The castle was unusually quiet that morning.
The sun had barely risen, but the corridors already carried faint echoes of movement. Birds called softly outside the windows, oblivious to the carnage of the previous nights, to the piles of dust and shadowed memories that lingered where human lives had once moved.
Kaelis moved through the courtyard, her steps measured, careful. Her boots brushed against something wet. She froze.
Blood.
A small pool, half-dried but still dark and unmistakable. She knelt to examine it, breathing shallowly, fingers trembling despite herself. Her chest tightened as she realized whose it belonged to.
Vaelor.
A child's knife had pierced him. He had bled. She had seen it herself, the faint stain along his tunic and the slight red on his fingers. She remembered the kid's trembling, the courage of someone who had no right to believe they could harm the emperor of the Dead Country, the single-handed conqueror of half the world.
The image replayed in her mind, relentless. A boy with wide, terrified eyes, desperate, foolish, naïve. A boy who had thought he could fight fate.
"Please," she had whispered in the dark moments afterward, gripping Vaelor's arm, "please spare him."
Vaelor had smiled.
Not kindly. Not indulgently. Not even cruelly. It was just a smile, slight, amused, as if he was entertained that someone dared to strike him.
The child had fallen moments later. Kaelis had caught her breath, felt the weight of disbelief pressing her down. And then Vaelor had healed himself. Not slowly, not with effort. Instantly. As if the blood had never been there, as if death had never touched him at all.
Kaelis wanted to cry. She wanted to scream at him, at the injustice, at the impossibility. She had refused. She refused to let herself fall apart, even as her hands shook and her knees threatened to buckle beneath the weight of what she had seen.
Now, staring at the blood on the stone, that mixture of awe and horror still lingered, knotting itself in her chest.
"Kaelis."
The voice was gentle, soft, carrying through the halls in the way that only someone accustomed to command could speak.
Ruria stood at the entrance of the courtyard, hands folded, brow furrowed. Her eyes were wide, scanning the splattered ground.
"What happened here?"
Kaelis straightened abruptly, trying to shake the lingering image from her mind. She did not want Ruria to see any cracks, any sign of how shaken she truly was. Not yet.
"It was… a massacre," she said evenly, voice steady, controlled. No more. No less.
Ruria's lips pressed together. She studied the ground for a moment, then finally nodded. The way she exhaled, the faint tremble in her hands, betrayed her concern, but she did not press further.
Kaelis turned, stepping back into the shade of the castle walls. The sun had risen further, washing the courtyard in pale light, softening the dark red streaks that still clung stubbornly to the stones. Birds flitted in the trees, shadows stretching lazily across the ground. Life continued, oblivious to the absolute violence that had unfolded the night before.
That quietness unnerved her more than the fight ever had.
Ruria stayed close, but neither spoke further. It was not necessary. Kaelis had learned to keep certain truths locked within herself. Some things, she realized, were better carried alone.
By mid-morning, routine began to take over.
Kaelis moved toward the training hall. The previous night's tension still clung to her muscles, still whispered in her mind. She began her sequences, slow at first, letting the familiar motions of strike, parry, step, and roll calm her nerves.
The hall smelled faintly of polished wood and old stone. Sunlight filtered through the high windows, painting long rectangles of warmth across the floor. It was peaceful here. Mundane. Safe.
She had learned to treasure the mundane. After years in the clan, after nights filled with blood and death, the sensation of safety, even in small increments, became intoxicating.
Ruria appeared after a few moments, carrying a tray of tea and some bread. She set it on the low table in the corner of the hall.
"Drink," Ruria said softly. "You need to eat."
Kaelis nodded, though her hands were still trembling slightly. She sank onto the floor, cross-legged, taking the warm cup and inhaling the scent of it. For a few moments, all that existed was the simple pleasure of warmth in her hands, the quiet chirping of the birds, the soft rustle of curtains in the morning breeze.
They did not speak much. Words were unnecessary. The tea, the bread, the sunlight — they were enough.
When the last bite was gone, Kaelis set the cup aside and rose. Her body was restless. She could not sit still. The blood, the fight, the sheer impossibility of Vaelor's power had left her mind in overdrive.
She moved back to the training mats. Blades came out. Wooden swords, steel ones, the old and the new. She tested herself slowly, deliberately. Her movements were precise, controlled. A thought she could not quiet crept into her mind: what would she have done if Vaelor had not been there?
The question made her chest tighten. She could not answer it, but she did not need to. She forced herself to focus on form, on motion, on flow.
Ruria stayed in the corner, sweeping the hall quietly, glancing at Kaelis occasionally. There was a gentle presence in her gaze, patient, unassuming, grounding.
Hours passed. The sun climbed higher, bathing the hall in warm light. Kaelis repeated the same sequences over and over, letting her body exhaust itself. Each strike, each turn, each parry was an affirmation that she was still alive, still capable, still herself.
By midday, Vaelor returned. Not a word, not a sound. He watched from the doorway as Kaelis moved through her sequences. Her blade struck wood and stone, spun through the air, returned to her hands. He did not intervene, did not judge. He simply watched.
The awareness of his presence added tension, but also a strange comfort. She knew he could step in at any moment, could erase her enemies or stop a mistake with a flick of his wrist. Yet he did not. He allowed her to exist in her own strength, even if it was nothing compared to his.
She finished her drills, breathing heavy but steady. She placed her blade down and wiped sweat from her brow. The mundane actions of wiping, resting, and drawing a deep breath felt like a small victory.
Ruria returned then, carrying fresh tea. She placed it beside Kaelis silently.
"You trained enough for today," she said softly.
Kaelis shook her head slightly, almost reflexively. "I can keep going."
"You've done enough," Ruria insisted. "Even the strongest need to rest."
Kaelis finally relented. She sat, sipping the tea, feeling warmth spread through her chest. The castle outside was quiet, almost peaceful. The horrors of the night were still present in memory, in scars, in the way the air carried the echo of screams that no one would ever speak of again.
But for now, for this moment, life was mundane.
They washed the training mats. They organized the weapons. Kaelis noticed the sun climbing steadily overhead, casting shadows that moved slowly across the hall. The world was moving forward. Even if the blood had stained the night, the morning brought a promise of routine, of quiet persistence, of small acts that kept the mind tethered to the present.
She glanced at the bloodstain outside again. It still lingered faintly in her memory, but not in reality. The sunlight had begun to bleach it from the stones.
And in that small, fragile way, Kaelis allowed herself a fleeting sense of peace. Not triumph. Not comfort. Not even relief. Just… existence.
A life continuing, mundane and unremarkable. And yet, after everything, that was enough.
She did not cry. She would not cry. But the tremor in her hands, the tightness in her chest, reminded her that even the strongest blade sometimes bore the weight of a world it could not fully control.