Shadows of the Past and Wounds of the Soul
Through the window of a spacious chamber, raindrops fell in an endless rhythm. The kingdom of Averford had awakened once more without the grace of sunlight—clouded skies loomed above, and its streets lay soaked beneath the morning drizzle. The erratic weather had returned overnight, as if Throme, lord of the sun, had long since forsaken this realm, unwilling to warm its people with his gentle light.
Ever since the fall of Aldelviewreld, the climate across the continent had been cast into disarray. In some homes, a singular scent of freshly brewed coffee escaped through the windows, its fragrant steam weaving between raindrops as it drifted through the streets, finding its way to the nostrils of caffeine lovers who longed for comfort amid the gloom.
In one of the most important chambers of Averford Castle, Princess Liliam held a meeting with a man clad in worn garments, his demeanor modest and respectful. Despite his humble appearance, the man maintained his composure before the princess.
"After all these years, Your Majesty, we finally completed the aqueduct reconstructions yesterday!" he announced, a flicker of pride in his voice.
"You and your people have proven far more devoted and capable than our queen ever anticipated," Liliam replied, offering him a warm, grateful smile that seemed to ease the weight he carried on his shoulders.
Liliam took up a piece of parchment and began to write, her expression alight with joy. The man before her was no ordinary laborer—he was a renowned builder, entrusted years ago with a critical task: to overhaul and expand the kingdom's aqueduct system. As the climate grew ever more unpredictable and the rains began to fall with greater fury, the streets of Averford had started to flood. The old drainage systems, strained and inadequate, could no longer cope with the sudden deluge, and many citizens suffered—not only from the damage to their homes, but from the illnesses that followed in the water's wake.
After five long years of tireless work, the goal had finally been achieved.
"This document," Liliam said, sealing the parchment with the royal insignia, "authorizes the guardian of our treasury to deliver a well-deserved and fair reward to you and every one of your workers."
She looked up at the man with sincere admiration. "One hundred and fifty gold coins for each of you—and a bonus of twenty silver coins as well."
Her words hung in the air like sunlight piercing through storm clouds, and the man's eyes shimmered—not with greed, but with the quiet pride of one who had rebuilt a kingdom, stone by stone.
"We are deeply grateful for your generosity, Your Majesty," the builder replied, bowing his head with reverence.
Liliam watched him with a gentle smile as she pressed the royal seal of House Bright onto the parchment, the wax still warm beneath her ring.
"No need for thanks," she said with warmth in her voice. "This is what rightfully belongs to you—for such exceptional work."
"Now go to the guardian of our treasury and present this document," she instructed, her tone both kind and resolute.
The man accepted the parchment with both hands, his fingers trembling slightly with emotion. With another respectful bow and a final expression of gratitude, he turned and departed, leaving the chamber with pride swelling quietly in his chest.
Liliam continued with her duties inside the tribute chamber of Averford Castle, her focus unwavering as she unfurled parchment after parchment, inspecting each with meticulous care. She was deep in the review of taxes—collected from citizens, merchants, and the hunters' guild—when a particular scroll caught her eye.
Upon reading it, her brow furrowed.
"Look at this!" she said, calling over to a young woman who was helping organize the documents beside her. "Another brawl in that same tavern—it's the second time in less than three months!" she emphasized, holding the parchment aloft.
The young woman burst into laughter, clearly amused.
"This isn't funny, girl!" Liliam chided, though her tone held more exasperation than true anger. "We'll have to increase the time spent in the cells for those who cause damage to these establishments. It's true they generate a fair amount of income—but with every tavern brawl, we end up investing three times as much in repairs and replacing lost goods!"
Her voice echoed in the chamber, not with bitterness, but with the weight of someone who understood that even small cracks in a kingdom's foundation, if left unchecked, could bring down its mightiest walls.
Their conversation was suddenly interrupted by a knock at the door. Liliam granted entry, and it was her son, Lon, who stepped into the chamber.
"You!" she exclaimed, a note of surprise in her voice. "What are you doing awake so early?"
"I've been up since before dawn, Mother," he replied softly.
Liliam beckoned him to her side and wrapped him in a gentle embrace, one that spoke more of comfort than words ever could.
"What's the matter, my boy?" she asked, sensing the unrest in his eyes.
"I can't stop thinking about what happened last night," Lon confessed. "Her Majesty was badly wounded… and the general—he barely made it back alive."
Liliam's expression darkened with thought, her gaze drifting as if searching for answers within the shadows of her mind.
Sensing the weight of the moment, the young assistant quietly gathered the remaining documents and excused herself, leaving mother and son alone in the solemn hush of the chamber.
"Listen to me, Lon," Liliam said, her voice firm yet laced with warmth. "Something far greater than we imagined is unfolding beyond our borders. The very fact that the kings who, only days ago, were our enemies now find refuge within these castle walls—that says everything."
She paused, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I don't want you to be afraid. Though… it's alright to feel fear. But for the sake of everyone, you must grow stronger."
Her words lingered in the silence that followed, sinking deep into the heart of the boy who stood before her.
Lon looked at his mother with quiet resolve. He reached out, gently brushing his fingers across her cheek before pressing a kiss to her forehead.
"I know, Mother… especially now that I've been outmatched in swordsmanship," he admitted.
"Truly?" she asked, a curious smile playing at her lips. "And who was it that managed to defeat you?"
"I was bested by Claire Sigrid," he replied.
The smile vanished from Liliam's face, and a wave of unease washed over Lon as he saw her expression shift.
"The eldest of the Sigrids… she defeated you?" the princess murmured, almost to herself. "But how?"
"She's the best swordswoman of our generation, Mother," Lon emphasized, trying to ease her growing concern.
"And what do you know of her brother, Kiett Sigrid?" she asked, her tone suddenly sharp with curiosity.
Lon blinked, surprised by the question, and took a moment to gather his thoughts.
"I don't know much about him," he admitted, "but his sister—she's unmatched with a blade."
Liliam fell silent again, her mind retreating into the depths of thought, entangled in duties, questions, and the weight of the names now circling through the tribute chamber.
Lon continued speaking, but she didn't respond.
"Mother!" he called, tapping her forehead gently with his index finger. "Where did you go just now?"
"Forgive me, my son," she said, snapping out of her reverie. "I was just thinking… it's time I taught you this craft."
She patted the seat beside her. "Come, sit with me."
Lon obeyed, taking his place at her side, the light of curiosity flickering behind his eyes.
―Meanwhile, in the tower chambers―
In the chambers above, Montecristo opened his eyes with the speed of a tortoise in a race. His mouth was parched, and as he raised his left hand, he noticed the bandages wrapped tightly around it—dampened to aid the healing of his scorched and newly regenerating skin. A faint tingling coursed through his right arm, and when he turned his head, he found Claire resting peacefully upon it, using it as a pillow.
He smiled faintly, brushing a hand through her hair before placing a tender kiss on her forehead.
In the far corner of the room, Kiett lay asleep in an awkward, twisted posture that looked anything but restful. Montecristo stared at him for a while, amused and curious, wondering how deep one's sleep had to be to find comfort in such a position.
Claire stirred. Her eyes fluttered open, and she noticed Joel wincing silently, trying not to move as discomfort pulsed through the arm she had unknowingly claimed.
"Uncle Joel! You're finally awake!" Claire exclaimed, throwing her arms around him in a tight embrace.
Her voice stirred Kiett from his slumber; he jolted upright, and as he shifted in the chair, every joint in his body cracked, producing a strange, rhythmic symphony of stiffness.
"Uncle! How are you feeling?" he asked, walking swiftly toward the bed.
"Like I've been trampled by a carriage pulled by eight horses… several times," Joel groaned, his voice dry but tinged with a trace of humor.
Claire was beaming, her joy so radiant it lit up the room. Her smile stretched from ear to ear, and her eyes sparkled with a childlike glow. Joel gazed at the siblings—those two precious lives—and a flood of emotion overwhelmed him. Nostalgia, guilt, love—they surged through him all at once, filling his emerald eyes with tears.
Kiett noticed, and without hesitation, took his uncle's bandaged hand and sat at his bedside.
"Uncle… why are you crying?" he asked softly.
"Forgive me, Kiett… please, forgive me, my son," Joel said, his voice breaking as he wept, unable to contain the sorrow that clung to his heart.
Claire's smile faltered, fading into concern as her eyes welled up in response to Joel's tears.
"What are you talking about? There's nothing to forgive, Uncle," Kiett replied gently, his voice steady despite the weight of emotion hanging in the air.
Montecristo struggled to sit up, and both Kiett and Claire rushed to his aid. Though his skin had been healed, the pain lingered, buried deep beneath the surface.
"What happened in Threnafell was my fault… I'm so sorry!" Joel exclaimed, his voice choked with anguish.
Claire leaned in, her hands gentle as she wiped the tears from his face and stroked his hair with sisterly affection.
"It's not your fault, Uncle," she whispered softly. "No one was prepared for something like that. And despite everything… we should be grateful we're still alive."
"You don't understand," Montecristo cried, the weight in his chest finally breaking free. "You two… you're the most precious things in my life—the children I was never able to have."
His words shattered the dam holding back their emotions. Both Kiett and Claire burst into tears, their sorrow and love spilling out in raw, unfiltered streams, as they clung to the man who had given them so much more than protection—he had given them a home, a heart, a family.
Claire embraced him tightly.
"And you are our father… our family!" she whispered with conviction.
Montecristo returned the embrace, his arms trembling as he held her close.
"Kiett… I was going to let you die in there," Joel confessed.
His words struck like a sudden chill, casting a heavy silence over the room. A strange, unspoken weight settled between them, shifting the air and darkening the light in their hearts.
Claire slowly pulled away from his embrace, her expression changing, her breath catching. Kiett, though visibly shaken, still held Joel's left hand—but his grip had loosened, uncertainty creeping in.
"What did you say?" Claire asked, her voice steady but laced with confusion and a tinge of fear. She looked at Joel, her eyes searching his face for some hint of clarity or reassurance.
"When Alistar arrived and told me what was happening," Joel said, voice low and burdened, "every part of me wanted to run to you—but I couldn't risk any more lives… I couldn't send more men to their deaths."
Kiett let go of Joel's hand and stood from the bed. He began to count each step as he walked toward the window, a quiet, methodical rhythm guiding him. Once there, he gazed out, fixating on the great height at which the room stood, as though searching for solace—or perhaps escape—within the distance of the view. He tried to lose himself in thought, but the weight of truth pressed too heavily.
"But you did enter Threnafell after I went in!" Claire argued, her voice sharp with conviction. "You conjured Rote Schicksal—we all saw it!"
Kiett remained silent.
Joel opened his mouth to speak, but Kiett cut him off.
"You went into Threnafell for Claire, not for me… isn't that right?" he demanded, turning around, his voice rising with restrained emotion.
"That's not true!" Claire cried out, stepping forward. "My life is not worth more than my brother's!"
Montecristo lowered his gaze, the weight of Kiett's words settling heavily on his shoulders. His silence said more than any excuse ever could.
"Uncle… why?" Claire asked, her voice trembling with anger and disbelief.
"I don't know!" he cried, his voice breaking. "I just… I didn't want to lose you. I didn't even know if Kiett was still alive, and if I couldn't save you both… at least I wanted to save you."
Montecristo's confession struck Kiett's heart like a dagger forged in flame, searing deep into his chest.
Without another word, Kiett turned away, murmuring a barely audible apology as he fled the room, his breath ragged as he fought to hold back the tears threatening to consume him.
Claire reached out to stop him, but her hand found only the air he left behind. He was already gone.
Claire turned to Joel, her eyes burning with frustration.
"You have no idea how much you mean to us!" she snapped. "Is that why you vanished after what happened? Is that it?"
Her voice trembled, anger and sorrow intertwining.
"You couldn't even look us in the eye… could you?" she finished, her words sharp and heavy with hurt.
Joel tried to sit up, his body still weak and stiff with pain. This time, Claire made no move to help him. She remained still, arms crossed, her silence louder than any protest. But as she watched him struggle, saw the way he winced and fought through every inch of movement, her anger slowly began to unravel, thread by thread.
At that moment, Cosette entered the room and took in the tense scene.
"Joel! What are you doing? You need to rest!" she scolded, rushing to his side with a mix of worry and disapproval.
"Leave me be, woman!" he barked, though not with cruelty. "I have to go to my son—now!"
Claire watched him, saw the fire behind his pain, the weight of guilt he could no longer carry lying down.
And though she still hurt, though her heart still ached for her brother, she couldn't help but understand. In some quiet, conflicted way, she understood why Joel had acted as he did. But she also knew—Kiett had every right to feel the way he did.
Kiett descended the gleaming staircase of the castle, each step carved so exquisitely it seemed forged from mirrors, polished to a near-blinding sheen. The beauty of the stairs stood in stark contrast to the sorrow weighing down his heart. With every footfall, a tear slipped from his eye, falling silently onto the glass-like steps, leaving behind a shimmering trail of grief.
He was lost in thought, consumed by the storm of emotion clouding his mind. So deep was his sorrow that he didn't notice the figure standing at the base of the tower until it was too late.
"Kiett Sigrid!" a female voice called out, firm but not unkind. "What's wrong? Why are you crying?"
TO BE CONTINUED…