The years had dulled many things within Rodrik Vanhart—hope, desire, even grief.
But there were two moments that remained sharper than any sword he had ever wielded.
Moments that replayed whether he allowed them to or not.
The match.
And the night after.
That Winter Morning – The Field
The arena was simple. No grand stands, no heralds. Just a cleared circle in the training courtyard dusted with fresh snow. Soldiers lined the perimeter, nobles watching with restrained interest. The sun had not fully risen—only a pale gray light pressing against winter clouds.
But even then, Rodrik sensed it.
Something was off.
Sera, his niece, stood in the ring, posture correct, but her breathing—too deep, too forceful. Her eyes, normally alert with youthful competitiveness, were… sharp. Too sharp.
Vibrant with something she did not understand.
Across from her stood Lysenne Malloren—nine years old, same age. She held a wooden sword in both hands, her stance graceful, slightly nervous but determined.
Rodrik watched from the northern terrace.
Expression unreadable.
Hands behind his back.
His cloak shifting with the wind.
Silently, he observed every angle of the girls' stance—the slight tension in Sera's jaw, the exact sequence of her diaphragm movements.
The potion has taken effect.
The Match Begins
Count Vanhart gave the signal.
Wood splintered against wood.
A single exchange.
Then another.
Lysenne parried well at first—she'd been trained properly—but the power behind Sera's strikes was disproportionate. Each blow rang through the courtyard like hammer against steel.
Rodrik's eyes narrowed.
"Sera," he whispered under his breath, though she could not hear him, "slow down."
But she didn't.
Couldn't.
Her body responded to the potion, drawing from a deeper reservoir she wasn't built to withstand.
Her breathing quickened.
Muscles coiled unnaturally.
For a moment, Rodrik felt pride.
Sera is strong.
Then concern.
Too strong.
Then dread.
Not hers.
Lysenne stepped back to evade a strike… only to be caught by the following one she could not anticipate. Her wooden sword snapped in two.
The crowd gasped.
Rodrik's hand flickered slightly.
Stop.
Before he could speak—
Sera lunged.
Not with technique.
With instinct.
With overflowing, curse-driven power.
Her eyes—glimmering red.
Like his had once been on the battlefield, only this time—
She had no battlefield to justify it.
Impact
The strike landed.
Lysenne's small frame flew back several meters.
She hit the ground limp.
Silence shattered through the cold.
And in that instant, Rodrik felt something colder than winter pierce through him.
Not guilt.
Recognition.
He had seen that exact moment before.
When a young soldier, overtaken by potion-enhanced bloodlust on the battlefield, delivered fatal blows without awareness…
Eyes coated in that same red haze.
He had been the one who ended that soldier's life with his own blade.
He had become what he once killed.
The Crowd Reacts
Lysenne's father, Viscount Malloren, shouted her name and rushed forward.
Count Vanhart stood frozen.
Sera blinked in confusion, stepping back—as if waking from a nightmare she hadn't felt.
She looked at her hands.
At the splintered remains of her wooden sword.
Then at Lysenne's crumpled form.
Her lips moved.
But no sound came.
Rodrik stepped forward from the terrace, calm but with aura coiled so tightly around him that the snowflake near his boot melted instantly.
He crossed the courtyard.
Kneeling beside Lysenne.
He touched her wrist.
Pulse faint.
Legs twisted the wrong way.
Shoulder dislocated.
He spoke with the same quiet severity he spoke orders.
"Fetch healers."
His voice carried.
No one hesitated.
Sera stood shaking.
Looking not at the girl she had injured, but at Rodrik.
Searching his eyes for an answer.
Or perhaps for absolution.
He gave her neither.
Only a single word, spoken not cruelly, but with the weight of what she would become if she walked this path further.
"Enough."
That Night – The Room of Regret
Rodrik sat in his chamber.
He did not light a lamp.
He did not change his clothes.
He sat in the same position for hours, staring at the wall.
His armor still bore flecks of snow from the courtyard.
The crumpled letter from Elira—long kept secret—lay on the desk.
Next to it, the empty vial of red potion.
He picked up the vial, turning it in his fingers.
Red shimmered faintly.
Perhaps imagined.
Perhaps real.
His jaw clenched.
"I never meant to take her future."
He spoke into the darkness.
"But I could not bear… that she lack what I lacked."
He leaned back.
A long, slow breath.
Then he reached into his drawer and pulled out a second vial.
The one he had been given "for certainty."
"Drink this," the cloaked man had said.
"If you ever feel yourself waver. It will lend you strength beyond all mortal limits."
Rodrik held the vial.
At first, he stared at it with disinterest.
Then with curiosity.
Then with something more dangerous.
If I cannot secure a legacy through peace…
I will through power.
He uncorked it.
The scent was metallic. Sharp. Like iron and rot.
He hesitated.
Not out of fear.
But because he already knew the cost.
Then—
He drank it.
Not quickly.
But like accepting his fate.
The drop slid down.
His heartbeat surged.
His aura flared red at the edges.
And he felt… alive.
For the first time since Elira's letter.
Alive.
Powerful.
Yet—
Hollow.
The Horror
Moments later.
He collapsed to one knee.
Breathing like something strangled from within.
Frost appeared on the floor around him, though his body burned. Steam rose off his skin.
Not heat.
Life force burning.
He steadied himself.
Slowly, deliberately, as if by mere will he refused to break.
"I accept this burden," he whispered.
"For House Vanhart."
"For victory."
"…and because I no longer know another way."
He lifted his head.
Eyes fully red.
Aura pulsing like heartbeats of a dying star.
"Let this curse consume what remains of me," he said.
"If it means no future of mine is left to shatter."
The Present
Now, sitting in the crumbling watchtower, memories circling like vultures, Rodrik exhaled.
His voice barely audible.
"I wanted to give her strength."
He closed his eyes.
"…not curse."
His hand reached out, grasping at air as if he could hold onto a past already fading.
Perhaps regret came too late.
Or perhaps—
Even the damned may still wish.
Snow fell against the narrow window.
Quiet.
Relentless.
As if the world mourned for what he became.