The Weight of the Past
Kael stood frozen screaming inwardly as the book lay open in his hands, but the words blurred together as his mind refused to process what he had just read.
Jack Smith. Han Cobblesman. Constance.
Names he knew. Names of people he had once guided, saved, and taught. Names of people who had admired him, respected him, and followed him even when he told them not to.
His fingers curled around the pages, trembling. His chest felt tight, like a heavy chain was wrapped around his ribs, squeezing the air out of him.
Every single one of them had fought and died trying to clear his name. They had battled against gods, against fate itself, just to prove the truth.
A sharp pain stabbed through his heart. His breath hitched as memories flooded in.
They were just small kids with bright, hopeful eyes tugging at his sleeve, begging him to show them his skills.
Warriors once filled with hate, later standing beside him, trusting him with their lives.
Women whose lives he had saved, sneaking shy glances at him trying to support him.
But had pushed them all away. For their own good.
He never wanted followers. He never wanted anyone to admire him. He didn't deserve it.
But they had fought anyway against the churches to bring the truth only to be labelled as heretics.
His hands clenched into fists, the edges of the book digging into his skin. His body trembled with anger, sorrow, and something he couldn't even name.
His heart felt like it was being torn apart.
He had lost many before. Comrades. Friends. Strangers. He had seen death more times than he could count. But this was different.
They died trying to prove his innocence.
He should be angry. He should scream and curse the gods, curse fate, curse the world that twisted his story into a lie.
But all he felt was loss.
He wanted to scream and break something but he did none of those things.
Slowly, with numb fingers, he closed the book.
His empty gaze drifted to the window. The world outside was the same peaceful, untouched, uncaring. It moved on, just like it had after his death.
But inside him, everything was breaking.
His lips parted, his voice barely above a whisper.
Lightning tore through the sky, shaking the earth with its fury. The once-pristine training grounds of the Veydrin estate lay in disarray, the darkened sky casting an eerie crimson glow over the land. It was as if the heavens themselves mourned the chaos brewing within.
Deep inside the mansion's basement, where the air was thick with the stench of blood and fear, Rami stood in silence. His gloved hands, soaked in crimson, dripped onto the cold stone floor. With a flick of his wrist, he discarded them, his gaze fixed on the twisted, broken figures before him.
Their bodies were no longer recognizable.
Swollen, battered flesh barely clung to their bones, deep gashes ran along their limbs, and bruises painted their skin in violent shades of purple and red.
Regalina fingers had been twisted unnaturally, her once-perfect face now looked like grotesque mask of agony. Blood seeped from her cracked lips, but even as she lay unconscious, her eyes weren't speaking.
Henna fared no better. Her wrists were shattered, her hair matted with sweat and gore. Her whimpers were barely audible, her body convulsing every few moments as if her very soul was trying to escape the torment.
Rami sighed, wiping his hands on a cloth before straightening his coat. His voice was low, almost devoid of emotion.
"I understand your grievance. Being a servant of the upper class, we always strive to rise, to ride on our master's coattails, or switch allegiances for our own gain, but..."
His eyes darkened with a glint of coldness flashing within them.
"You shouldn't have crossed the line. No matter how useless you think he is, he still bears the name Veydrin. Even if he were to rebel, he cannot be executed without a proper trial. So who are you to frame him?"
For a brief moment, a flicker of pity crossed his face, but it vanished just as quickly. Servants had the right to be greedy, but they needed to know their place.
Without another glance at the mutilated bodies, Rami turned and ascended the staircase, emerging into the dimly lit hall where Duke Ruth stood waiting. The Grand Duke's presence was suffocating. The cigar in his hand burned slowly, the faint tendrils of smoke curling around him like shadows. His sharp, predatory eyes gleamed under the chandelier's flickering light.
Rami stepped forward, bowing deeply.
"My Duke," he said, his voice steady. "The matter has been handled accordingly."
Ruth gave a faint nod, acknowledging the report without a word. His gaze lingered on Rami, sharp as a blade, assessing.
Breaking the silence, Rami continued, his tone unchanging.
"Despite the torture, Regalina has not named anyone. She remains unconscious, but we will continue questioning her once she wakes."
Ruth exhaled a plume of smoke, his expression unreadable.
"She claimed she was tired of serving a useless master who could do nothing but act as a puppet. She was mocked and ridiculed among the servants."
Rami's lips curled ever so slightly in distaste. "Henna knew little, only that Regalina instructed her to seduce the Young Master. Once the audience was present, she was to scream, protest, and beg for your justice."
Ruth's fingers tightened around his cigar. His voice was low, almost amused.
"A plan to ruin his reputation completely. To paint him as a molester."
His cold gaze flickered with something unreadable before he took another long drag. The embers flared.
"Continue the torture," he ordered. "After the confinement, tell him to meet me."
He turned on his heel, his long coat billowing behind him as he strode down the grand hallway. The heels of his boots clicked against the marble floor, each step echoing like a death toll.
As he neared the far end of the hall, he muttered to himself, his voice barely audible but dripping with intrigue.
"It seems the youngest is finally trying something interesting.