Kresos stormed through the streets like a fire with no wind to hold it back.
Each step hit the ground hard, fast, frantic—like movement alone might smother the blaze burning in his chest. But it didn't. The heat only rose. Wild. Blinding.
By the time he reached the slanted shack at the edge of Mirkull, his heart was pounding so hard it shook the bones in his ribs.
He threw the door open.
Inside, the usual scent greeted him—wax, smoke, and something worse. The stale stench of old alcohol, soaked into every inch of the walls. The air was thick and warm, dimly lit by the flickering orange glow of a pot over the fire.
His father was awake.
Bent over the worktable. Eyes dull. Hands unsteady. He was pouring melted wax into a cracked mold like it was just another day.
He didn't even look up.
"Guess I'll have to double the batch," he muttered, voice low, bitter. "To make up for all the ones you lost playing hero last night."
"Shut up."
The words dropped like a blade.
His father froze.
Kresos stood in the doorway, fists clenched, chest rising and falling like a man on the edge.
"What did you just say to me?" his father asked, straightening, eyes narrowing.
"I said shut up."
He turned fully now, blinking at his son. Surprise flickered behind the anger.
Maybe even fear.
Kresos stepped forward.
Each word struck like thunder.
"You should be ashamed," he said. "Ashamed that it only took you a few decades to ruin what our family built over a thousand years."
His father opened his mouth—but Kresos didn't stop.
"You turned the Dragonbane name—you turned our legacy—into a joke," Kresos snapped. "People laugh at us now. Peasants. Stable boys. Street rats."
His voice cracked, but the fury held.
"She's gone because of you."
His father's face twitched. "Don't—"
"She was ashamed," Kresos said, louder now. "So ashamed of what we'd become, she couldn't bear it anymore. She left this world rather than keep living as your wife. As my mother. As a Dragonbane."
A beat.
Then, softly—
"You think I don't hear her voice at night?" his father muttered. "You think I don't hate what I've become?"
He looked away.
"I thought I could give her something better. I did."
Kresos laughed.
Dry. Hollow. Sharp as broken glass.
"Well, you failed," he said. "You took everything from her. Her pride. Her hope. Her life. And now what? You want me to feel sorry for you?"
His father exhaled. A long, shaking breath.
"I did what I did so she wouldn't have to live with that fear. The same fear my mother lived with every time my father went on a hunt. I saw what it did to her. I didn't want your mother waking up every morning wondering if she'd be a widow by nightfall."
"Liar."
The word snapped the air in half.
"You didn't do it for her," Kresos growled. "You did it because you were afraid. You chose safety. You chose sleep. You chose comfort.
You buried yourself in dust and called it a shelter."
Kresos moved without thinking.
His hand found the carving knife on the counter—still warm from the fire.
His fingers curled around the handle.
And then the blade was up. Pointed. Steady.
His father didn't move.
The room held its breath. The wax plopped into the mold, one slow drip at a time. The fire cracked. The world shrank.
The knife trembled.
Kresos stared at him. This man. This… shadow. The weight on his chest, the chain on his back, the voice that taught him to stop hoping before hope could betray him.
His father's lips parted. For a moment, something flickered there—guilt, maybe. Regret.
"Kresos…" he began.
But the boy stepped forward.
"You don't get to say my name," he said.
The knife didn't waver.
"You lost that right a long time ago."
His father's shoulders dropped slightly. The firelight made him look smaller. Older. For once, he didn't try to defend himself.
"I still remember her," Kresos whispered. "How she sang. How she smiled. How her voice shook near the end."
He swallowed hard.
"You drained the life from her… and called it love."
He exhaled. Once.
And then he moved.
A single motion.
Clean. Quiet.
The blade slid across his father's throat with a sickeningly quiet sound.
A gasp. A step back. Blood spilled between the man's fingers as he reached up, eyes wide, wet, and too late.
He collapsed, knees thudding against stone. His hands scrabbled at the ground, then at nothing.
He didn't speak.
Couldn't.
Just stared up at the son he didn't understand until the end.
Then the light in his eyes went out.
Kresos didn't move.
The house smelled of wax and iron. Of old fire and fresh death.
He felt no triumph. No sorrow. Only a cold, hollow quiet.
Not peace. Not yet.
But relief.
He breathed out slowly.
And for the first time in his life, the silence didn't feel like defeat.