As he stood before the tall iron gate, his heart did pound with wild unrest, as though it would leap from his breast and flee before him.
Each beat rang louder than the last, a cruel herald of some unseen dread. His mind was a storm of shadows, and in it he saw the worst that might be: the cries, the chains, the ruin within.
The gate, vast and unmoving, groaned to life. The guards placed hand upon its cold frame, and slowly, with iron sighs and the moan of old hinges, it opened.
He stepped inside.
He stepped within, and at once a strange silence took him—not of peace, but of weight, like the hush before a storm. His feet moved as if through water, slow and unwilling, and a coldness crept over him, not from wind, but from what he beheld.
Color fled his face, and he stood as one struck dumb by a vision too cruel for waking eyes. For what lay before him was sorrow made flesh.
There—between two armored men—was Castian, his brother, wild with fury. His eyes blazed like fire caught in a tempest, and he strained against their grip like a lion held in chains. Wrath poured from him with every breath, not for his own plight, but for hers—for the girl.
And there she stood.
Ira, their sister, held fast in the grasp of a third guard. Her small body trembled as a leaf caught in winter's breath. Her hands hung limp, and from her eyes fell tears—not one nor two, but a river, steady and sorrowful.
She did not speak, for fear had taken her voice. Only her eyes cried out.
Acheros turned his gaze to the figure seated beyond them all.
There, upon a chair wrought of iron—stern and without mercy, shaped as if to mock a throne—sat the knave.
Their father.
Expressionless. Silent. Watching.
And in that silence, a thousand words were spoken—none of them love.
For the first time, Acheros showed the frailty of his soul; no longer clad in pride's bright armour, he sped like a desperate man to the knave.
There, with voice trembling and heart bared, he fell upon his knees and begged,
"Pray, forgive me this once! I swear, nevermore shall I draw near to them again. But grant me this mercy—let them go, but this once!"
Yet the knave uttered not a word. His face was a canvas of cold disappointment, emotions writ clear as stormclouds gathering o'er a wasted field.
His gaze fixed upon Acheros, sharp and unyielding, before he gave silent command.
A signal to his right hand man, and straightway two guards seized Acheros, dragging him toward the iron chair that stood like a throne behind the knave. They held him fast, cruelly bound by strength and will.
The right hand man strode from the chamber, and time did stretch with heavy breath. At last, he returned, accompanied by two guards who bore the Grand Duchess within.
She had pounded upon her chamber door, crying out to behold her dear children once more. But now, as she was brought forth, her face was pale and sunk, marked by sorrow deep and long endured—her heart heavy, and her strength all but spent.
She raised her voice with all the strength of her heart and cried out:
"Thou wretched man! Thou filthy varlet! No man art thou, but a twisted beast!" Her voice did ring aloud, fierce and piercing, cleaving through the heavy, laden air of the chamber.
She strove to move forward, heart torn, to storm near that knave; yet the guards held her fast, their grasp unyielding as forged iron, denying her even the smallest step.
Upon his lips curled a cruel and bitter smile, cold as winter's breath.
"Now begins the true torment," he whispered low, dark as shadow itself.
Then, softer yet no less sharp, he commanded, "Release my wife."
The guards obeyed, loosening their hold. Yet she did not move.
She well perceived that should she hasten to her children, the guards would cast them down unto the ravening beasts that lurked below—fierce, untamed, and hungry for their feast.
The knave's lips curved to a cruel, mocking grace as he bent near and breathed, "Why dost thou stand thus frozen dear?"
This day, at last, you shall feel the pain my father knew when thine own father slew my brothers before his very eyes."
Airelle cried out, her voice sharp with fury and grief,
"'Twas my uncle who bore that blood-guilt, not my father—nor was it I! And even so, these children are thy own flesh—"
But ere she could finish, the knave raised a hand and cut her short. "Dear heart, thou drawest this out longer than need be," he said, his voice smooth and cold. "Shall we begin?"
Then, turning his gaze to the guards, he uttered, "Drop the lad and the lass."
"No!" cried Airelle, her voice breaking.
But the word came too late. The guards loosed the children from their grasp, casting them down—not from a deadly height, but far enough that the beasts below caught their scent and stirred. The air grew thick with growls and snarls as the creatures charged forth, wild and starved. They had given castian a sword per the knave's command he wasn't fully trained yet did what was within his will he did shield his dearest sister.
With no thought but love and fear, Airelle turned upon Valentino Virhieren, seizing him by the collar in rage and despair.
Behind them stood Acheros, silent as stone, his face unreadable—yet from his eyes fell a river of tears, slow and unending as if he had lost.
"Stop this at once!"
Airelle cried, her voice trembling with desperation.
"Do what thou wilt to me—but spare them!"
The words left her lips without thought, carried by a mother's heart, not reason.
In a wild breath, she reached for the knave's sword and tore it from its sheath, her hands near shaking. Without pause, she turned and rushed toward the edge of the stadium, where her children still lay and the beasts prowled below.
She had but scarce taken a step when Valentino seized her, holding her back with sudden strength. His grasp was gentle, not cruel, and he drew close, speaking low so none but she could hear whispering gently in her ear he spoke:
"Now is not the hour for thee to die, my dear," he murmured.
Then, lifting his eyes, he looked to Acheros, who stood as stone—no word upon his lips, yet tears ran silent down his face.
"Dost thou wish to save them?" Valentino asked, his voice steady, heavy with meaning.
"Then do so," said the knave, his voice calm as a blade in the dark.
Acheros did not wait. In a single breath, he wrenched the sword from his mother's grasp and ran—faster than thought—toward the edge of the stadium. With a cry caught in his throat, he leapt down.
His eyes found his brother first—Castian, bloodied and worn, shielding their little sister with what strength he had left. Then he saw Ira, trembling beneath her brother's arm, her face streaked with tears and dust.
Acheros stepped before them, sword drawn, and whispered, "Move back."
They did not question. With quiet trust, they shifted behind him. Then with that iron blade, Acheros fell upon the beasts. Four he slew, swift and without mercy. The fifth had already met its end—Castian's doing.
The beasts lay still, and the ground drank their blood.
Then Acheros turned. He came close to his siblings, knelt, and whispered words no ear but theirs would ever know.
Castian's eyes widened, his face stricken with dread. Ira, not knowing, clung to him tight.
Then came the blow.
The sword—his father's blade—rose once more in Acheros's hand. In a single, terrible arc, it fell.
And both heads—Castian's and Ira's—fell with it.
By his very own will he did so, this cruel deed.
........To be continued