“…Yes, Allen.”
The soft, almost ethereal whisper of my mother’s voice reached me, a sound that, for weeks, had been a stranger to my ears.
It was a simple phrase, yet it struck me with the force of a physical blow, leaving me breathless, my lungs suddenly refusing to draw air.
A suffocating mixture of shock and an almost unbearable surge of hope welled within my chest.
I felt as if my heart, which had been a leaden weight for so long, had abruptly been set free, only to leap wildly against my ribs.
The scent of sterile medicine, a constant companion in her chamber, seemed to momentarily dissipate, replaced by the faint, familiar fragrance of her skin, a scent I had desperately missed.
My limbs, which had felt heavy and unresponsive from the ceaseless vigil, now moved with a surprising urgency.
I pushed myself up from the edge of the bed, the rustle of the sheets a loud disturbance in the otherwise hushed room, and instinctively took a step, then another, drawn towards the frail figure standing near the window, bathed in the pale moonlight.
Each step felt like a pilgrimage, a journey of countless anxieties culminating in this singular, fragile moment.
“Are you conscious? Are you… better now?”
My voice, typically firm and resonant, was thin, almost reedy, a testament to the raw emotion that threatened to overwhelm me.
My eyes, which had grown accustomed to the shadowed, vacant depths of hers, now searched frantically for any flicker of recognition, any spark of the mother I knew and loved.
The air itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting for her response, and the silence that followed, though brief, stretched into an eternity, filled only with the frantic drumming of my own heart.
Then, she spoke, her voice still quiet, but remarkably clear.
“Strangely, today my mind is so clear. It’s been a long time since I’ve had such a refreshing night.”
Her words were like a cool balm on my parched soul, a soothing melody after a discordant symphony of fear.
A profound sense of relief washed over me, so potent that my knees threatened to buckle beneath me.
The weight of weeks, perhaps even months, of relentless worry, of waking nightmares and waking dread, seemed to lift, allowing me to draw a deep, shaky breath, the first truly unfettered breath I had taken in what felt like an age.
“Really, really, thankfully, Mother…!”
The words tumbled out, unbidden, heartfelt. My throat tightened, and my eyes, which I, as Crown Prince, had been trained to keep dry in the face of adversity, stung with unshed tears.
“Do you know how worried I’ve been? Fearing I might lose you…”
The last phrase was a mere whisper, choked back by the lump forming in my throat.
The thought of losing her, of facing a world without her guiding presence, had been a constant, chilling specter, haunting my every waking moment and invading my fleeting dreams.
Her gaze, which had been distant for so long, now sharpened, meeting mine with a flicker of her old firmness.
“Stop crying, Allen. To shed tears so easily as the Crown Prince of a nation. You’re still far from ascending the throne.”
Her admonition, though gentle, was a stark reminder of my duties, my position.
It was the voice of the Empress, the woman who had guided me through my youth, instilling in me the principles of leadership and fortitude.
Yet, beneath the slight chiding, I could discern a thread of concern, a subtle softness that belied her words.
“I am still lacking. There is much I need to learn from you, Mother.”
I lowered my gaze, a sense of genuine humility washing over me.
Despite my training, despite my accomplishments, I felt utterly inadequate in the face of her suffering, in the face of the unknown forces that had gripped her mind.
There were lessons she possessed, not just of statecraft and diplomacy, but of resilience and wisdom, that I still desperately needed to absorb.
That night, the chamber, usually a place of silent, tense watch, transformed.
Mother and I talked, the conversation flowing between us like a long-dammed river finally released.
We spoke of mundane things, of the palace affairs, of distant lands, but beneath the surface, there was a deeper current.
Shamefully, like a child who had held too many burdens, I poured out my deepest worries, the anxieties that had gnawed at me in the lonely hours of the day, concerns I could never voice in the structured formality of court.
I spoke of the burden of leadership, the fears for her health, the gnawing uncertainty of our future.
Mother listened patiently, her gaze steady, her expression serene.
She didn’t interrupt, didn’t offer platitudes.
She simply absorbed my torrent of confessions, her quiet presence a profound comfort.
It was the most normal, most reassuring interaction we had shared in what felt like an eternity.
The image of her sitting there, truly present, truly listening, was a stark contrast to the hollow-eyed, distant figure I had grown accustomed to.
‘What a relief. Mother is maintaining her full consciousness at night… If it continues like this, she might truly get better later.’
A fragile, yet potent, hope began to bloom in my chest, unfurling its delicate petals.
The possibility that this might not be a fleeting moment of clarity, but a turning point, ignited a spark of optimism I had not dared to entertain.
I envisioned a future where she would fully recover, where her sharp mind and compassionate heart would once again grace the imperial court, offering her invaluable counsel.
But the reprieve, as it often does, was short-lived.
The moment I unknowingly succumbed to the heavy embrace of sleep, a sudden, chilling force tightened around my neck.
It was a sensation of immense, crushing pressure, like an invisible vise slowly closing, cutting off the very source of life.
My eyes, still heavy with the lingering tendrils of sleep, snapped open in a desperate attempt to identify the unseen assailant.
Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the remnants of my dream, electrifying my senses.
The air in my lungs was rapidly depleting, and the world began to tilt, the edges of my vision darkening.
I clawed at my throat, a futile, instinctive gesture against the insurmountable pressure.
“Cough. Choke…!”
A guttural sound, more gasp than word, tore from my constricted throat.
My body convulsed, desperate for oxygen.
With immense effort, my eyes, blurred by the struggle, finally focused, and what I saw sent a fresh wave of ice through my veins.
Looking down at me, her face illuminated by the faint glow of the moonlight, was Mother.
Her eyes, however, were not the clear, kind eyes I had just seen, but dark, vacant orbs, devoid of any warmth or recognition, reflecting only a chilling, predatory emptiness.
A cold dread, far more terrifying than the physical assault, seized me.
“He told me. That if only you die, he can come back to life… Haha, my beloved Allen… So… die for me. There’s nothing to fear. I’ll sing you a lullaby.”
Her voice, though still soft, now carried a chilling, discordant tone, a grotesque parody of maternal affection.
The chilling revelation, delivered with such detached sweetness, twisted my gut.
The ‘he’ could only refer to my late father, a man whose memory had become a poisoned chalice in her fractured mind.
A manic, unsettling giggle bubbled from her lips, mingling with the escalating pressure on my throat.
Sleep, sleep, my baby.
My baby sleeps so well.
The familiar, soothing words of a childhood lullaby, sung in that distorted, joyous tone, became a horrific dirge, drilling into my ears, echoing in the suffocating silence.
It was a macabre melody, a twisted inversion of comfort, designed to usher me not into dreams, but into eternal slumber.
Mother, still holding my throat with an unnerving strength, began to weep, deep, guttural sobs racking her frail frame.
Yet, even as tears streamed down her face, a grotesque, unsettling laugh tore from her, followed by more heart-wrenching sobs.
The duality of her despair and her sinister intent was a terrifying spectacle.
I thrashed wildly, my limbs flailing against her unyielding grip, a frantic, desperate dance for survival.
My nails, though blunted, raked against the back of her hand, leaving angry red welts, a desperate attempt to force her to release me.
But her strength, imbued by some unseen, dark force, seemed absolute.
It was a futile struggle, a mouse against a cat, as she, my own mother, intent on my destruction, pressed down with the full, horrifying weight of her madness.
The air was gone, the world was dimming, and a cold numbness began to creep through my extremities.
It was then, as the deep, inky darkness began to close in, threatening to claim me entirely, that a singular, defiant thought ignited within my fading consciousness.
An undeniable, primal scream resonated in the depths of my being: I still didn’t want to die.
Not like this, not by her hand, not when there was so much left undone.
This raw, unyielding will to live, born from the very brink of oblivion, suddenly dominated my entire being.
And then, from somewhere deep within me, from a reservoir of strength I didn’t know I possessed, an incredible, explosive power surged through my fingertips, manifesting as a sudden, violent burst.
With that unexpected surge, I pushed against my mother, who was still intent on strangling me.
The force, though originating from a dying body, was enough to momentarily break her grip, sending her reeling.
I scrambled off the bed, my legs wobbly and uncertain, my lungs burning for air, and stumbled clumsily away, putting as much distance as possible between us.
“Gasp, choke, cough. Cough…!”
My body convulsed violently as I desperately sucked in lungful after lungful of air, each breath a painful, rasping sound.
My throat burned, and my chest ached with the effort, as I coughed repeatedly, trying to clear the constricted airways.
I leaned against a wall, my body trembling uncontrollably, the cold sweat of fear and exertion clinging to my skin.
Mother, now released from her grip, stared at me with an expression of profound devastation, as if the very foundations of her world had been irrevocably shattered.
Her eyes, still hollow, were now filled with a bewildered anguish, a look of utter incomprehension at my continued existence.
“Why… why don’t you die? What do you intend to do by desperately clinging to life…! I hate you, Allen, I truly hate you so much I can’t bear it!”
Her voice was a ragged whisper, a raw lament of pure hatred and despair.
She reached out, her hands trembling, as if to resume her attack, and took a few faltering steps towards me.
But then, as if struck by an invisible wall, she abruptly halted, her strength seemingly abandoning her.
She sank to the floor, her body crumpling into a desolate heap, and let out a chilling, animalistic wail, a sound of profound, guttural agony that tore at the very fabric of the night.
“Ugh, huh, ahhhhhhh!”
Her fists pounded against her chest, a frantic, desperate rhythm against her heart, which seemed on the verge of bursting from the sheer force of her anguish.
It was a gesture of utter powerlessness, of a maddening frustration that she could do nothing but inflict this pain upon herself, unable to achieve her malevolent goal.
I could only watch her, a silent observer of her profound torment, my own breath still coming in ragged gasps.
The scene was an unbearable tableau of agony and madness, and I was trapped within its horrifying confines.
The long, agonizing minutes crawled by, stretched into an eternity of her weeping and my trembling silence.
Finally, as the first faint rays of dawn began to pierce the darkness outside, a soft, almost imperceptible shift occurred.
Mother’s cries slowly subsided, her body slumped, and she finally lost consciousness, drifting into a merciful, albeit temporary, sleep.
It was only then, with the immediate threat lifted and the unbearable tension finally released, that the tears I had so desperately held back, the ones that had pricked my eyes earlier, finally burst forth.
Hot, silent tears streamed down my face, mingling with the cold sweat, a torrent of grief, confusion, and utter helplessness.
“What… what am I supposed to do? Please, if anyone knows the answer, tell me… Please, anyone….”
My voice was barely a whisper, a broken plea into the empty, silent chamber.
The question echoed in the stillness, heavy with despair, demanding an answer that seemed forever out of reach.
I felt utterly alone, adrift in a sea of madness, with no compass to guide me.
That day marked a devastating turning point.
The fragile sanity Mother had maintained during the daylight hours, the semblance of the woman I knew, began to completely crumble.
Her mind, once a beacon of intellect and compassion, now became a turbulent storm.
From that point on, whenever she saw me, her eyes would fill with a murderous intent, and she would relentlessly, mercilessly, rush to kill me, her actions devoid of any trace of the mother I loved.
“You have to disappear for him to come back! You persistent worm! Die, just die!”
Her voice, when she launched these attacks, was a chilling shriek, filled with a visceral loathing that twisted her beautiful features into a mask of pure malevolence.
She saw me not as her son, but as an obstacle, a cursed presence preventing the return of my father.
Driven to the brink of my own sanity, consumed by a desperate need for answers, I immediately sought out the temple.
My heart, a crucible of simmering resentment, now directed its fervent, burning fury not at my mother, nor at myself, but at the divine.
“How long do I have to keep praying? Does this ‘Wished’ really exist?!”
I demanded, my voice raw with frustration, echoing through the solemn, incense-filled halls of the temple.
The priests, serene in their robes, listened with an almost unnerving calm, their eyes holding a distant, unwavering faith.
My years of devout prayer, of kneeling before altars and offering petitions, had yielded nothing but escalating despair.
I felt a profound sense of betrayal, a hollow emptiness where faith once resided.
“He truly exists. Because He loves us more than anyone, He grieves with the pain Your Highness feels.”
The High Priest’s voice was soft, laced with gentle conviction, but his words offered no solace.
They felt hollow, meaningless in the face of my mother’s terrifying reality.
“Such a being casts this curse upon the wolf beastmen? For what reason?!”
My voice rose, tinged with a desperate anger.
The injustice of it, the seemingly arbitrary cruelty, was an unbearable weight.
Why would a loving deity inflict such suffering, such a twisted fate, upon an entire race, and upon my own mother, who was consumed by this very curse?
“We must find that answer ourselves. Someday, when the day promised by the oracle comes… everyone will be free from this sorrow and pain.”
His words were a recitation of ancient prophecies, a balm of hope that felt utterly out of reach, too distant to offer any comfort in my immediate, suffocating despair.
The oracle’s promise felt like a cruel jest, a distant mirage in the face of overwhelming reality.
That such a pathetic outcome of divine love could manifest in such a miserable, grotesque form was an unbearable paradox.
The concept of “Imprinting,” this mystical bond that defined the fate of the wolf beastmen, felt like a cruel joke.
What exactly was it?
What had we done so wrong, what transgression had we committed, to be trapped in this endless cycle of a curse, to be forced to cry out in resentment against the very deity who was supposed to protect us?
The injustice of it all, the profound cruelty of a fate sealed by an unbreakable bond, filled me with a burning, impotent rage.
What angered me even more, what gnawed at my very soul, was the stark reality that no matter how much I raged, how wildly I fumed, I could not even reach the feet of this so-called God.
I was a prince, a mortal, utterly powerless against a divine will that seemed to be actively inflicting suffering upon my loved ones.
My anger felt like a caged beast, roaring futilely against impenetrable bars.
‘Is this what it means to be the Crown Prince of a nation?’
The bitter thought echoed in the chambers of my mind, a harsh self-reproach.
I was the second most noble existence in the realm, after the Emperor himself, a figure of immense power and authority.
Yet, in the face of this insidious madness, in the face of a divine curse, I was utterly, terribly helpless.
Everything I had been taught, every skill I had honed, seemed meaningless.
Tormented by this overwhelming sense of powerlessness, by a despair so profound it threatened to consume me whole, I sought an escape, a refuge from the suffocating confines of the palace and the agonizing reality of my mother’s condition.
My steps led me to the desolate expanse of the desert, a vast, unforgiving landscape that mirrored the emptiness within me.
The endless dunes, the scorching sun, the biting winds – they offered a stark, brutal honesty that the gilded halls of the palace could not.
It was a place where strength was forged by endurance, where vulnerability was exposed without mercy, and where I hoped to find some answers, or at least a path forward, beyond the reach of divine indifference.
***
Before I departed, before I plunged myself into the harsh embrace of the desert, I made meticulous arrangements for my mother’s care.
I hand-picked a retinue of individuals, compassionate and steadfast, who would wholeheartedly dedicate themselves to her well-being, ensuring she received the utmost care and attention in my absence.
Each person was chosen not just for their skill, but for their unwavering loyalty and deep empathy, recognizing the delicate and demanding nature of their task.
I carefully selected the most loyal and upright ministers, entrusting them with the weighty responsibilities of governing the nation.
Their integrity and dedication were unquestionable, and I knew the kingdom would be in capable hands, even amidst my personal turmoil.
Furthermore, anticipating any unforeseen circumstances or potential instability during my prolonged absence, I reached out to my maternal uncle, a man of considerable influence and strategic acumen, requesting his assistance and support, ensuring an additional layer of security and guidance for the realm.
My departure was not an abdication of responsibility, but a desperate, calculated gamble.
“Someday, if Hamilon becomes completely stable… I want to work for those there. Of course, it won’t be something possible in my generation.”
My voice was quiet, almost reflective, as I spoke of this distant, perhaps unattainable, dream.
Hamilton, a region scarred by ancient conflicts and societal divides, represented a profound injustice, a dream of my mother’s that had been shattered by her illness.
Even like this, even amidst the personal tragedy and the burden of my imperial duties, I yearned to continue the dream Mother couldn’t achieve, to right the wrongs she had so passionately wished to address.
It was a silent vow, a commitment to her legacy that transcended her current state.
And at the same time, perhaps more selfishly, yet no less profoundly, I wanted to prove the meaning of my existence.
I needed to find a purpose beyond the constraints of my birthright, a reason for being that was forged in the crucible of my own efforts, independent of the divine will that seemed to dictate so much suffering.
Even if that feeling, that deep-seated purpose, never reached anyone, even if it remained an internal conviction, it was enough.
It was the driving force behind my journey into the unknown.
***
“Your Royal Highness, the knight order has suffered heavy casualties in this battle. At this rate, it won’t be long before….”
The grim report from my weary commander hung heavy in the stifling desert air, each word a hammer blow against my already beleaguered spirit.
The sun beat down relentlessly, baking the sand, and the smell of blood, dust, and fear was a constant, sickening presence.
The battlefield stretched before us, a grotesque tapestry of carnage, a testament to the brutal efficiency of war.
War, I now understood with a chilling clarity, was truly, utterly horrific.
It was a visceral, soul-shattering reality, vastly different from the sanitized, strategic discussions I had heard in the palace halls, or the grand narratives of heroism I had absorbed from ancient texts.
This was not a chessboard of tactical maneuvers; this was a slaughterhouse, a grinding, brutal contest of flesh and steel.
Here, in this hellish landscape, I encountered more dead than living.
The sight of lifeless bodies, contorted in their final agony, became a sickeningly common tableau.
Their vacant stares, fixed on the indifferent sky, were a constant reminder of the fragility of life.
People I had spoken with casually just yesterday, sharing jests or discussing battle plans, now lay motionless, cold and unresponsive, their warmth extinguished, their laughter silenced forever.
Each fallen comrade was a fresh wound, a personal loss that chipped away at my resolve.
Among the knight order, those brave souls who had sworn to fight alongside me, to share my burden and my vision for this desolate land, many had already perished.
Their youthful faces, once full of hope and determination, were now fixed in the rigid mask of death.
‘Is it because I’m lacking? Because I’m not qualified enough to lead them?’
The agonizing question gnawed at me, a relentless self-doubt that threatened to cripple my judgment.
I replayed every decision, every command, searching for the flaw, the mistake that had cost these valiant lives.
The weight of their sacrifice pressed down on me, a crushing burden that made it difficult to breathe.
When I was in the Imperial Palace, my personal training had been diligent, ceaseless.
I had pushed my body and mind to their limits, mastering swordsmanship and tactics.
Even my sternest swordsmanship instructor, a man of unwavering discipline and few compliments, had often marveled, saying that the powerful blood of my ancestors, who had once roamed battlefields with legendary might, flowed directly through me, an innate talent for command and combat.
His words had been a source of quiet pride, a bolstering of my confidence.
‘Then how did the late Emperor manage to conquer so much land?’
The thought was a sudden, jarring intrusion.
My revered predecessor, a man of unparalleled military genius, had expanded our empire to its current vastness, achieving victories that were etched into the annals of history.
What had he possessed, what secret had he wielded, that allowed him to lead armies to such decisive triumphs, where I seemed to be struggling so profoundly?
Thinking back, the current knights, the bulk of my fighting force, were predominantly well-bred scions of noble families.
They were meticulously trained, educated in strategy, and equipped with the finest armor and weapons.
They carried the weight of their family names, their reputations.
That’s not to say they lacked ability.
Far from it.
These were not soft, pampered youths.
They were individuals who had endured hellish training, proving their mettle and dedication, pushing past physical and mental barriers to reach this demanding position.
Their courage was undeniable, their loyalty commendable.
Yet, something was missing.
Then, at that moment of deep introspection, my mother’s words from that fragile, lucid night suddenly came to mind, piercing through the fog of battle and despair.
“Allen, do you believe there’s an absolute line that nobles, royalty, and commoners cannot cross?”
Her question, posed with a subtle yet profound significance, resonated with a new, startling clarity.
Could that possibly be the problem?
The stark, unspoken societal divisions that permeated every aspect of our lives, even warfare?
Could it be that the very structure of our forces, built on ancient traditions of nobility and privilege, was somehow hindering our true potential?
I had heard about it a long time ago, a whispered legend, almost mythic in its rarity: the late Emperor’s exclusive secret knight order.
Their precise existence and composition were shrouded in such profound secrecy that no one, not even the most astute courtiers or seasoned generals, knew their exact identities.
They were shadows, rumors, yet their rumored effectiveness was legendary.
‘Perhaps….’
A seed of an idea, fragile but potent, began to take root in my mind.
Perhaps the strength of the late Emperor hadn’t come from noble lineage alone, but from something deeper, something that transcended the rigid confines of birthright.
After that, a fundamental shift occurred in my approach.
I no longer considered social status, the accident of birth that dictated so much in our world.
I cast aside the traditional aristocratic conventions that defined our military structure.
My criteria became singular: courage, competence, and an unyielding will to fight for our cause.
I accepted anyone who was willing to forge a path with me in the harsh, unforgiving expanse of the desolate desert, anyone who shared my vision, regardless of their background.
The individuals who joined me were a motley, often eccentric, crew, far from the polished nobility of the imperial court.
Yet, each brought a unique strength, a raw, untamed spirit.
“Thanks to Your Royal Highness, I was able to see my daughter. I want to pledge my loyalty to you from now on.”
This was the former vice-captain, a man who, in a moment of weakness, had tried to desert his trusted subordinates in the middle of the night, driven by a desperate longing for his family.
He had been caught, expected execution, but I offered him a second chance, a chance to redeem himself, to fight not just for me, but for the family he so cherished.
His loyalty, forged in gratitude and renewed purpose, was now absolute.
“What? We’re going to the desert? That means we can meet incredibly strong guys there!”
This was a man whose eyes gleamed with a wild, almost dangerous light.
A pleasure-seeker seemingly born for battle, pursuing only the thrill of strength, the ecstasy of combat.
He was a force of nature, driven by an insatiable appetite for challenge, for proving his own immense power against worthy opponents.
“Hahahaha! I love fun! Something new and thrilling! And if blood splatters, it’s the best!”
This was some lunatic I couldn’t even remember where I had picked up, or from what chaotic corner of the world he had emerged.
He was an embodiment of gleeful mayhem, a man whose sanity was questionable, but whose ferocity in battle was unquestionable.
His infectious, unsettling laughter often preceded a devastating charge into the thickest of enemy lines.
“I’m from a commoner background, but I plan to join the Imperial Knight Order by achieving great merit. That way, my younger sibling won’t lose their goal and can move forward too.”
This was a young commoner, his face earnest, his voice imbued with a quiet, yet powerful, determination.
He spoke of a dream that, in the rigid class structure of our empire, was nothing short of preposterous, an almost impossible aspiration.
Yet, he proclaimed it with such unwavering confidence, such unwavering belief in his own abilities, that one couldn’t help but be swayed by his conviction.
His courage wasn’t just in battle, but in daring to dream beyond his station.
“Hehe, tomatoes are so tasty. But there’s not enough. Jem still wants more!”
And then there was the bear beastman, his immense frame belying a simple, almost childlike innocence.
His concept of value was strikingly uncomplicated; his life, in his mind, was perhaps worth barely ten tomatoes, a stark, almost heartbreaking reminder of the brutality of a world where beastmen were often marginalized and devalued.
Yet, he fought with a primal ferocity that defied his simple desires, a loyal and formidable warrior driven by the promise of simple pleasures.
Every single one of them was, in their own way, quite strange, even outright eccentric.
Their quirks and peculiarities were a constant source of both exasperation and amusement.
Yet, looking at them, at their diverse strengths and their shared, unyielding commitment, I somehow felt an unshakeable certainty.
I could do this with them.
This was the true meaning of companionship, of shared purpose.
They were not simply beings I had to protect and lead from a position of detached authority, but comrades who would stand beside me, fighting as equals, sharing the burdens and the triumphs.
They were the true strength I had been searching for.
However, despite this newfound camaraderie, this collective strength, this place remained one where despair lingered closer than hope.
The desert was a harsh mistress, unforgiving and relentless, mirroring the nature of the war itself.
Every day brought new challenges, new losses, new reasons for the shadows of hopelessness to deepen.
“Your Royal Highness, the lizard-men’s poison is exceptionally potent. The antidote is rapidly depleting. At this rate, before the next supplies arrive….”
The report from the healer was delivered with a heavy sigh, his face etched with worry.
The lizard-men, creatures of the desert, were formidable foes, and their venom, a terrifying weapon, was proving to be a critical challenge.
The thought of my men succumbing to the agonizing effects of the poison, of watching them wither away, filled me with a fresh surge of dread.
“Then give my share to the knights.”
I responded without hesitation, the words already formed in my mind.
My duty was clear: their lives were paramount.
My own discomfort, my own risk, was secondary.
“Pardon? What about Your Royal Highness? Something serious might happen!”
The healer’s eyes widened in alarm, a gasp escaping his lips.
He knew the potency of the poison, and the potential consequences of my sacrifice.
His concern, though touching, was misplaced.
“I’ll endure this. After all, I’ve dealt with poison quite often since I was young.”
My voice was calm, steady, masking the chilling truth behind the words.
My early life, shadowed by my mother’s madness, had forced me to confront terrifying realities, to develop a resilience born of constant threat.
I had indeed grown accustomed to the insidious presence of poisons, though not of this nature.
The memory of being violently shaken awake by the tightening grip around my throat, of struggling for breath in the dim light of her chamber, was a constant, haunting companion.
Indeed, even when I finally succumbed to exhaustion, when I tried to snatch a few precious moments of sleep, the haunting image of my mother’s face, distorted by madness and murderous intent, would inevitably rise from the depths of my subconscious.
I would wake in a cold sweat, her vacant eyes staring down at me, her hands still seemingly constricting my throat, the phantom sensation a terrifying reminder of the thin veil separating me from death.
In my dreams, my mother, consumed by her delusion, would accuse me, her voice ringing with raw anguish and bitter resentment.
She would blame me, me alone, for my father’s death, for the tragedy that had shattered her world.
She would claim that I, her only child, had harbored selfish desires, that my very existence was a transgression, and that as punishment for my sins, she, my beloved mother, was now suffering this unbearable torment.
The dream-mother’s accusations were far more cutting than any blade, slicing through my composure, leaving deep, festering wounds in my soul.
Indeed, enduring these recurring nightmares, these psychic assaults that stripped away any semblance of peace, was far more agonizing than any physical wound inflicted by a sword or a spear.
The pain of the flesh was fleeting; the torment of the mind was ceaseless.
It was a vicious cycle: the exhaustion of the battlefield, the terror of the dreams, the need for respite, and the fear of what sleep would bring.
Therefore, when my body screamed for rest, when the exhaustion threatened to overwhelm me, I sought a different kind of oblivion.
I would either push my body to its absolute limits, driving myself beyond endurance, or, with a grim acceptance of death, I would hurl myself into the most dangerous, life-threatening situations, seeking the immediacy of physical pain to silence the torment of my mind.
“You might really die at this rate, Your Royal Highness! Please, take care of yourself!”
The desperate pleas of my worried subordinates, their voices filled with genuine concern and alarm, reached my ears.
They saw my recklessness, my apparent disregard for my own well-being, and their devotion spurred them to try and rein me in.
But their words, though heartfelt, were paradoxical.
It was an ironic, almost cruel truth, that the only moments I felt truly, viscerally alive were when I was most intimately pressed against the cold embrace of death.
In those terrifying, exhilarating moments of absolute peril, the torment of my mind, the haunting images of my mother, receded, replaced by the sharp, undeniable clarity of survival.
That raw, primal struggle for existence, the sheer, undeniable reality of the present moment, was the only escape from the deeper, more insidious pain.
And so, I could not stop. I plunged forward, driven by a desperate need to feel alive, even if it meant dancing on the precipice of oblivion.
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