Even as tears streamed down her face, a raw, primal scream forming in her throat, her mouth seemed to open of its own accord, as if it had a life of its own, detached from her shock and pain.
“You didn’t need to kill the spider too. Just scolding me would have been enough…”
Her voice was thick with tears, a desperate attempt to grasp at some shred of normalcy in this horrific scene.
“Ha! Who’s worrying about whom? My fate is in the mud.”
Blayden, who had been watching Leni weep with a tragic expression, a cold, unfeeling glint in his eyes, soon pulled his sword back from the impaled spider and grabbed the arm she had wrapped protectively around her chest, clutching the severed hair.
“No!”
Leni resisted, her body convulsing with the effort, not wanting to lose the clump of hair, that last tangible link to her old self.
But the hair, which had been a part of her just moments before, was so easily transferred into Blayden’s hand, a lifeless trophy.
“Please… just give me the ribbon back.”
Her voice was a broken plea, a whimper in the echoing silence of the room.
Just like that, a part of her disappeared.
Her innocence, her sense of self, her hope – all vanished. Into the darkness, into the relentless downpour outside.
Leni collapsed onto the floor, sobbing uncontrollably, her body wracked with grief.
Something soft and squishy touched her chin as she clutched at her chest, her fingers numb.
Blayden lifted her face with the sword that had impaled the spider, the grotesque image looming in the dim light, and said coldly.
“Don’t forget tonight. If you act out again, something that doesn’t grow back will be cut off.”
The implicit threat was terrifying, a chilling promise of permanent mutilation.
Leni trembled, her face wet with tears and sweat.
A low ‘uhh’ split through her tightly pressed lips, a sound of profound distress, an animal’s moan, neither words nor a coherent cry, just pure, unadulterated pain.
Leaving her immersed in tears, a crumpled heap on the floor, Blayden walked out of the room.
The wooden floor creaked with his rough, deliberate steps, each sound a hammer blow to her shattered composure, and moments later, the heavy door slammed shut with a resounding bang that reverberated through her bones.
The finality of the sound sealed her in the darkness, alone with her despair.
It was a dawn of madly pouring rain, a fitting backdrop for the desolate thoughts that plagued Blayden.
He stood in the mud outside the attic, the relentless downpour soaking his clothes, and looked up at the stormy sky.
Childhood memories, carried by the icy raindrops, pelted his face, sharp and cold, a mirror to the resentment that still simmered within him.
“You’re too much like that northern barbarian woman. This way, you don’t even look like my son.”
His birth father, Odin Rehart, would rant that way when he was drunk, his thick dark brown hair plastered to his forehead, his eyes of the same murky color narrowed with contempt.
Odin had come to despise the woman, Blayden’s mother, who had ultimately rejected his advances, scorning her independence and strength, and he also ill-treated the son who resembled her, a living testament to her defiance.
Had just one of his many concubines produced a son, Blayden’s precarious position as heir would have been irrevocably threatened, dissolving any claim he had.
Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, depending on one’s perspective, he was the only prince in the sprawling, cold palace.
And so, Odin vented his hatred for the woman who had captivated him, yet whom he also scorned and could not control, upon the life she left behind – upon Blayden.
Blayden had never called Odin “father.”
As far as he remembered, his birth father was always addressed as “Your Highness,” a cold, formal title devoid of any paternal affection.
In the grand, gilded halls of the Claville Palace, the prince was merely a child constantly on edge, navigating the treacherous currents of power, trying desperately not to die by the capricious word of an absolute ruler. His childhood was a tightrope walk, each day a test of survival.
When he was seven, the conqueror came.
Tigrinus, the northern warrior who had brought down Kiabec with brutal efficiency, cherished Blayden’s appearance, seeing in him a painful echo of his own lost love.
“You’ve inherited Lavinia’s eyes. And her beautiful hair.”
Tigrinus often caressed Blayden’s golden hair, his own eyes teary with a melancholic tenderness, a strange, possessive affection.
And he always made sure Blayden’s hair covered the back of his neck, a gesture that Blayden found unsettling, a reminder of his mother’s distinct, long hair.
Blayden found the enemy’s perverse favoritism far more disgusting, far more repulsive, than his father’s overt persecution.
The subtle, insidious control of Tigrinus felt like a violation.
On his tenth birthday, in an act of defiant rebellion, Blayden shaved his hair short with a dagger gifted by Tigrinus, transforming his golden locks into a prickly, almost military cut.
Tigrinus, enraged at seeing his prized hair like a chestnut burr, confined Blayden to the dungeon, a dark, damp cell where the boy, surviving on minimal food necessary for survival, was only released once his hair again grew long enough to cover the back of his neck, fulfilling Tigrinus’s peculiar obsession.
The memory was a bitter taste in his mouth.
A thunderstorm raged above, mimicking the turmoil within him, and streaks of lightning tore through the oppressive darkness, briefly illuminating the stark reality of the present.
Blayden was pulled from his painful recollection by the sky’s deafening roar.
Rain, like countless sharp arrows, pierced the lock of hair fallen at his feet, now a soggy, pitiful clump.
“Master.”
Solenia’s soft voice, which had coiled around him in the darkness of the attic, a subtle yet persistent intrusion, echoed in his ears.
How cunning your mouth has become, he thought, a grim smirk playing on his lips.
Did I seem so easily fooled to fall for such a trivial bait, to succumb to such a transparent attempt at manipulation?
“Are you alright? You seem badly hurt. Should I take you to a doctor?”
Five years ago that spring, that same kind tongue, seemingly offering solace, had cut him like a knife today, slicing open old wounds.
“I know you were the Prince of Kiabec. Don’t you remember when you lost the war and became a prisoner?”
Excellent, little one.
You know how to fight, he thought, a perverse admiration stirring within him.
You’re smart enough to know precisely where to strike to hurt your opponent the most, to dig at the deepest, most vulnerable wounds.
But to attack an opponent’s vital point, to gamble with such high stakes, you should have been prepared to lose your most precious thing, a cruel lesson he had just delivered.
The rain-soaked, mud-covered hair looked like a bloody beast, a grotesque offering.
People call me ‘the Red Wolf,’ he mused, the moniker a badge of his ruthless reputation.
They revere me for being composed even when surrounded by death, for my unwavering calm in the face of annihilation, but they don’t know the truth.
The reason war cannot break me is because I am accustomed to it, because I have lived and breathed it since childhood.
I have experienced two kings in my life, both tyrants in their own way.
A father who scorned me and an enemy who loved me, each leaving their indelible mark.
The fear of death flowed in my veins like blood, a constant companion, a familiar ache.
As far as I remember, there hasn’t been a single day in my life without war, without struggle, without the threat of annihilation.
“You lived happily, then had everything taken away and became a hostage.”
Wrong, Solenia Radelyon.
In that splendid, vast palace, amidst all its opulence, I was not happy.
But even the unhappy have something to lose, a grim truth he had learned firsthand.
Rainwater washed away the moisture from around his eyes, blurring the harsh lines of his face.
Blayden closed and opened his tingling eyes deeply, the burning sensation a temporary reprieve from the burning memories.
A faint blue light streamed in from the distant sky, a herald of a new day.
The sun was about to rise, breaking through the storm clouds.
Another day was beginning, another chapter of survival.
Now, Leni’s hair looked like a dead bird, limp and lifeless, utterly devoid of its former vibrancy.
The enemy’s sneer, buried deep in his memory, echoed with chilling clarity.
“Don’t forget tonight. Even if you resist, you cannot protect the things you cherish.”
The harsh rain penetrated his clothes, chilling him to the bone.
Blayden, standing drenched, bent down and picked up the lock of hair from the mud, his fingers closing around the cold, wet strands.
Happy birthday, Solenia Radelaion.
I hope you like my gift.
You, too, must now open your eyes to reality and become an adult, for this world shows no mercy to the innocent.
The cold hair, like a lifeless, limp bird, filled his hands, a stark reminder of the brutal lesson he had imparted.
***
Meanwhile, in the King’s Hall, Kallian was reviewing a stack of documents with names and numbers.
It was a meticulous list of nobles who had died in the war without heirs and their corresponding territories.
His plan was clear: to reclaim these ownerless lands, consolidating the crown’s power, and then distribute them to those who had achieved merit, thereby securing their loyalty.
For the dead, a mere plot of land to be buried in is enough, he thought, a cynical truth shaping his policy, and loyalty comes from the living, from those who can still serve.
It was then, as a faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Kallian’s lips, a rare expression of satisfaction, that an attendant entered and announced that a soldier was requesting an audience.
“Who is it?”
Kallian asked, his voice sharp and inquisitive.
“A guard from the Tower of Time.”
“Let him in.”
The Tower of Time, a place of secrets and shadows, rarely sent direct reports.
A moment later, a solidly built, burly-faced soldier in armor entered with hesitant steps, his brow furrowed with concern.
“There’s something that bothers me, Your Highness.”
He spoke with a nervous deference.
“Speak.”
Kallian commanded, his gaze piercing.
“It’s about the troupe master who was with Your Highness in the Tower of Time.”
Martin Skalson?
Kallian frowned, the name immediately connecting to a host of recent, unsettling events.
“He was wearing a cloak when he entered the tower. But just now, when I brought him a meal, his shoulders were bare.”
The detail seemed insignificant, yet the soldier’s unease was palpable.
“Did you search the room?”
Kallian pressed, a flicker of suspicion igniting in his mind.
The soldier bowed his head, confirming the implied failure.
“Yes. I searched thoroughly, but the cloak wasn’t in the room.”
What he had when he entered the cell is now gone. Kallian’s memory, sharp and incisive, immediately recalled the distinctive cloak he had seen in the top room of the Tarsewin Temple.
“Was Martin Skalson’s cloak red?”
“Yes.”
The soldier’s confirmation sent a jolt through Kallian.
When Blayden left for the Shadow Lands, he had specifically observed him put a slave on his horse.
That girl’s cloak, fluttering tantalizingly beyond Blayden’s black cloak, was indeed red.
There are two incredibly valuable items missing from this palace, Kallian’s mind raced, connecting the threads of information: the King’s Seal and the God’s Tear map.
Both, he realized with a chilling certainty, could be hidden within the folds of a cloak.
The disappearance of the red cloak was no mere oversight.
***
The rain stopped as dawn broke, leaving the world washed clean, but the sense of foreboding remained.
After eating a quick, silent breakfast, the Kynolf unit members, gathered in front of the Paradise of the Nameless, moved southeast, their destination the elusive Shadow Lands.
By dusk, they were able to cross the border of Evlang, one of the minor kingdoms that dotted the landscape, their journey progressing at a relentless pace.
A vast forest stretched along the river that ran north-south through the continent of Ratsnia.
The forest, aptly called Narphen, was technically Ekillium’s guard area, yet no patrol units were visible, no signs of vigilant watch.
This glaring absence was damning proof that Ekillium, having focused all its resources and attention on conquering Verden for the past three years, had severely neglected the forest’s management, leaving it vulnerable and untamed.
It seemed there had been no rain here last night, a stark contrast to the storm they had left behind, as the leaves and dirt were surprisingly dry.
Broad leaves rustled in the wind, a gentle whisper through the ancient trees, and the red earth kicked up by hooves raised dry dust, forming small clouds around their weary feet.
Blayden, who had been scanning the sky through the dense canopy of trees, his gaze sharp and assessing, finally said, “We’ll camp here tonight.”
He dismounted his horse with a practiced ease and then lifted Leni, who was slumped over the horse’s back, her body a heavy, lifeless weight, setting her down gently on the dirt ground.
Other unit members, eager to get settled and escape the day’s arduous travel, dismounted their horses and immediately began preparing for the night, their movements efficient and accustomed to the routine.
Leni stood still, her head bowed low, her hair now a brutally uneven mess around her face.
She had felt numb all day, a blank, aching emptiness.
Though she hadn’t eaten anything since the meager breakfast, she didn’t feel hungry, her appetite long gone.
Her body, exhausted from riding the horse for countless hours, felt only like a hollow shell, disconnected from her mind.
Her hand kept going to her empty nape, instinctively searching for the familiar feel of her long hair.
Every time she felt her roughly cut hair, the uneven, jagged edges, she felt a fresh wave of grief, like crying all over again.
Sharino tied his horse’s reins to a sturdy tree and then spoke to Leni, his voice gentle.
“Leni, let’s gather some branches and make a fire.”
“Yes.”
Leni nodded her head like a stringless puppet, devoid of any real will.
Sharino, seeing Leni’s gloomy, desolate expression, seemed about to say something, a flicker of concern in his eyes, then scratched his forehead and turned towards the bushes, leaving her to her silent misery.
Leni followed Sharino, maintaining a respectful distance of about two steps, her movements listless.
As she walked aimlessly, her mind still in a fog of despair, a tall, tree-like man appeared swiftly in front of her, his black clothes fluttering dramatically around him.
“Hey, I don’t think we’ve formally introduced ourselves yet, let’s exchange names, pretty lady.”
He was a unit member who had joined them from the Paradise of the Nameless, one of the new recruits.
His abundant silver hair cascaded down his back like a waterfall, and his sharp-chinned face also looked as if it had been dusted with flour, eerily pale.
His long, narrow gray eyes had black centers, like a drop of ink on paper, creating an unsettling contrast.
The clothes that enveloped his slender body were also black, a uniform of sorts, but the high collar around his neck and the purple satin-lined cuffs reminded her uncannily of a priest’s robes, lending him an air of sinister elegance.
Leni kept her mouth shut and bowed her head, refusing to engage.
Her mind was still entirely immersed in the profound shock and pain of having her hair cut, a violation that felt far deeper than just a physical act.
Since dawn, following Blayden’s harsh orders and moving as he commanded, she truly felt like a mere piece of luggage, an object devoid of agency or voice.
There’s no need to greet him, she thought, a cold resolve hardening within her.
I don’t want to get close to these unit members.
Besides, luggage doesn’t talk to people.
If they treat me like luggage, I’ll act like luggage, she vowed internally, a new, bitter strategy forming.
Whether he didn’t notice her cold demeanor, or perhaps simply didn’t care about it, Gustav, as she vaguely recalled his name, took her right hand, his touch surprisingly gentle.
Before Leni had a chance to be surprised, before she could even react or withdraw, Gustav’s lips, surprisingly soft, settled on her rough, calloused hand, a formal, unexpected gesture of greeting.