Hearing Marquess Briarwood begin to speak about his past and his younger sister, Riven and lly showed no interest. Instead, a quiet discomfort crept into their chests. For Riven, the man before him was a traitor, soone who had hurt his sister. No matter what story he told now, Riven knew he would never feel sympathy.
Still, he didn't interrupt. He said nothing at all. Because there was sothing different in the Marquess's voice.
"She wasn't my blood," Briarwood murmured. "Just a little girl taken from a minor noble family for political purposes. Used as a bargaining tool... and discarded when she was no longer useful."
He paused for a mont, as if holding his breath to keep his voice steady.
"But… she was kind. Innocent. The only one who ever sat beside and treated kindly. The only one who greeted every morning… with a shy smile and a piece of bread she'd secretly taken from the kitchen."
His head bowed slightly, and under the orange glow of the fire, his face looked older. More tired. The pride of a nobleman had long vanished. What remained was just an older brother rembering a past that had slipped far beyond his reach.
"She gave a reason to survive," he continued, barely above a whisper. "To wake up every morning. To keep going, so that one day… I could prove I was worth sothing."
There was no response from Riven or lly. They simply listened. Even the night wind seed to hold its breath, as if it, too, was listening.
"After my family abandoned her, she lived in a small village to the east—on the border of Islandria, near the pine forest. Even though we were apart, we were never truly distant. Every two or three months, I went there… to visit her. Sotis just for a few hours, sotis overnight. We wrote letters to each other. She always waited for ."
Briarwood's gaze drifted toward the dying flas, as if drawn back to those days.
"You know… I was once just a regular knight. Directly under Aiden Rathsture, before I was promoted. We were stationed on the northern border to defend against potential Rosendahl invasions. A cold, wild land, hard to reach."
He took a deep breath, then went on.
"Eventually, Rosendahl did make their move. But they didn't attack from the main route. They ca through a narrow pass we thought was too steep for any large army."
His voice tensed.
"There was a small village in their path."
He paused briefly before continuing.
"My sister happened to be there at the ti. She'd traveled from sowhere else to visit . She was staying overnight. In her last letter, she said she had sothing she wanted to show … a painting."
Briarwood lowered his head further. His fingers clenched the tattered cloth of his shirt.
"I begged Aiden. I asked for permission to go save her. Just one hour. I knew I could make it back in ti. But he refused."
He gave a dry, bitter laugh.
"He said there wasn't ti, and that the enemy forces would strike the fortress soon. And he was right… after passing through the village, they went straight for the fort."
He stared into the fire. His voice was flat now.
"Aiden chose to let the village fall. He said we'd have the upper hand inside the fortress. That we had to choose victory… even if it ant letting those people die."
He fell silent again.
"I should've gone," Briarwood said quietly. "But I was a coward. Too afraid of losing my rank. So I stayed… followed orders. Guarded the fort… like a good dog."
His voice cracked slowly, heavy with regret.
"And we did win. We held the fortress. We drove Rosendahl back."
He gritted his teeth.
"Then I ran. As soon as the battle was over, I went alone to the village."
His breath was starting to rasp.
"All I found was ash. Burned-out hos. Scattered corpses. Empty streets. And her… still clutching her painting. But her body was cold."
Silence blanketed them for a mont.
"I buried her with my own hands. Just … and my sister's corpse."
Briarwood leaned back against the tree again. His eyes were heavy. His voice slowly fading.
"That's why I hate Aiden Rathsture… why I betrayed this kingdom."
He gave a small, broken laugh, barely held together by his shallow breath.
"Thinking about it now… it's almost funny," he said softly. "After all that, hating him so deeply, I started gathering every piece of information I could about him. Anything. Sothing I could use to tear him down. To humiliate him."
He exhaled, then gave another bitter laugh.
"But what I found… only made sicker. Turns out he's a man who truly loves his family. A good father. A responsible husband. A leader respected by his people."
He turned his head, glancing at the nearly-dead fire.
"Isn't that ironic? The man who preached honor, duty, and sacrifice… the man who let an entire village die for 'strategy'... gave up his city without hesitation the mont his own family was taken hostage."
He gave a crooked smile, but there was no joy in it—only a thick, sour bitterness.
"So easily… he surrendered. All for them."
His laughter returned—brief, sharp, followed by a spatter of blood he struggled to suppress.
"I… honestly wanted to kill them. One by one. In front of him. I wanted to see his face. Would he stay composed? Or would he… finally cry like a child?"
He fell silent after that. His breathing was heavy and uneven. His aged eyes slowly shut, and for a while, the night was still again.
lly bowed her head deeply. Briarwood's final words had shaken her, but she said nothing. Riven remained still. His face cold, his gaze locked on the man before him—waiting.
Minutes passed.
Only the soft crackling of fire remained, barely alive.
Suddenly, Briarwood's voice returned. Soft, but clear enough for Riven and lly to hear.
"In this rotten world…" he whispered, "to keep living, to keep pushing through… a person needs sothing."
He paused. His voice was broken, but resolute.
"Be it revenge… love… loss… or so foolish hope that doesn't even make sense. But without it… we're nothing. Just surviving without direction."
Briarwood's eyes half-opened, staring at his worsening wounds. His breathing was erratic. His body shivered, and his face had grown pale, corpse-like.
He knew the end had co.
The hours passed in silence. Cold wind swept through, biting at their skin. The once-bright fire had withered to glowing embers. The light flickered gently across their faces, revealing wounds, sweat, and a silence heavy with unspoken thoughts.
Riven still watched Briarwood in silence. lly sat with her knees drawn up, head bowed. But then, through the stillness, Briarwood's voice returned—weak, raspy, but clear.
"Looks like… I won't be able to take us all to Arendise…" he murmured. "Or Mordune…"
He coughed softly. His voice was barely there, but the next words ca out strong—because sothing in his tone had changed. No longer fatigue. Not surrender. But sothing darker.
"But what if… we do this instead…"
He lifted his head slowly. His eyes now wide open, but not with clarity. That gaze was unfocused… wild… teetering on the edge of madness.
"…What if I take you with … to the world after death?" he whispered. "Maybe… it's better there than it is here."
A soft laugh escaped his lips. Strange, broken—closer to a stifled scream than joy.
Those eyes… now fully opened, red and wet, were filled with sothing that might have once been pain… then hatred… and now, pure madness. Whatever life remained inside him had ignited one last fla.
Reviews
All reviews (0)