He screamed. He cried. He resisted.
But the forest remained silent.
And the night, made of shadow and steel,
did not listen.
★★★
While Elian hid with his mother and siblings in the trench, and Elise entered the battle against Kreld, in the woods behind their home…
…Arthur regained consciousness with a metallic taste in his mouth and the sticky warmth of something trickling down his forehead. Each heartbeat pounded like a hammer inside his skull. His hands, bound with coarse rope, were already numb. His whole body throbbed with pain — as if devoured by wolves and spit out alive.
The forest air was heavy.
The scent of damp earth, burnt smoke, and stagnant blood.
Moonlight barely pierced the canopy — twisted branches, black as bones hanged from the sky. Insects buzzed somewhere unseen, and in the distance, the echo of explosions and magical thunder rolled like the roar of an invisible beast.
"Finally awake," said a voice — cold as the blade that touches the neck before the cut.
Lucius stepped toward Arthur and crouched in front of him.
His light armor bore no insignia, but it was clean, well-kept. It shimmered under the sparse light, in sharp contrast to the man's face — hard, scarred, with eyes gray like dried mud, cold as grave stone.
Without waiting for a reply, two slaps cracked against Arthur's face. He groaned, muffled. The numbness receded, only to make room for pain.
"Don't make me repeat myself. Stay awake. You've got debts to pay."
Arthur tried to move, but he was tied to a dry, scorched tree trunk — like a profane altar from an ancient sacrifice.
Blackened marks stained the earth: soot, dried blood, rust, scorched spells. The scent of old flesh hung in the air like a suffocating veil. Others had surely died here before.
Lucius walked calmly to a leather satchel thrown near a dead cypress. From it, he drew a small wooden case.
When he opened it, horror revealed itself in simplicity:
Clean blades. Iron pliers. Short stilettos. A small hammer.
Tools. Not for killing. But for breaking.
Arthur knew what was coming before he felt it.
The first finger cracked under the pressure of the pliers. A dry, almost mundane sound — like rotted wood snapping.
But for Arthur, it was as if part of his soul had been torn away. He howled, the cry ripping through the stifled night, lost among the trees.
No one was near to hear.
Only the dead, and the things that prowled the woods.
Lucius watched, one eyebrow raised — not in sadistic delight, but with the cold detachment of a man accustomed to destruction. Professional. Precise.
He executed pain the way one lays a trap: methodically.
"You should've given up," he said, voice low, almost pitying. "Elise. The child. All of this could've been avoided."
Another finger. Another snap.
Arthur screamed again, ropes cutting into his skin with each convulsion. The pain wasn't just physical — it was old, moral, a mixture of guilt and helplessness.
"You should've raised the bastard far away. Taught the boy to be a rat, not play sorcerer." Lucius paused, his voice laced with disgust. "But no… you stayed. You raised the boy as if he were someone.
And now, everyone will pay for it."
Arthur bit his lip hard enough to bleed.
The world spun. The pain throbbed.
But nothing hurt more than the words.
Because a part of him — long buried — had once thought the same.
He remembered…
…that night.
The birth.
The blood.
The weak crying.
Maria's near death.
The blind rage he felt for a child who hadn't yet been named.
And how deeply he regretted it.
"I… would never blame him," Arthur growled, teeth stained red. "Never."
Lucius let out a low chuckle, almost sympathetic.
"You're saying that with three fingers missing?
Or are you still lying to yourself?"
Arthur looked up. And there was no fear left.
There was too much pain for anything but truth.
He would die here, if he must.
But he would die a father.
Not a coward.
"Elian… will be more of a man than you ever were," he whispered. "And even if I die… he'll come for you. One day."
Lucius was silent for a moment. His gray eyes met Arthur's with something between disdain and amusement — like a man watching a dying animal that refuses to give up.
"Pretty speech," he said at last, his tone dry with sarcasm. "But words don't stop bleeding."
He stepped closer now, holding the short stiletto.
The blade was so thin it nearly vanished in the dark — and for that reason, it was the worst.
"Let's see how far this paternal love goes."
Without warning, he stabbed the stiletto into Arthur's thigh, dragging it slowly through flesh, carving a deep groove that sent blood pouring down his filthy pants. Arthur arched, howling. It was a sharp, deliberate pain — made to linger.
Lucius pressed down on the wound, making the blood gush faster. Then stepped back calmly and picked up the bone-handled hammer.
"You know what I hate about peasants like you, Arthur?" he asked, circling. "That stubbornness. That belief pain has some kind of moral value. That suffering for someone makes you a hero."
He raised the hammer and brought it down on Arthur's knee.
A dry snap.
Arthur writhed, a hoarse cry slipping between clenched teeth.
"Heroes bleed the same," Lucius murmured, crouching so their eyes were level. "Heroes cry. Beg. Die."
He picked up the pliers again.
"And sometimes… they don't even leave behind a pretty corpse."
Two more fingers crushed.
The sound of splintering bone was barely louder than Arthur's ragged screams. Blood dripped from his hands, his leg, his swollen, lacerated face.
Yet even then — even then — Arthur didn't look away.
"He's just a child…" he muttered through broken teeth. "But he has… the soul of a king.
And you… you will fall before it."
Lucius snorted.
"A king's soul?" he repeated, mocking. "He has the soul of a mistake. A burden that should've been thrown in the river at birth."
He spat on the ground, wiping blood on Arthur's tattered cloak.
"But that's fine. We'll see how long this fatherly faith of yours lasts… once I come for him."
Even through the spasms of pain, Arthur smiled.
A small, bloodied smile — the kind born of despair and defiance intertwined.
"You won't… get anywhere near him."
Lucius froze.
And for a second — just one — his eyes seemed to hesitate.
Then he delivered one last punch to Arthur's face, making his head loll to the side.
"We'll see."
But before walking away completely, Lucius drew a small curved dagger from his belt — dull, rusted, and laced with spent magic — and plunged it into Arthur's side, between two ribs. The blade twisted through flesh like it was searching for something — an organ, a breath, or perhaps the soul itself.
Arthur screamed between clenched teeth, his body thrashing against the ropes. Blood burst hot, staining the foul earth of the forest.
"Just to make sure you don't get too far," Lucius muttered coldly.
And then he walked out of the clearing, vanishing among the trees.
But before he disappeared completely, he whistled — long and sharp, like calling a hungry dog.
The forest fell still.
Arthur remained, gasping.
The pain burned in waves.
The taste of blood filled his throat, while his warmth drained from too many wounds.
He no longer thought of himself.
He thought of Maria.
Of Anthony, with eyes too curious for such a cruel world.
Of Emanuelle, who still believed in promises and heroes.
And then, he thought of Elian.
"He'll blame himself for this…" he murmured, voice barely a breath. "He always blames himself… for everything…"
And then the faces came.
The memories.
Scenes bleeding from the past like loose pages in the wind.
A warm afternoon, sunlight gilding the fields, the children playing in the branches of the old apple tree. Emanuelle, ever stubborn, tried climbing alone. Slipped. Fell.
Her cry pierced the air — and Elian ran to her even before Maria, breathless, could reach them.
"It was my fault!" the boy shouted, already in tears. "I should've held her! I should've… I should've…"
Maria knelt and held them both.
"No, Elian. It's not your fault, my love. Kids fall. Kids learn. You were just playing… like any brother would."
But he kept crying.
And Maria felt, even then, that something in that boy's heart was made of glass — cracked from birth.
Another day, at dusk, Arthur and Anthony were harvesting potatoes while Elian watched from a distance, his face dusty, hands clenched at his sides.
He crept closer, small steps.
"I should be helping too…" he said. "Am I lazy? Am I useless?"
Arthur looked up, surprised, and knelt to his level.
"Elian…" he said, firm but gentle. "You're five. No one expects you to harvest anything. Even if you were ten… you're my son. Not my laborer. You'll have time to worry about those things.
Right now, it's time to live… and grow."
But Elian only nodded in silence, his golden eyes shining with something Arthur couldn't name — something he'd later recognize as guilt.
Then, one ordinary morning, Maria was sewing a new tunic. Elian approached quietly, his bare feet creaking on the wooden floor. He stared at the fabric, sadness in his gaze.
"You always have to buy cloth for me… spend on food, on shoes. I… I'm just another mouth to feed, aren't I?"
Maria paused. Turned slowly.
There were tears in her eyes — but also a fire burning.
"Don't ever say that again. Never," she said, voice trembling. "You are our son. Not a burden. Never were."
She knelt, holding his face in her hands.
"If we had to go cold and hungry, even then… we would choose you. Every time."
The memories faded, like light drowning at the end of the day.
But Arthur still whispered, pain flowing through his body, soul caught between waking and the end:
"I wish… he knew that. I wish he remembered… our words…"
That was when he noticed the presence. Not an enemy. Not an animal.
But a quiet silhouette, perched between two branches above him.
An owl.
White, with eyes reflecting the dead light of the moon.
It watched him, unmoving.
Arthur felt something strange in his chest. Not fear. Not hope.
Just… resignation.
As if the end of a cycle had come, and the bird was there to witness the final scene.
"I want Elian to have a good life…" he whispered. "To be happy. I just… wish I could send him this last message…"
The owl spread its wings — wide and silent.
And flew.
The beating of its wings was the last sound Arthur heard before darkness swallowed him whole.
His consciousness faded.
And for a moment, the world fell silent.