The guilt never left Emperor Hamish's chest. It grew heavier with each passing night everytime he saw the image of his daughter breaking, sobbing alone in the empty halls of her chamber. The grand palace of Dael Kayef, once cheerful, shining with laughter and songs, now sounded like a tomb.
He often stood by her door, listening to her muffled weeping. He wanted to go in, to speak, to tell her she was not alone but each time his hand hovered above the handle, he withdrew it.
What could he possibly say? He was the one who arranged that marriage, who made promises of peace and love and safety. Now, all that was left of Jack was ash in a clay urn and a daughter who stared at nothing.
The guilt kept him awake for days, until even the stars seemed to mock him.
As like the heavens themselves decided to punish his silence.
It started with the wind carrying sand and old petals from the gardens. The clouds thickened and spun, eating the sun. Within hours, a monstrous cyclone tore across the empire. Towers bent, flags were ripped apart, glass shattered like thin ice.
"Seal the gates!" shouted the royal guards. "Protect the archives! Get everyone inside!"
Hamish, despite his age, climbed the steps to the palace terrace, his silver hair whipping wildly in the storm.
The cyclone looked like a living beast, an endless spiral of darkness eating the world below. He could see entire blocks of the capital disintegrating, trees uprooted and flying like arrows.
He clenched the railing with his trembling hands. "Dael Kayef.… hold!" he whispered, as if his words alone could command the storm to stop.
Hours passed before the winds began to weaken. The rain fell in endless sheets, cold and violent, washing away debris and blood. When dawn finally arrived, the once-proud empire was scarred.
Hundreds of homes lay in ruins, though only a few had perished. Still, thousands were injured, and despair weighed heavy in the air.
Hamish stood amidst the wreckage, mud soaking his royal boots.
Soldiers and healers worked frantically around him pulling the wounded from rubble, calming terrified children, gathering what little remained of supplies.
"Your Majesty," said his chief advisor, bowing low, "we've contained the fires. The southern wards are destroyed, but we can rebuild. What are your orders?"
The Emperor looked up at the gray sky. His eyes blind as known, clouded with age and fatigue still burned with a strange determination.
"Wait," he said, voice deep and commanding. "We will begin all at once. The cyclone is not coincidence. The world is evolving."
He turned toward the palace, cloak heavy with rain. "Gather the engineers, priests, alchemists. Every capable hand we have."
"Your Majesty…. for what purpose?"
Hamish paused. His expression hardened part sorrow, part resolve.
"For war," he said finally. "And for redemption. I've lost too much to sit idle."
He looked once more toward the quarters where Humaia slept, her light dimmed but still faintly alive.
"I'll protect what's left of her," he murmured. "Even if it costs what's left of me."
With that, the Emperor began preparations not just for rebuilding, but for what he knew was coming, a storm far greater than the one that just passed.
The moon, though fractured, shimmered pale and gentle upon the marble roofs of Dael Kayef, spilling a silver calm over the Empire that had seen far too much blood.
Princess Humaia Kha walked slowly across the terrace, one hand over her stomach, feeling the quiet life fluttering beneath her palm.
She wore a soft robe of silk, hair untied, flowing like spilled ink over her shoulders. Her eyes were swollen from nights of sleepless crying, yet, there was something about the night, the peeking of stars, that gave her heart comfort for the in those hours.
She looked up and smiled faintly. "Jack.… if only you were here to see our child," she murmured, her voice trembling but tender. "He would've had your eyes, your laugh.…"
A familiar voice, low and coarse, came from behind her.
"Would he?"
The sound of that voice made her entire body shake. Slowly, she turned around and there he was.
Jack.
He stood under the broken moonlight, dressed in his old brown coat, mud-stained boots, hair a bit longer than before. His face was pale, eyes sunken but it was him. It was him.
Her lips parted in disbelief, tears flooding instantly. "J-Jack? Jack, is it really you?"
He smiled distantly. "It's me, Humaia. I came back. I promised, didn't I?"
She ran to him, sobbing, clutching her robe. Her feet stumbled but she didn't stop. She threw herself into his arms, burying her face against his chest. "You— you're alive! I knew it! I knew you couldn't leave me like that!"
Jack didn't hold her. He stood still, stiff, his arms hanging loosely at his sides. His eyes glowed. An eerie, dark hue, like candlelight in tar.
"I missed you," she whispered, breathless, trembling. "I missed you every moment, Jack. The nights were long and cruel without you."
Jack finally raised a hand, cold, trembling fingers brushing against her hair. "Did you, Humaia? Did you miss me enough to do anything I asked?"
Humaia laughed softly, still half-sobbing. "Anything, my love. Anything in this world, if it keeps you beside me."
He tilted his head, studying her face with a strange calm. "Then keep your word."
She blinked, confused. "What… what do you mean?"
Jack's other hand rose — this one glimmering faintly, slick and black, as if soaked in oil. His pupils constricted; his voice deepened.
"Give me.… what belongs to me."
Humaia stepped back, frightened now. "Jack? What are you saying?"
The wind grew colder. Shadows coiled around his feet. The atmosphere was very intensed. He smiled again but wider this time, unnatural.
"You said anything, didn't you? Then give me my legacy. Give me the child!"
Her heartbeat stuttered. "No.… no, Jack, you're scaring me—"
Before she could finish, his hand shot forward gripping her throat.
Her eyes widened in disbelief and horror. She struggled, gasping, clutching his wrists. "Jack! Stop— it's me! It's— H—Humaia!"
There was no Jack in those eyes anymore. Only Ghira, the parasite that puppeteered his corpse spreading madness through his consciousness.
"I am only taking back what you took," the voice rasped through Jack's mouth. "You were meant to nurture a vessel, not love it."
Humaia screamed as the blade formed in his other hand. A jagged shard of shadow. He drove it into her abdomen, slicing through silk, through skin, through the fragile miracle she carried.
Her cry was helpless across the roof, louder than a nuclear that could tore the empire. She clawed at his arms, eyes drowning in tears, choking. "J-Jack…. why.… why are you—"
"Because mercy is an illusion," the voice hissed. "Love.… was your greatest sin."
He ripped her open, the blood glinting black in the moonlight. Her trembling hand rose, reaching for his cheek one last time, trembling, soft, maternal.
" My Jack.… could never.... do.... this.... I.... forgive.…"
Her words broke apart into emptiness.
Then, Jack left the place as soon as he could taking the baby.
....
The golden sun rose gently over Dael Kayef, casting a warm hue across the city's marble towers.
Bells tolled from the palace, resounding through the open courtyards as servants bustled with trays of polished silver and baskets of ripe fruit.
Inside the grand hall, Emperor Hamish Kha sat at the head of a long table, his regal cloak draped over his broad shoulders.
The hall shimmered with banners of crimson and gold, the colors of his empire fluttering from the carved pillars. The scent of roasted meat and honey wine filled the air, wrapping the morning in deceptive comfort.
It was supposed to be a day of joy, of laughter, a day to remind his people that peace could still exist even under the shadow of war.
The Emperor forced a smile as nobles and old comrades gathered around him, their jeweled robes gleaming under the chandeliers. He raised a silver goblet, his old voice heavy but warm. "Today," he said, "we feast not for victory, but for the moments still left to cherish."
A murmur of agreement rippled down the table. Musicians strummed soft strings in the background, the music weaving between the smell of baked loaves and exotic spices.
Yet behind the Emperor's tired eyes, there was something — the voices of his daughter's sobs from the previous nights, the sight of her hollow gaze since the death of her husband.
Still, he hoped she might smile again.
"She will come," Hamish muttered to himself quietly, turning to an elderly minister beside him. "Humaia always loved the smell of the feast. She'll scold me again for letting the soup overcook."
The minister smiled kindly. "She is strong, Your Majesty. Perhaps she only needs a little more time."
The Emperor nodded, swirling the wine in his goblet. His reflection shimmered in it — two blind, empty eyes staring back. He couldn't see anymore, but he could still feel her. His heart still reached for that little girl who once ran barefoot across the garden, plucking flowers for him.
Around the table, relatives laughed and chatted about their ventures, trade routes, and old battles. One general raised his mug high, boasting about slaying a wyvern. Another noblewoman praised the Emperor's wisdom, saying, "Even blind, our ruler sees more than any of us."
Hamish chuckled lightly, playing along. "If only this sight could see my daughter smiling again...." he said softly, almost to himself.
Moments later, a servant approached with a bow. "Your Majesty, shall I send word to the princess?"
The Emperor raised a hand. "No need. She'll come. She must, I know."
He leaned back, pretending to enjoy the music, his fingers tracing the edge of the goblet. He imagined hearing her footsteps, the light, hurried ones she always made when she was late.
The footsteps never came.
Only the faint whistle of wind passed through the open archway, brushing the tablecloths and flickering the candle flames. The Emperor smiled anyway, refusing to accept the quiet as omen.
"She will come," he whispered again, more to convince himself than anyone else.
The feast went on laughter, gossip, clinking glasses but beneath the bright chatter, an unseen grief began to thicken the air.
Outside, a flock of black crows circled above the palace, cawing sharply, their cries swallowed by the morning sun.