Forty-five minutes had passed. The room lay steeped in oppressive dimness, the only movement the slow rise and fall of Veythor's breath. He sprawled across the vast bed, his crimson eyes half-lidded, flickering over the study table before him a battlefield of worn tomes, scattered papers, and open books. The whispers of far off lands drifted through the open balcony doors, carried by a cool night breeze that tasted both sweet and bitter.
The healer had come and gone, his presence leaving behind a trace of magic a subtle, electric hum still clinging to Veythor's skin. His left side throbbed beneath the tight wrap of fresh bandages, the ache settling into him like an old, familiar companion. Pain had become his constant relentless, unforgiving. It no longer bothered him. It anchored him.
In the corner, Grey stood like a shadow, his cigarette's ember flaring briefly in the gloom. The orange glow carved sharp, fleeting lines across his face. No words passed between them. The silence was heavy, almost suffocating the kind of silence that grew in the aftermath of violence.
A flicker of movement. Veythor stirred barely noticeable, but Grey caught it. Grey always caught it. Without a word, he flicked his half-burned cigarette toward his lord.
Veythor's hand shot out, snatching it from the air with effortless grace. The motion was as automatic as breathing. He brought it to his lips, the first bitter drag burning its way down his throat. The sharpness lingered, but it was the most comforting thing he'd felt all day. Smoke curled around him like an old friend a solace only fire and ash could provide.
The smog thickened, saturating the air. Veythor was a chain smoker had been since his first life. The cigarette was his most loyal companion, a strange comfort in the madness that defined his existence.
"Lord Veythor…" Grey's voice finally broke the stillness low and deliberate. "Are you feeling better now?"
Veythor's crimson gaze flicked toward him, lingering for the briefest moment before shifting back to the balcony. The evening breeze tugged at his hair, cool against his skin. The sun had slipped beneath the horizon, leaving only a dim, bruised sky behind.
"Yes… I'm fine." His voice was quiet, almost a murmur. He exhaled slowly, the smoke rising in jagged tendrils toward the ceiling.
Grey, wordless, lit another cigarette for himself. The flame briefly illuminated the shadows that clung to him. This was their ritual shared smoke and shared silence. They'd done this countless times before, but they never truly shared their thoughts.
As they smoked, Veythor's mind drifted. Four years. Four years since Grey had entered his service a loyal shadow, always watchful, always present. And yet Veythor had never fully trusted him.
The man had no past. No history worth mentioning. Only sharp eyes, empty words, and hands that held far too many secrets. The suspicion lingered a quiet hum at the back of his mind. If Grey was a spy, a tool of the Emperor meant to watch him, Veythor would deal with him without hesitation when the time came.
The cigarette burned low between his fingers. Grey passed him another, along with a lighter.
"Shall I bring us some wine?" Grey's voice was careful, neutral. "Something to eat, perhaps? Considering the long journey…"
Veythor considered. His body still ached, the exhaustion a weight on his shoulders. But the thought of wine stirred something deeper not quite hunger, not quite thirst. A reprieve. A brief escape.
"Hm… Yes," Veythor said at last, his tone indifferent. "Bring it. I'll take a shower first."
He stood slowly, his body protesting every movement. Pain flared in his side, sharp and insistent but he welcomed it. With a final, lingering drag, he crushed the cigarette beneath his boot and made his way toward the stairs.
Grey slipped toward the balcony, his figure blending with the darkness. Veythor paused at the bathroom door, one hand resting against the frame. Beyond these thin walls lay a world of shifting alliances and treachery where the cost of survival was steep, and the rules changed with every breath.
He stepped inside without a backward glance.
The clothes fell away, and the mirror reflected the truth of his existence. His body was a map of war a canvas of deep, vicious scars. More than 198 marks crisscrossed his skin, each one telling a story of survival, betrayal, and blood.
But one scar stood above the rest a jagged, terrible wound at the center of his chest. The skin there had turned a deep, unnatural gray, the aftermath of a blade meant to end his life. The memory of that wound still lingered, a reminder of how close he'd come to death and how even that hadn't been enough to claim him.
The water ran hot. Steam rose. Veythor closed his eyes and let the heat soak into his battered flesh, but the tension never left his shoulders. It never did.
The wheels of the royal carriage thundered against the stone streets of Narzan. Pedestrians scattered, curses trailing in its wake. One man wasn't fast enough he stumbled back, nearly crushed beneath the iron-rimmed wheels.
"You fucker,bastard! Are you blind—"
A hand clamped over his mouth, dragging him back into the alley's shadows. The second man's face was pale with fear.
"Shut your mouth, you idiot!" the man hissed. "That's a royal carriage! Do you want to die?!"
The civilian's eyes widened, his anger giving way to terror. He spat onto the ground, his voice dropping to a bitter whisper.
"Those damn royal bloods…"
But inside the carriage, Vaelina heard the curses. She simply didn't care.
The only thing she cared for was Veythor.
Her heart pounded violently against her ribs. Her violet eyes burned with a cold, relentless fury. The very air inside the carriage seemed heavy thick with the weight of her emotions.
Oh, Veythor… Please be safe.
She loved veythor more than anything Her love for him was not gentle. It was not kind. It was an obsession fierce, unshakable, unstoppable.
As the eldest princess of one of the world's greatest empires, Vaelina had everything. Wealth. Status. Power. A life of privilege and influence. But none of it mattered.
She would burn it all to the ground if it meant keeping Veythor by her side. If it ever came down to a choice between the world and Veythor…
The world would fall without hesitation.
The carriage sped on, and at last, a glimpse of Veythor's mansion rose in the distance stark, imposing, and silent.
Veythor emerged from the bathroom, steam trailing behind him. He wore a loose, dark kimono-style robe, the fabric flowing around his lean frame. The scent of smoke and blood had been washed away, but the cold weight of tension never left his shoulders.
Outside, the sound of hooves and wheels drew closer. The guards at the gate exchanged wary glances the moment they saw the royal carriage approaching. They knelt even before the door opened.
But Vaelina had no patience for formalities.
The carriage door burst open, slamming against the frame. The guards caught a brief glimpse of her face and their hearts froze. Even among royalty, Vaelina's presence was terrifying.
She didn't walk. She ran.
The gates opened without question, the guards scrambling to get out of her way.
She didn't slow. She didn't hesitate.Vaelina ran toward the mansion toward him.
The heavy oak doors of Veythor's mansion swung open with a low, resounding creak. Vaelina stepped inside, her violet eyes blazing with urgency. The entry hall stretched before her vast and dim, the flickering torchlight casting long, wavering shadows across the marble floor. The cold air smelled faintly of smoke and steel.
And then she saw him.
Veythor stood at the far end of the hall, poised and still. The soft rustle of his kimono-like robes followed the rise and fall of his breath. His crimson eyes lifted, and the moment they met hers, everything else ceased to matter.
She didn't think. She ran.
Her footsteps echoed sharply against the marble, her heart pounding with every stride. Fear tightened her chest fear of what could've happened, of how close she had come to losing him.
When she reached him, she didn't slow. She crashed into him, her arms wrapping tightly around his waist, her face burying against his chest. Only when she felt the steady, familiar rhythm of his heartbeat did the suffocating ache in her chest begin to ease.
"Veythor…" Her voice was barely a whisper, broken and trembling. "You're alive…"
For a long moment, he didn't move. His hands remained at his sides, his body stiff beneath her touch. His crimson eyes stared down at her, distant and unreadable, as if she were nothing more than an inconvenience.
And then slowly, with deliberate precision his arms rose. But instead of embracing her, he pushed her away.
"Princess," his voice was cold, each word laced with a sharpness that cut through the space between them. "Why are you here alone? Where are your guards?"
Vaelina blinked, eyes wide, her hands still outstretched, trembling slightly. "Why do you always do this?" she whispered, pain creeping into her voice.
Veythor's expression didn't change. His gaze was like stone, unyielding. "You should never have come," he said flatly. "You are the daughter of the Emperor of Narzan, a woman of the Royal Astaline family. And I?" He paused, voice lowering to a cold rasp. "I am nothing more than a commoner. You lower yourself by being here."
Her fists clenched at her sides, frustration and anger boiling inside her. "Is that really what you think?"
His gaze didn't waver, as if he were speaking to someone beneath him. "It's the truth," he replied simply, with the indifference of a man who had already made his decision long ago.
"But you're alive," she whispered again, her voice strained, desperate to break through the wall he had built. "That's all that matters to me."
For a heartbeat, his eyes flickered with something something faint, but gone almost as soon as it appeared. His mask remained intact.
"You shouldn't have come," he said again, turning away without a second glance. His voice was final.
She fell down on her knees and started crying.Veythor stood there firmly she was just a nuisance to him for him he thought
Love? He laughed inwardly, bitterly. Hahaha...
Throughout these three lives of mine, I loved,I loved, and I loved again. It was this very love that made me naive, that made me soft, that ultimately led to my destruction in each life. If you ever fall in love, you'll understand more than anything, you'll understand.
In truth, love is futile. There is no innocence in it. People don't lean toward each other out of pure affection, but for their own gain. They call it love when it's nothing more than a poisoned dagger buried deep beneath the guise of affection. The mask of love is always a lie, a veil covering the selfish desires that lurk beneath.
In the end, love is nothing but a destruction bringing drug a destructive, addictive curse. It warps, it distorts, it tears you apart. And no matter how you struggle, no one can lift that curse for you...no one.