Niya remained motionless for a moment, then slowly pushed herself upright. Her legs trembled as she stood, pain evident in her every movement. She staggered toward a small washroom, her steps uneven. Cold water struck her face as she tried to scrub the stench of the noble's touch from her body, but nothing could clean the shame that had rooted itself in her soul.
She stared at her reflection—empty, older than her years, and burdened with invisible chains.
"Eight years… eight damn years," she muttered, gripping the edge of the basin. "Seven years of filth, of silence, of surviving like a shadow… And yet, I'm still here. For her. Only for her."
With trembling fingers, she dressed in a plain, dark cloak and moved quietly through the castle halls. She passed servants who looked away, guards who ignored her presence. Finally, she reached a nondescript storage room tucked behind crates and forgotten tools.
She opened a hidden door behind a dusty shelf and stepped inside a cramped chamber. A small bed was tucked in the corner, where a girl no older than eleven stirred under the covers. Her black hair had grown longer, curling slightly at the ends, and her cheeks were pale but still held a hint of warmth.
The girl blinked awake.
"Aunt Niya?" she murmured. "Are you alright?"
Niya forced a tired smile, crouching beside her. "Yes, sweet girl. I'm alright."
Lia, Leo's younger sister—now eleven, held captive for nearly seven years—sat up, her eyes dim with weariness. "Why are we still here, Aunt Niya? No one's coming, are they?"
Niya wrapped her arms around the girl gently. "Someone will. One day. I believe that. I have to."
The two held each other in the cold silence, finding a flicker of warmth in their shared despair. And as the night wrapped the castle in its shadow once again, they drifted into a restless sleep—trapped, but not yet broken. The throne room of the capital castle loomed in silent majesty, its ceiling lost in darkness, held up by towering black pillars veined with gold. Three thrones stood at the far end—each cruelly ornate, carved from obsidian and adorned with gems that glinted like blood under torchlight. On the central throne sat King Valerious, the supreme ruler of the continent. A tall man with a gaunt, pale face and cold violet eyes, he wore robes woven with shadowy silk, the hem dragging like spilled ink across the throne's base. His crown was a jagged band of black iron, warped and cruel, resting on long, silver-streaked black hair. Despite his aging appearance, there was nothing weak in the way he sat—he ruled like death itself, with patience and absolute control. To his left reclined Lord Silas Blackwood, the third-ranked noble. His crimson eyes gleamed under the hood of his wine-colored cloak, his expression unreadable and still. The scent of fine perfume clung to him, barely masking the rot beneath. His voice broke the silence first. "So, Your Majesty," Silas said smoothly, "what shall be our next move?" To the king's right, Lord Rex Malaichi, the second-ranked noble, grinned lazily. He was broad-shouldered and heavily adorned with gold jewelry and blackened steel armor, his golden-blond hair swept back like a lion's mane. A cruel scar ran from the corner of his lip to his jaw, never quite letting his smile look human. "Yes," Rex said with a chuckle. "We already have everything, don't we? Wealth, women, the loyalty of the alliance, and our greatest weapon—the Hero, Kael. What else is there left to conquer?" King Valerious slowly opened his eyes. "I want the witch." Silas arched a brow. "You mean… the one hiding in our forest?" The king nodded. "No one lives on my land without my command. Not even her." Rex laughed. "Then let's take her. We have Kael. She won't be a problem." There was a long pause before the king added, "And that village from eight years ago… The one we seized. It's time we turn it into something useful." Silas's eyes narrowed slightly. "You mean that old village." "Ammunition factory," Valerious said coldly. "Maybe something grander—a district for the wealthy. Purge the filth. Turn it into a paradise for nobles." Rex grinned. "Then why not just kill all the poor?" Silas nodded. "It would save us time." The king exhaled a slow breath. "Agreed." He raised one hand, and his voice echoed through the hall. "Kael. Come." From the shadows near the towering doors, a figure stepped forward. His steps made no sound. The hero, Kael, bowed deeply before the king. His armor glinted silver and midnight-blue, wrapped tight over a frame that looked untouched by age. His hair, still ashen white, hung to his shoulders, and his eyes—icy blue, almost glowing—held the sharpness of a blade. Despite the years, he appeared no older than twenty, preserved by the divine power he wielded. "What is your command, my king?" "Begin the operation. Wipe out every poor soul in the capital. Leave none alive." Kael rose, his tone as calm as a blade sliding from its sheath. "As you wish." Without another word, he turned and vanished from the throne room, a faint shimmer trailing behind him like a ghost. King Valerious leaned back into his throne. "Loyal hound," he muttered with amusement. Silas gave a soft laugh. "A dog that bites only who you command." Rex snorted. "For now." But high above, on the castle's rooftop, Kael stood in the cold night air. He looked out across the city—his cloak fluttering, the moonlight catching the edge of his blade. A grin crept across his face, not one of joy, but of something darker. "That foolish king," Kael murmured. "He believes I serve him." He looked to the distant forest. "No… I obey only the Goddess. And I'm doing exactly as She desires. One day, this kingdom will fall—by his own hands." His laugh echoed across the rooftop, sharp, hollow, and horrifying. It was the sound of a man who had long since lost his soul—and didn't miss it.
The sun had barely risen, yet a crowd had already gathered in the heart of the capital. Murmurs echoed through the plaza, carried by the wind, as citizens—rich and poor alike—stood beneath the looming statue of the so-called Hero. Soldiers in black armor surrounded the square, their spears upright, unmoving like statues of death.
From the upper steps of the royal platform, Kael stepped forward, his eyes cold and unblinking. He wore no helmet. His silver hair fell neatly over his shoulders, and his hand rested lazily on the hilt of his sword.
With a voice that rang unnaturally clear, he spoke. "By the decree of King Valerious, each household is to pay a tax of 4,000 gold coins—today. This is not a suggestion. It is a demand. Refusal means exile. Or death."
Gasps surged through the crowd. Panic. Rage. Despair.
Someone shouted, "How can we pay that?! We don't even make that in a year!"
"We'll starve!"
Kael's gaze swept over the gathering like frost over grass. His expression never changed.
"You have one week. After that... the executions will begin. You are free to leave the capital, but everything you own stays behind. The king thanks you for your loyalty."
From the far side, one of the wealthy merchants, robed in silk and rings of gold, stepped forward.
"We will pay," he said, puffing his chest. "If it's only for a day, it's a fair sacrifice for peace."
Others among the upper class nodded, pretending pride masked their fear. They would survive. As they always did.
But the common folk began to cry out in disbelief.
"Peace? For who?! You sit in your palaces while we rot!"
"This isn't peace! It's slaughter!"
Then, from the back of the crowd, someone flung a tomato.
It splattered across Kael's armor.
A stone followed, grazing his shoulder.
"You're no hero!" an old man screamed. "You're just a dog in armor!"
Kael slowly looked toward them. He didn't move. He didn't draw his blade.
But his eyes... those glacial, inhuman eyes locked on the man who had spoken.
And in that instant, the crowd fell deathly silent.
Those near the front stepped back. Some trembled. Others began to cry. His stare alone was heavier than a sword to the throat.
Kael said nothing. He merely turned, descended the stairs, and walked away with his cloak trailing behind him.
The square remained quiet, even after he was gone.
Fear settled like a fog.
"We can't pay this," whispered a mother holding her child. "What will we do?"
"If we leave, where will we go?" an old baker muttered. "This is our home. My shop... my life... everything's here."
"Then we'll die here," someone else said bitterly. "That's the truth."
Among the crowd, hidden beneath a gray hood, Sara watched everything silently. Her eyes narrowed, her fists clenched beneath her cloak, but she didn't move.
She wanted to strike him. To scream. To fight.
But she knew she couldn't—not yet.
"This is not the time… not while the city is blind. Not while they still fear him more than they trust anyone else."
She turned and melted into the alleyway shadows, vanishing from sight, her heart burning with quiet rage.