~ ☆ ~
The silver moonlight did not offer warmth; it felt like a heavy shroud, pressing down on Arzel as he sank into the lightless depths of the lake.
As the cold water embraced his body, his memories—dark, jagged stains upon his soul—began to flicker before his eyes like a dying candle in a storm.
He remembered that day vividly. He had been walking through the bustling city streets, his clothes tattered and his spirit worn thin. To the passing crowds, he wasn't a living being; he was a walking curse, an entity that shouldn't exist.
The very air of the city seemed to recoil in loathing as he moved through it.
His exhausted limbs felt like lead, each movement a victory over the gravity that sought to pull him down. Suddenly, the cheerful laughter of two young men standing near a grand stone building struck his ears like a physical lash.
"Hey! Look at this beauty," one of them exclaimed, a radiant smile lighting up his face as he held up a shimmering, golden trinket. "I bought this for my daughter. Isn't it exquisite?"
"Oho! Truly a masterpiece," the second replied, leaning in to admire the craftsmanship. "I should consider getting one for my family as well."
Arzel paused for a fleeting heartbeat, his hollow blue eyes fixed on the dusty cobblestones. For a brief, agonizing second, he wondered what it felt like to hold something bought out of pure love.
But the dream was violently shattered.
"Hey, look at this freak," the first man sneered, his smile vanishing, replaced by a mask of cold disgust. He pointed a thumb at Arzel. "What are you searching for here, you repulsive brat? Your very presence is an eyesore."
"Don't loiter around here, you omen of misfortune," the second added, his nose wrinkling as if smelling something rotten. "You're making the very air feel stagnant and foul."
Arzel's eyes, as deep and turbulent as a midnight ocean, shifted away. He continued his path, but he didn't stop listening to their retreating voices.
"Anyway, where did you find such rare charms?" the first man asked, his tone returning to casual warmth as if Arzel was nothing more than a stray pebble on the road.
"The ancient artifact shop at the far end of the narrow alley," the second replied.
The narrow alley…
Arzel etched the location into his mind. Despite the agonizing throbbing in his legs, he redirected his steps toward that hidden corner of the city.
He reached the shop's entrance, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He pulled a handful of meager, tarnished coins from his pocket, gripping them so tightly in his wounded hands that his knuckles turned ghost-white.
He stepped inside. The shop was a sanctuary of the mundane and the magical, filled with an otherworldly atmosphere and shelves packed with mystical relics. Arzel ignored the wonders; his eyes were searching for something specific.
Finally, he saw it—a delicate, silver‑threaded hairpin resting inside a velvet‑lined glass case. It looked fragile, yet pure.
He carefully brought it to the counter, placing it alongside every single coin he possessed.
"Please… count these," he whispered, his voice dry and raspy. "I believe this should be enough."
The shopkeeper was hunched over a thick ledger, seemingly consumed by his work. "Just a moment!" he barked, not bothering to look up.
But when he finally straightened and saw the boy standing before him, his expression curdled into pure, unadulterated malice.
"You! What business does a monster like you have in my establishment? Get out of here, you wretched creature, before you taint my wares!"
Arzel's blue eyes seemed to sink even deeper into the darkness of his soul. The weight of the world's hatred felt like a mountain on his shoulders. He didn't argue. He didn't plead.
He was so accustomed to this poison that he simply turned and walked back into the cold street.
The shopkeeper chased him out, hurling the coins like stones at Arzel's retreating back. The metal clinked and clattered against the stone, a sharp, insulting sound that followed him into the shadows.
"Take your filth with you! Everything your shadow touches turns to ash!"
Then came the hairpin. It sailed through the air, tumbling into the dirt like a discarded scrap of metal.
Arzel ignored the stinging pain of the coins striking his skin. He knelt, picking up the hairpin with trembling fingers. He wiped the dust from the delicate silver with a tenderness that defied his surroundings, then moved on.
The sun was hemorrhaging gold and crimson across the horizon, its light fading just like Arzel's flickering hope. He finally reached the colossal, iron-bound gates of the castle. Looking up at its cold, indifferent grandeur, he let out a long, jagged sigh that felt as if it tore his chest open.
As he dragged his battered body through the dimly lit corridors, his gaze remained fixed on the silver in his palm. He was so lost in the echoes of his own thoughts that he never saw the strike coming.
A heavy, steel-toed boot slammed into his ribs with bone-chilling force.
The impact sent Arzel skidding across the floor, his body crashing violently against the cold stone wall. He gasped for air, a sharp cough racking his frame as his vision blurred.
Standing over him in polished, ceremonial armor was a young knight, his face twisted in lethal arrogance.
"How does a piece of trash like you have the audacity to stand before the Princess?" the knight sneered, his voice dripping with disdain.
Arzel's inner fire flared with a sudden, sharp rage, but his eyes frantically searched the floor. The hairpin!
It lay inches away from the knight's boot. As Arzel reached out with a shaking hand, the knight deliberately brought his heavy heel down.
The sound of the delicate silver being crushed echoed through the silent hall like a scream.
Arzel's expression went deathly still. A cold, suffocating aura began to leak from his pores, filling the corridor with a sudden, unnatural chill that made the air itself feel heavy.
In a blur of motion that defied his injuries, Arzel spun on the ground. His leg connected with the knight's ankle in a lightning-fast sweep. Before the man could even register what had happened, Arzel had reclaimed the mangled hairpin.
The knight, humiliated and trembling with fury, unsheathed his blade. The sharp, metallic ring of the sword filled the hall as it left the scabbard.
"I'll carve that insolence right out of your heart, you little monster!"
"Please! Forgive him! I beg of you!"
A desperate voice cut through the tension. Mithian rushed forward, throwing her arms around Arzel, shielding his broken body with her own.
Behind the knight, the Princess stood watching the scene like a bored spectator.
"Put your sword away, Guardian," she said, her voice laced with mockery. "After all, our 'dear' Princess Mithian is personally begging for mercy."
The knight sheathed his blade and gave a stiff, mocking bow.
"I hope you keep him on a tighter leash, Your Highness. Otherwise… next time, I shall be forced to finish what I started."
As they strutted away, their laughter echoing in the hollow hall, Arzel stared at their backs with eyes filled with a terrifying, silent hatred.
Mithian, who had been starved of her son's presence for so long, pressed him tightly to her chest. Her soft, trembling hands stroked his hair, trying to smooth away the pain.
"Arzel…" she whispered, her voice a fragile melody of love and sorrow.
These bitter, razor-sharp memories clawed at Arzel's heart as he continued to sink toward the lightless bottom of the lake. His emotions and his very soul were drowning alongside him, deeper into the dark.
As Arzel drifted away like a leaf carried by a cold, mourning wind, he was severed forever from the world of the living.
No matter how hard Mithian struggled, she was powerless before the monster in human skin.
She fought until her strength failed, but she could do nothing to stop him. Broken by despair, she did not stop crying for her son, her chest heaving with heartbroken sobs that echoed uselessly against the stone walls.
Malakar seized her, throwing Mithian onto the silk-draped bed with a dull thud.
"Do not rush to join your son," he said, a cunning, predatory smirk twisting his lips.
Her exquisite long hair and her light ivory dress, illuminated by the cold moonlight, shimmered as they cascaded onto the bed like weightless, dying feathers.
Malakar cast his luxurious black-and-white cloak onto the floor. He stepped toward the bed, his footsteps heavy and deliberate on the dark wood.
"I hope you will please me tonight," he whispered, his voice thick with a repulsive, raw lust.
Mithian's gaze flickered to a dagger embedded in the wall, only inches from the bed. With a desperate lunge, she reached for it.
But Malakar was faster. He seized her slender wrist in an iron grip, his fingers bruising her skin.
He pinned both her arms above her head, his massive body crushing her into the mattress. Lust contorted his features into a mask of madness. He leaned closer, greedily inhaling the fragrance of her silver hair.
Mithian lay trapped beneath his weight, her hands bound by his grip. Soft, plaintive sounds escaped her—a broken whimper, a silent plea for him to stop.
Consumed by desire, Malakar buried his face in the curve of her luminous neck.
"How beautiful you are… what a scent…" he rasped hoarsely, his breath hot and frantic.
Mithian was helpless. Her gentle moans grew thinner, taking on a quality of pure, absolute desperation.
"Please! No!.. Don't!" she pleaded, her voice a fragile thread.
The obsession had so clouded Malakar's mind that he released her hands, reaching for her waist with a trembling, lustful tenderness.
With her hands suddenly free, Mithian immediately clawed toward the dagger. Her fingertips brushed the hilt, but she fell just short.
Immersed in his own depravity, Malakar noticed nothing, his breath coming in excited, jagged gasps.
Mithian strained, every muscle in her body screaming. And then, at last, her fingers closed around the cold metal.
The dagger left the wall with a sharp, ringing clink.
In the same instant, she swung. She struck Malakar across the face with every ounce of her remaining strength.
He tried to recoil, but he was too slow. The blade sliced horizontally just below his eye, a spray of hot, dark blood erupting in all directions. It splashed across the silken sheets; it spattered Mithian's face like crimson rain.
Malakar stared in horror at his blood-soaked hand, his eyes widening in a shock that bordered on insanity.
"MY FACE!" he shrieked, the sound tearing through the silent chamber.
His features twisted into something so hideous, so filled with rage, that Mithian's heart nearly stopped. She stared at him with wide, fear-filled eyes, as if a demon had finally ripped off its human skin.
An ominous, suffocating silence fell.
Consumed by a black, blinding fury, Malakar snatched the dagger from her hand. He drove the blade into Mithian's chest.
A gurgled, broken cry escaped her lips.
"A-a-a!" he screamed in a frenzy, striking again and again.
Then, he froze.
Time itself seemed to stop. The only sound left in the world was the steady, rhythmic drip... drip... drip... of blood hitting the floor.
Mithian's moans grew fainter, like a dying candle's flame flickering out in the dark.
Malakar paused, his chest heaving. Suddenly, he pressed her cooling body to his chest and began to weep—a deep, agonized, hysterical sob that sounded like a wounded animal.
Blood oozing from the gash on his face stained her silver hair a deep, permanent crimson.
After a brief, madness-fueled sob, Malakar seized Mithian by that long, graceful hair. He dragged her lifeless body across the floor toward the balcony, the sound of her dress rustling against the wood a haunting whisper.
He hauled her to the edge—to the very spot where he had cast Arzel down. Without a hint of mercy left in his soul, he hurled her into the lake below.
The water broke with a heavy splash as she fell in the light of the enormous, uncaring moon.
In mid-air, a beautiful hairpin—shaped like a bird with two long, narrow tail-feathers—came loose and drifted away from her falling body. Yet, in a final, instinctive movement, Mithian's hand snatched it from the void, her fingers closing tightly around the spheres at the tips of its silver tails.
She held the bird-shaped ornament against her heart as the dark waters claimed her too.
"Mother…! Arzel!.." she whispered.
The words were so faint, so fragile, that they were lost to the wind before they could even leave her lips.
The great moon, reflected on the surface of the lake, shuddered as the water broke. Its silver light fractured into a thousand pieces before vanishing into the dark, rippling depths alongside her.
Malakar watched the fall from the castle balcony, his eyes dead and hollow. Like a man who had finally lost his mind to the shadows, he slowly turned away.
His footsteps echoed with a haunting, empty thud as he wandered back inside, the door creaking on its hinges like a groan of the castle itself.
~ ☆ ~