I checked Oma's pulse. Steady. Too steady. Alive, but unconscious.
Oma.
The boy who had come to this castle alone, to fight, to kill.
He came after the man I called Father.
Going up against Zefar was like beating death itself—an impossible task that only fools or the truly desperate would attempt.
And yet, here he was. Broken. Breathing. Alive by the thinnest margin.
Somehow, I was here, still sitting by his side.
Holding him. Treating every wound, even though most of them were minor injuries compared to what could have been. Bruised ribs. Torn skin. Exhaustion so deep it frightened me more than blood ever could.
I had seen far worse in this infirmary. Cuts that split muscle. Burns that peeled skin away in sheets. Bones that snapped like twigs. Hearts that bled in ways no medicine could ever fix.
But nothing quite like him.
The room still reeked of antiseptic spirits and sharp medicinal oils from the night before. The smell clung to my clothes, my hands, my thoughts.
It was a familiar scent now. Comforting, in a way. Proof that I was useful. That I belonged here.
I wondered what my mother would have thought of all this.
Her little girl, saving lives at the ripe age of ten.
Her name was Avery. But she always preferred Ave.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
Not because she was modest—she wasn't—but because she had no patience for titles. No patience for ceremony. To her, names were tools, and tools only mattered if they worked. She had time only for ideas. Only for work. Only for progress.
Mama met Papa when she was still young, still sharp-edged with ambition, still chasing impossibilities most people didn't even know existed.
I had heard the story a thousand times, retold by elder engineers with reverence, by doctors who still spoke her name like a prayer, by servants who once cleaned laboratories she built from nothing but thought and will.
And no matter how many times I heard it, the story never lost its weight.
She came to him carrying rolled parchments under one arm and bound notebooks under the other. Diagrams, equations, entire systems sketched out by hand. Electricity generation. Trains. Communication networks. Mechanized transport.
Ideas that would change not just Babel, but the world itself.
She called it "the foundation of the future."
But it was more than that.
It was a blueprint for civilization.
Her hands moved over the diagrams like they were alive, fingers tracing lines and numbers, circuits and pathways that made even the most seasoned engineers blink in confusion. She spoke quickly, efficiently, like time itself was a limited resource she refused to waste.
Zefar leaned against the table, arms crossed, watching her closely.
She didn't flinch.
"I can generate enough electricity to light the whole continent without burning coal," she said flatly, tapping a section of the diagram. "And if we design the grid this way, every district receives the same output. No excess. No shortage. No waste. Just clean energy."
Zefar's brow furrowed slightly, his gaze never leaving the page.
"And you need my help for what exactly?"
"Freedom," she replied without hesitation. "Access to materials. Protection. People who can learn fast, obey instructions, and not ask questions that slow progress."
She paused, then lifted her eyes to his.
The kind of intensity that didn't need to finish the sentence.
He nodded slowly.
And that was it.
No negotiations.
No bribes.
No power plays.
She knew he was the only one who could help her. No one else would understand her vision without trying to control it. No one else would let her work without fear.
He believed in her ideas—even when she talked about capturing lightning and sending it through wires like blood through veins. Energy that could make Babel shine like a star seen from the heavens.
He gave her everything she needed. Subordinates. Laboratories. Rare materials that most men would never even touch. He gave her the freedom to build Babel with her mind alone.
But Babel's elders didn't understand her vision.
They called her a witch.
They whispered that she meddled with forces meant only for gods. They feared her intelligence because it made their authority feel small. And fear, I learned early, often wears the mask of righteousness.
One night, the whispers turned into shouts.
A mob gathered.
Torches burned. Ropes were brought. Stones clenched in shaking hands.
They planned to drag Mama through the streets, screaming accusations, calling her cursed, dangerous, unnatural. Someone shouted that she would doom Babel. Another demanded she burn before her work did.
She escaped only because she ran faster than their certainty.
She fled straight to Victors Castle.
When Zefar heard what they had tried to do, the rage that followed shook the walls. The Slayers were already preparing to end them all when Mama stopped him.
"No," she said, breathless, hands shaking. "Don't kill them. Please."
"They tried to murder you," he growled. "They have to pay."
"Show them mercy," she replied. "Zefar, I implore you to choose a better way."
The mob gathered outside the castle gates, emboldened by numbers, demanding her head.
Zefar walked out alone.
Unarmed.
The gates creaked open, and the crowd fell silent as he stepped forward, his presence alone enough to still their voices.
"Which one of you wants her dead?" he asked calmly.
No one answered.
"I said," he repeated, louder now, "which one of you is ready for the consequences of harming an innocent lady?"
A man near the front spat at the ground. "She's a witch! She'll destroy Babel!
We have no quarrel with you Victor. Give us the witch and we will be on our way."
Zefar took a step closer. "You'll have to kill me first. You won't have her today or tommorow. I suggest you all go home."
Another voice shouted, "She defies the old ways!"
Zefar's eyes hardened. "Damn the old ways. She holds the future of Babel. "
He raised his voice so all could hear.
"From this night onward, Avery's enemies are my enemies. Any man, group, or army that comes for her will answer to me—and to my Slayers."
Silence followed.
Fear works faster than reason.
The mob dispersed.
I sometimes wonder if that was the moment Mama fell for him.
Not love. Not charm. Not power.
Something else.
Was it his willingness to die for what mattered? His loyalty once given? The stubborn refusal to bend when something precious was threatened?
The fire to protect something greater than himself?
I adjusted the cloth over Oma's arm covering up his wounds.
As I sat there, between treating Oma and remembering memories of old, I finally understood what Mama discovered long ago.
Men like Zefar are not born devils.
They are made by what they choose to protect—and what the world forces them to destroy.
And Oma…
Oma was standing at the same edge.
Whether he fell into darkness or became something better depended on who stood beside him now.
I decided stay by his side.
Because someone had to.
And because, like my mother, I could never turn away from my life's work.