Warlock Ch 231. The Traitor
Damian walked further into the hall, his footsteps echoing off the stone walls. He stopped in the center of the room, staring at the throne, his mind racing with emotions he didn't know how to process. Anger, frustration, disappointnt—they all mixed together, forming a knot in his chest that refused to loosen.
"What did I do wrong?" he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He knew, logically, that it hadn't been his fault. Kaelan was a scapegoat, that he had been caught in a web of lies and sches. And yet, it didn't matter. The world didn't care about the truth. They only cared about the story they were told.
Kaelan, the traitor. Kaelan, the Evil One.
"Shit…" Damian muttered, running a hand through his hair. The past life hung over him like a shadow he couldn't escape. Even though he wasn't Kaelan anymore, even though he was Damian now, the past still clung to him. And no matter how much he tried to move forward, it always seed to pull him back.
He glanced toward the large windows lining the hall, his eyes drawn to the way the light hit the floor. The dawn sunlight stread through, golden and soft, but sothing about the way it reflected off the polished stone made it look like fire. The whole room seed to glow, bathed in flickering, fiery light.
"Fire…" Damian muttered, his voice quiet but heavy with aning.
Damian blinked, his heart skipping a beat as the word echoed in his mind. He hadn't moved, hadn't done anything, yet suddenly the entire room around him was ablaze. Flas flickered along the walls, licking at the high ceiling, casting long shadows that danced wildly across the stone floor.
"Huh?" Damian muttered, confusion clear in his voice. He took a cautious step back, his eyes scanning the room. Everything was on fire—everything. The once pristine throne room was now a charred, chaotic ss. Furniture lay scattered and broken, scorch marks marred the walls, and shattered glass crunched beneath his boots.
'What the hell is going on?' he thought, his frown deepening. He reached out with his senses, trying to detect any magical presence, but found nothing unusual—at least, nothing imdiate.
'Illusion?' he wondered, but sothing about it didn't feel right. He clenched his fist, focusing on the faint hum of his own mana to break any potential spell, but the scene remained unchanged. The flas continued to burn, the heat pressing down on him, suffocating and real.
'No… it's not an illusion,' he realized. 'It's residual mory.'
Residual mory—he knew what it was. It happened when a powerful magus left a strong emotional imprint on a place. If the emotions were intense enough, they could mix with ambient mana and linger, creating echoes of the past that could be seen and felt by those sensitive to magic. Sotis these echoes were harmless, offering nothing more than a glimpse into history. But other tis… they carried the weight of pain, anger, or regret, turning the place into sothing far more dangerous. Curse…
Damian lifted his hand and froze. Blood. His hand was drenched in thick, crimson blood, dripping down his fingers and pooling at his feet.
'This… isn't real,' he reminded himself. 'It's part of the mory.'
But that didn't make it any easier to stomach. The sensation was too vivid, too real. He could feel the warmth of the blood, the stickiness clinging to his skin. His heartbeat quickened, a flicker of panic rising in his chest before he forced himself to calm down.
'If it's residual mory, that ans…' He looked around the room again, his eyes narrowing as he tried to focus through the chaos. 'That ans sothing significant happened here. Sothing Victoria didn't—or couldn't—cleanse.'
His gaze turned forward, toward the throne at the end of the hall. And that's when he saw him.
A man—no, a dying man—stood in front of the throne, his body broken and bleeding. His clothes were torn and stained with blood, his wounds so severe it was a miracle he was still standing. Yet, despite his condition, there was no weakness in his eyes. No fear. Only hatred. Burning, seething hatred aid directly at Damian.
Victoria's husband.
Damian felt his breath catch in his throat. He hadn't expected this. He had heard the story before—how Kaelan had killed Victoria's husband, how it had all gone down in this very room. But seeing it? Living it through this residual mory? That was sothing else entirely.
The man staggered forward, one hand clutching his side as blood seeped through his fingers. His other hand trembled, but whether it was from rage or the effort of staying upright, Damian couldn't tell.
"You…" the man rasped, his voice low and hoarse but filled with venom. "You… took everything from ."
Damian didn't respond. He knew it wasn't really him the man was speaking to—it was Kaelan. But that didn't make it any less unnerving.
The dying man took another step, his eyes blazing with fury. "You think you're a hero? You think you saved her?" He coughed, a wet, rattling sound, but he didn't stop. "All you did was destroy what little I had left."
Damian clenched his fists, the blood on his hands dripping faster now. He knew it wasn't real, but damn it, it felt real. Too real.
'This is just a mory,' he reminded himself again, forcing himself to stay calm. 'It can't hurt .'
But the hatred in the man's eyes cut deeper than any blade ever could.
"You're no savior," the man spat, his voice growing weaker but no less filled with malice. "You're a monster. A tool. A weapon for others to use."
A part of him knew this was just an echo, a lingering fragnt of the past. But another part—deep down, buried beneath layers of resolve—felt the sting of those words all the sa.
'A monster… A tool…'
Wasn't that exactly how he'd felt earlier? When Victoria had used him without telling him the full truth? When he had realized, once again, that no matter how much power he gained, people still saw him as sothing to wield, not soone to trust?
Reviews
All reviews (0)