Then came the knight.
The knights came running—those who had raised him as their child, those who spend a genuine affection, those who saw him like lil' brother ,those whose hearts were stitched back together with a single thread: him.
They came without armor, without trumpet or fanfare—just footsteps, slow and deliberate.
Their commander. The only one they followed to death and beyond.
They didn't shout or rush forward.
They stood in place, lining the courtyard.
Silent.
A show of respect that burned warmer than any cheers.
They lined up silently across the courtyard, forming a wall of loyalty and grief and awe. No words. No salutes.
Just the kind of stillness that only came from love.
Elias turned toward them and bowed—just slightly.
One of the older knights—grey in the beard and a little crooked in the back—grunted, half-laughing, half-crying:
"You were supposed to be gone for two weeks. It's been two years, sir."
A ripple of chuckles and wet sniffling followed.
"I got… delayed," Elias said softly.
"You're lucky we didn't declare you a saint and build a statue."
"Actually, we did start a statue," a boy piped up from the crowd.
"It's not great," another added. "Looks like a tired carrot."
Elias laughed—a warm, real, very human laugh.
Elias didn't returned to his mansion just yet, he spent a quality of time together and was sent back forcefully.
" Come on, now that you are back, we can always talk later"
" Yes, you should rest first"
" Shouldn't you have said it before bombarding him with questions" said a young boy with a back as straight as a ruler, showing off to Elias.
" Shut up brat, you who are always as straight as cooked noodles." his mother said slapping on his back making everyone burst out of laughing.
" Now, now. Go...shoo shoo.." they said pushing him.
Elias smiled and didn't struggle.
---
Arriving at mansion:-
The mansion hadn't changed.
Not the soft crunch of gravel under his boots.
Not the ivy curling like delicate fingers along the stone walls.
Not even the windows, glowing faintly golden, as if holding their breath.
And neither had the people.
Footsteps rushed down the hallway—not trained, not measured, not like a servant's.
They poured out before the gates fully opened—
Butlers, maids, gardeners, guards. Some stiff with shock. Some openly crying.
Every face held a memory of him.
Elias.
Not the lord.
The boy who once fell asleep in the kitchen.
The one who helped polish silverware just to keep an old maid company.
The boy who brought firewood when the servants' hands were too cold.
Their little one, who vanished without a word.
He walked through the entrance slowly, his eyes drinking in the stone arches and lantern light.
Then came the voice.
Not loud.
But trembling.
Soft, as if saying his name might break the fragile hope holding her together.
"Elias?"
And then—
"Elias?"
The voice cracked like the surface of a frozen lake.
And then she was there.
Lady Hessa, the butler's wife.
Plump and round, warm like morning bread, wrapped in too many shawls despite the summer breeze.
She didn't run. She couldn't. But she wobbled toward him as fast as her legs would carry, pressing her hands to her mouth, eyes wide, brimming with disbelief and tears.
She stood at the end of the hallway, her hands still dusted with flour.
Her apron was stained, her hair pinned hastily.
Eyes brimming with disbelief and unshed tears.
He hadn't even spoken before she dropped the bowl she was holding.
It shattered against the floor, unnoticed.
She ran.
Not like a lady. Not like a noblewoman's wife.
She ran like a mother who had been holding back grief for two years and could not take it anymore.
And Elias—he didn't step back.
He didn't flinch.
He simply stood there, letting her crash into him.
She hugged him tightly, arms trembling around his back, face buried in his chest like she had done when he was smaller—when he came home bruised from sword training and refused to cry.
But she cried now.
Not loud, not wailing—but with the soft broken sobs of a woman who had waited too long.
"You're too tall," she whispered, half-laughing, half-sobbing.
"You were never supposed to grow this tall."
Elias stood still. Then slowly, gently, as if remembering a forgotten gesture, he wrapped his arms around her too.
One hand on her back.
One on her head.
A silent embrace. One he didn't return easily to others. But this—this was hers.
"You waited," he said quietly.
She pulled back just enough to look up at him.
"Of course I did. You're mine too. I don't care how strong or noble or terrifying you've become. I baked your bread, wiped your blood, and told you stories when you couldn't sleep. You don't get to leave me behind, Elias."
He didn't answer.
Just smiled softly—the kind of smile only a few ever got to see.
Then her expression turned mock-stern.
"And you didn't eat properly, did you?"
He blinked.
"You look thinner."
He sighed.
She pinched his cheek lightly—like she always did.
"Don't 'I've-seen-hell' me. You're still my boy."
He laughed again—quieter this time.
Like a child trying to remember the taste of warmth.
Behind her, the servants were all sniffling and wiping their faces with aprons or sleeves, pretending not to stare. Someone passed him a cup of warm tea. Another draped a shawl over his shoulders. A third began tugging at his sleeve to pull him toward the fireplace.
Elias allowed it all.
For a brief moment, he let himself be home.
' I will give them the same warmth, I will do my best, since they deserve this.' Elais thought with a smile. A promise to himself.
---
But not everyone is lucky enough to feel this warmth....
---
[Basement – Unknown Location]
It smelled like rust and rot.
Not just the stink of blood, but of failure. The kind that stains the bones of a place.
Elen's head throbbed as she stirred awake, cheek pressed to cold concrete. Her lips were dry. Her wrists burned.
She blinked—but the world remained dark.
Only after she shifted did the dim light from the single vent above spill over dead fingers. Dozens of them. Small hands, brittle ankles. Children, piled like forgotten trash in corners.
Her throat closed.
"Leya...?"
A weak groan answered her.
Leya was nearby, collapsed but alive. Shackled. A thin chain led from her ankle to the pipe against the wall. Her eyes opened slowly. Confused. Dull.
They remembered.
The man with kind words and a cookie that tasted of sugar and betrayal.
The dizziness.
The fall.
Elen struggled upright, fists clenched.
"I'm going to kill him," she whispered.
Leya didn't respond at first. She just looked at the tiny corpse beside her—curled up like it had fallen asleep and never woken.
"…Why?" she finally asked. "Why us?"
Elen didn't answer. She just crawled to her, ignoring the metal cuffs biting into her wrist, and hugged her tightly.
It was cold.
But warmth bloomed between them.
They would survive. Somehow.
Even if they didn't understand the reason they were chosen. Because maybe… there wasn't one.
Sometimes monsters didn't need reasons.
They just needed access.
---