The scent of ashes still lingered in the air. The fine dust from the ruins mixed with the sharp wind that swept through the streets, carrying the silent lament of those who had perished. The cities surrounding Volcrist, once prosperous, now lay in ruins. Shattered houses, cracked walls, temples reduced to skeletal remains of stone and wood blackened by fire.

  Everywhere, survivors clung to hope as they worked to rebuild what had been lost. Men and women, their faces marked by soot and exhaustion, carried beams, stacked stones, and nailed planks to erect new homes. Children ran through the wreckage, some playing, unaware of the tragedy that had struck their lives, others helping their families as best they could, their small bodies bent under the weight of water buckets or sacks of grain salvaged from the debris.

  Among them, Volcrist soldiers patrolled, their armor worn and dented from war. Their eyes bore a burden beyond mere vigilance—they were men who had seen horror up close, who had survived while their comrades fell beside them.

  At the top of a staircase leading to the ruins of the old market, Thorne watched everything. His gaze wandered over the scars of the city, lost in thought.

  How did everything turn upside down?

  He didn’t need a mirror to know he carried the same marks as that devastated land. The battle had changed Volcrist, but it had also changed everyone who lived there. The kingdom he had sworn to protect now rose from ashes, held together by trembling hands, by hearts that had lost almost everything but still refused to give up.

  His sigh was lost in the wind.

  Then, something caught his attention.

  Small footsteps echoed on the stone floor. Quick, hesitant, but determined.

  Before he could react, a child appeared before him. Covered in dust, her hair messy, her eyes shining with something Thorne hadn’t seen in days: innocence.

  In her small hands, she held a flower.

  A Bloodbloom.

  Thorne felt the weight of that offering before she even spoke. The red flower pulsed like a drop of blood against the child’s pale skin. The Bloodbloom was a dark omen, a flower that only bloomed where the soil had been bathed in blood. A cruel reminder of all that had been lost.

  But to that little girl, it was just a flower.

  She extended the small gift to him with a timid smile.

  — I brought this for Prince Aemon.

  For a moment, Thorne just stared at the flower, unsure of what to say. Aemon...

  He wasn’t sure how to respond. What was Aemon now? The same reckless young man he had known? Or something else, something shaped by what had happened in that battle?

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Hiding his unease, he crouched and took the flower carefully, holding it between his fingers as if it were made of glass.

  — Thank you. I’m sure he’ll like it.

  The girl nodded in approval, her large eyes full of hope.

  — Is he okay?

  Thorne hesitated. It wasn’t a simple answer. Aemon was alive, yes, but at what cost? His body was still recovering, but what about his mind? What about the power that now coursed through his veins?

  Even so, he smiled, offering the girl the only truth he could give.

  — He’s recovering. Soon, he’ll be back on his feet.

  Her face lit up with joy.

  — That’s good! Then can you give this to him? Tell him he has to get better soon!

  Thorne nodded, feeling a pang of something he couldn’t quite define.

  — I will.

  The girl smiled once more and, without waiting for a response, turned and ran back to her mother, who watched from a distance with a tired yet relieved expression.

  Thorne remained there, staring at the flower. The vibrant red petals contrasted with the gray, devastated landscape around him.

  He lifted his eyes to the sky.

  The heavy clouds hid any glimpse of the sun. There was no light that morning, only a cutting cold that clung to the skin.

  Time would move forward.

  But some scars would never fade.

  The room was cold. Not from the weather, but from the absence of life. The only source of light came from the candles scattered around the chamber, their flames flickering weakly, casting dancing shadows over the stone walls. The scent of melted wax mixed with the iron tang of blood that still seemed to cling to the castle, even after the battle had ended.

  In the center of the hall, on a table draped with dark fabric, lay Alaric’s body. His rigid expression, his eyes closed as if still in deep sleep. Death had taken him, just as it had taken so many others before him. His skin was pale, almost colorless, and the lines on his face seemed deeper, as if the weight of everything he had carried in life was still etched into his features.

  Cedric stood beside the body, his presence seeming insignificant before the corpse. His eyes, once filled with ambition and determination, were now dull, empty. He did not blink, only stared at his father without truly seeing him.

  Everything he had done... every choice he had made... had led to this.

  The silence in the room was suffocating, broken only by the distant sound of the wind howling outside. Seraphine stood beside him, her silhouette almost indistinguishable in the dim light. Her presence was quiet but no less significant. Her gaze moved over Alaric’s corpse before shifting to Cedric, assessing him with an expression that was a mix of judgment and something close to understanding.

  He swallowed hard, his throat tight.

  "I caused this."

  Images blurred in his mind. His brother’s body, poisoned by his own orders. The betrayal of Aemon, the last piece of Corvinus, whom he had sent to an uncertain fate, deceived by false promises. And now, Alaric... his father, his blood...

  How many more?

  How long would he keep destroying everything he touched?

  Guilt grew like a shadow inside him, cold and suffocating. He finally tore his gaze away from the corpse and met Seraphine’s eyes.

  She said nothing.

  Cedric let out a shaky breath, and when he spoke, his voice was no longer that of a proud king, but of a broken man.

  — I truly don’t deserve to live...

  The words came without hesitation, without pretense. Just the bitter truth of a man who was finally seeing the depths of his own sins.

  Seraphine remained still for a moment, studying him. Then, slowly, she turned her gaze back to Alaric’s body.

  Silence wrapped around them once more. One of the candle flames flickered, casting an even deeper shadow over the lifeless face of the fallen king.

  And for the first time in a long while, Cedric felt that maybe that shadow would never leave him.