Chapter 84: The Boy Who Never Cried
Altair had been a quiet soul since the day of his birth. When Caspian Nestor first cradled his newborn son, separated from his deceased mother, he initially believed the baby had also departed this world. Yet, as if stirred by the tender embrace of his father, the tiny boy, wrapped in a tattered black cloth, finally unveiled his blood-red eyes, locking gazes with his father, though no cry escaped his lips.
Even on that fateful night when Caspian t his untily demise at the hands of the Imperial Knights, Altair remained silent.
Life in the desolate slums near the Eastern border was a grim tale of darkness, cold, filth, and perpetual hunger. Despite enduring colossal hardships bordering on the brink of illness and starvation, Altair staunchly refused to shed a tear, for he found no cause to do so.
Left orphaned under the care of exiled mbers of the Demonic Cult, the boy harbored but one resolute ambition - vengeance. Vengeance against the Imperial Knights for the murder of his father. Vengeance against the Holy Temple for their persecution of his people. And lastly, vengeance against the Empire of Rische for yielding to the insatiable desires of a mad ruler who showed no rcy to those who clung to their beliefs in freedom.
Relentlessly, Altair dedicated the initial ten years of his life to the pursuit of answers that might nd the chasm in his heart; a quest to find sothing that could empower him, guiding him toward inner strength and the solace he so desperately sought.
Such a task might seem insurmountable for a re child, but Altair ceased to be a child on that fateful night when he lost his sole parent. From that mont forward, he transford into sothing more than a child; he beca akin to every other mber of the cult – a person, a re human being, and above all, a free soul.
At last, as Altair’s solitary existence reached the milestone of a decade, he found himself drawing closer to his coveted objective. Returning to the Imperial Capital, he retraced his steps to the ruins of his family’s shack. There, he unearthed a weathered, nearly indecipherable notebook ticulously compiled by his late father, Caspian. It laid out the intricate nuances of Demonic rituals, woven together with Caspian’s lifelong study of the dark arts.
His path beca crystal clear. The invaluable wisdom bequeathed by his father, his greatest legacy, coupled with Altair’s own revelations, guided him firmly toward his desired destination. Although it promised a daunting journey ahead, one fraught with potential misery and hardships, the boy stood ready to embark upon it, unwavering in his determination.
The Demon Altair successfully summoned was none other than phisto – the "actor" of the underworld, possessing the art of deception and the mastery of pretense. Graciously, phisto consented to share this formidable power with Altair, in exchange for the boy’s already tarnished soul.
And that was the first step onto the long and exhausting road to revenge.
Disguised by his newfound appearance of silvery hair, pallid skin, and deep platinum eyes, Altair cloaked himself in a power coveted by both the Holy Temple and its High Priest. As he had ticulously planned, Altair seized the opportunity to co face-to-face with His Holiness. Under his artful guise, he infiltrated the Temple and ascended to the prestigious position of Alexander’s disciple, the next High Priest of Rische.
As ti flowed steadily, days lting into weeks, and weeks coalescing into years, Altair’s determination held firm. Despite the nauseating web of deceit and atrocities that entangled the Holy Temple, he diligently adhered to every directive. In the shadows, he absorbed the inner workings of the Temple and the Empire itself, covertly transmitting this invaluable knowledge to his comrades within the Demonic Cult.
Unwaveringly, with a singular purpose etched in his heart, the boy continued along his chosen path, impervious to the tiniest distractions, patiently forging ahead toward his ultimate destination. Until the day arrived when a single distraction could no longer be brushed aside.
At first, he remained oblivious to her na, but her radiant smile and the cascade of long, brown, wavy locks that danced in the wind like silk ribbons were forever imprinted in his mory.
She appeared nearly every day, initially to visit the ailing princess, imprisoned within the towering walls of the Temple like a captive. Then, her attention shifted to another soul – a cursed Duke, the lone survivor of his father’s brutal assault, a lost and tainted spirit. For reasons he couldn’t fathom, Altair found himself unable to harbor any hatred toward this wretched figure, even though an overwhelming blend of pity and revulsion coursed through him every ti he beheld the Duke’s desolate countenance.
The girl was evidently infatuated with the Duke. Each day, she would surreptitiously slip into the Holy Temple to steal a fleeting glimpse of him, yet she never mustered the courage to approach. And in the end, Altair found himself trailing her footsteps as well.
Everything about her intrigued him – her beautiful face, her petite fra adorned in humble yet graceful attire, her delicate fingers plucking wild roses, unflinching in the face of their thorns’ painful caress; and most importantly – her large, gray eyes, shrouded in the dense fog of profound sorrow and grief, which would consistently brighten only at the sight of one person – Damien Dio.
Altair grappled with jealousy, yet he understood that he could not approach her just yet, for his own eyes would inadvertently betray him, a subtle hint of red shimring within his pallid irises whenever his frigid gaze alighted upon her enchanting visage.
Then, he had to concede – his heart could no longer bear the solitude of his journey. He yearned for that girl. He desired her presence in his life. He coveted the girl nad Rosalie Ashter. And he was determined to make her his.
***
Altair observed Rosalie as she slumbered, her soft snores breaking the stillness of the room, her breath misting the chilled, yellowed pages of the book before her. His icy, platinum eyes remained fixed on her delicate, rosy lips. An insistent longing to touch her pulsed within him, a fervent desire that caused his body to quiver subtly, a tingling sensation coursing through him from the waist down.
Finally, he released a protracted, muted sigh and whispered,
"Right here, at this very table, I left my father’s notebook for you, dear Rosalie. Who could have foreseen that you would use our shared knowledge to unite your heart with Damien Dio? But now, I discern the silver lining in it. I will safeguard it, Rosalie. Patience shall be my ally once more, for the fragnt of your soul you must surrender will not go to waste with ."
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