Kael lay unmoving. The essence had been absorbed. His body was quiet.
His eyelids twitched. A dull groan escaped as he opened his eyes, slow and sluggish. The ceiling stared back—cut stone, clean lines, crafted with precision. He noted it, but without interest.
His head ached. He didn't react.
He felt hollow. Not tired. Not broken. Just... empty. Like a room after the fire's gone out.
He raised his hand. Looked at it. No tremble, no blood. Just skin. Alive.
He remembered everything.
He lay still.
The silence cracked.
"I'm glad you're awake, young master."
Kael's gaze shifted toward the doorway. A man stood there, middle-aged, eyes calm. Unfamiliar.
Kael didn't respond.
"You're safe," the man said, stepping forward. He carried a tray—plain food, warm broth of soup, a cup of water.
Safe. The word meant nothing now.
Kael's voice was flat. "Where is this?"
"A safe place," the man replied. "You've been here awhile. Healing."
He set the tray down beside the bed.
"You should eat something."
Kael stared at the ceiling again. "I'm not hungry."
The man didn't press. "Still. It's there."
He turned to a shelf and pulled down a rolled scroll, unfurling it with slow care. A soft rustle filled the silence.
"I had this painted years ago," the man said absently. "A place I visited in the north. Cold winds, but the sky was clear. Funny what stays with us."
Kael said nothing.
The man glanced back. "You don't talk much."
"I don't need to."
"That so?"
Kael's voice remained low. "I remember everything. That's enough."
A pause.
The man nodded. "Pain does that. Fixes things in your mind. Makes them sharp."
Kael closed his eyes. "I don't want to talk about it."
"I didn't ask you to."
Silence again. Only the faint sound of the scroll flexing in the man's hands.
Then:
"You ever lost someone before?"
Kael didn't answer.
The man continued, not waiting. "First time hits different. Knocks the breath out. Leaves you thinking you're fine because you're still breathing."
Kael looked at him, expression unreadable. "What do you want from me?"
"Nothing." A small smile. "Just making sure you don't rot in that bed."
Kael's voice hardened slightly. "What if I do?"
The man returned to the scroll, eyes on the painted landscape. "Then the one who did this wins twice."
Kael's jaw tightened. "They're dead."
The man glanced over. "You sure?"
Kael didn't reply.
Another silence. Then:
"There are things your mother wanted for you," the man said quietly. "Things she may never have said."
Kael looked away. "You don't know her."
"I know her more than you know," the man said. "But I've seen this kind of grief before. And I've seen what happens when people think ignoring it makes them strong."
Kael turned to the wall. "I'm fine."
"That's what they all say."
The man placed the scroll back, picked up the tray and placed it on the table.
"Your father would be disappointed," he added casually, heading for the door.
Kael blinked.
The man paused, half-turned. "You'll want to be stronger when you meet him."
"I don't want to meet him."
"Then be strong for yourself. Or for her. Doesn't matter."
Kael didn't respond.
The man left, leaving the tray untouched on the table and the quiet heavier than before.
The door closed.
Silence again.
Kael stared at the tray. Steam rose in thin wisps, curling, vanishing. It would go cold soon. He didn't care.
Your father would be disappointed.
The words rang hollow. Empty air dressed as meaning.
I don't want to meet him, Kael had said—and he meant it. Or maybe he didn't. Maybe he just didn't want to want anything.
He breathed in. Slow. Shallow. His chest felt tight, like something was curled up in there, unmoving. Coiled.
Grief needs energy, the man had said.
Kael felt none. No energy. No rage. No sorrow. Not even guilt, though he should. Shouldn't he?
He'd watched her fall. Heard her last breath. Her hand slipping from his. Nothing had stopped it.
He'd screamed then. Or maybe he hadn't. It was all a blur now. What came after was red and fire and stillness.
He closed his eyes again. Darkness didn't help. The ceiling had been better—at least it didn't ask anything of him.
He thought of her voice, but couldn't remember the sound. Just the shape of her mouth when she smiled.
It should've broken him. But it didn't. He was still here.
Why?
You failed to protect her.
The words stung, not because they were cruel, but because they were true. And yet… he didn't cry.
Did that make him cruel too? Or just too far gone?
Maybe this was strength. Maybe this emptiness was what warriors were made of. Or maybe it was just what was left behind when all the good parts died.
His fingers clenched faintly.
He didn't want revenge. Not yet.
He didn't want forgiveness either.
He just wanted… nothing. A void big enough to sleep in. Big enough to forget.
But the man had said her killer might still be out there.
Will you take that chance?
No. He wouldn't. He couldn't.
If there was a chance—any chance—that the thing that took her was still breathing…
Then maybe he did want something after all.
Something quiet.
Something final.