavy stillness, broken only by the patter of rain outside. Alex stared at the ceiling, his mind a storm of grief and emptiness. Elara sat quietly nearby, her hands folded tightly, her shoulders trembling from silent sobs she tried to suppress.
At last, Alex broke the silence. His voice was soft, almost a whisper. "Elara… help me up. I need to go."
She blinked, startled. "Go? Where?"
"To the graves." His crimson eyes glimmered faintly in the candlelight. "I must see my parents… and you can visit yours."
Elara hesitated, then nodded. She rose and moved to his side, slipping his arm across her shoulders. Though her frame was slight, she bore his weight as best she could. He leaned against her, his steps slow, each movement laced with pain. Together they walked through the desolate corridors, past the shattered remains of their once-proud home.
The path to the graveyard was eerily quiet. The air was heavy, filled with the faint scent of wet earth and death. Broken lanterns lined the walkway, their flames long extinguished.
At last, they reached the Ardent family graveyard—a sacred place where generations of dukes, duchesses, and kin had been laid to rest. The old stone markers stood in solemn rows, their inscriptions weathered by time. And now, among them, fresh graves had been dug hastily.
Alex's eyes fell upon two new markers side by side. His knees buckled, and he collapsed before them.
"Father… Mother…" His voice cracked as he pressed his hands into the wet soil. His chest heaved, his body wracked with sobs he could no longer hold back. "Why… why did it end like this? Why was I left behind, when you… when all of you…"
His cries echoed through the graveyard, raw and broken. For more than an hour, he wept, the weight of grief finally breaking through his pride.
Behind him, Elara stood quietly. She had found her parents' graves too—simple, unmarked stones among the servants' section. She gazed at them with red, swollen eyes. But she did not weep as Alex did. Her tears had dried into silence.
After a long while, she stepped forward and laid a gentle hand upon Alex's shoulder. "Young master… please don't cry. Your wounds… your body cannot endure this."
Alex lifted his head, his face streaked with tears. His gaze turned toward her. She was standing before her parents' graves, but she did not weep as he did. She had suffered the same loss—yet she bore it with quiet strength.
Shame washed over him. He wiped his tears roughly with the back of his hand. "…Thank you, Elara. You are stronger than I am."
She offered him a faint smile, though her lips trembled. She said nothing more.
Silence lingered. The sky above darkened as clouds gathered once more, the air heavy with the promise of another storm.
Slowly, Alex reached into his robe and pulled out a dagger—one of the few possessions he still had left. The blade was chipped and weathered, but sharp enough.
Elara's eyes widened as he brought it to his hand. "Young master, what are you doing?"
He did not answer. With steady resolve, he drew the blade across his palm. Blood welled, dripping steadily. He pressed his hand over the cold stone of his parents' graves, letting the crimson stain the surface.
His face, no longer twisted with grief, hardened into fury and determination. His voice was steady now, though raw.
"Father, Mother… Ancestors of House Ardent… I, Alex, the last of your blood, swear before your graves. I will not forgive. I will not forget. Those who destroyed our home, those who slaughtered our kin—I will uproot them from this kingdom's map, never to be seen again."
The blood dripped faster, running down the carved names upon the stone. His crimson eyes blazed as he lifted his gaze to the darkened sky.
"I will forge rivers of blood. I will raise mountains of corpses. And I will carve our name into eternity once more. This, I swear upon my life and my blood."
Thunder rumbled overhead, and lightning flashed across the horizon, as though the heavens themselves had heard and opposed his vow.
But Alex did not waver. Even as the storm gathered above, his vow echoed into the night, defiant and unyielding.
And in the silence that followed, Elara whispered softly behind him. "Then… I will follow you, young master. To whatever end."
The oath was made. The storm had begun.