Chapter Seven: Before the Blood Sets
This chapter is not merely a chain of events—
but a reversed mirror, reflecting the faces of children asked to act as grown men.
In Before the Blood Sets, Iswar confronts echoes of a past he thought he'd buried,
while Ayant delivers judgment with words colder than his hands.
Elsewhere, a mother waits… unaware that mercy may never arrive.
---
The corridor leading to the cellar wasn't merely narrow—its very walls seemed to breathe, pressing closer with every step, as if testing the will to proceed.
Iswar walked ahead, his left hand rising instinctively behind him without looking back, gesturing to Ayanth:
— "Well done."
A passing phrase, uttered thousands of times before, but this time it landed with a peculiar weight—as though the wall had swallowed it before it reached.
Ayanth, with a soft smile and a silent nod, replied: — "Thank you."
The sound of their footsteps on the cold stone wasn't just an echo—it was more like an ancient murmur, emanating from the depths of the cellar, from a mouth waiting to devour the truth.
In the long silence of the hallway, Iswar's thoughts drifted in like a pale breeze.
The corridor feels longer than I remember... and quieter. Why do I feel the urge to speak?
He glanced sideways toward Ayanth.
He's useful... more than I expected.
He smiled to himself, then abruptly shook his head as if to dislodge the thought from his skull.
No, not again... There was someone like this—perhaps in the tenth life...
And then something within him dimmed.
Damn it. What if this one dies too?
And he wasn't wrong—like a premonition etched in certainty.
His hand reached to rub the back of his neck in frustration, but he snapped back into focus when he heard Ayanth's voice:
— "We've arrived, Iswar."
Soft-spoken. Devoid of reverence. And yet... that was precisely what Iswar liked about him.
He answered lightly: — "Good… let's go play."
Ayanth smiled—a rare, sincere smile, his eyes aglow as if lit from within. To an onlooker, they were just two seven-year-old boys, sharing a joke before a game. A game, perhaps. Nothing more.
---
I hadn't expected him to speak.
This, from my perspective—me, Ayanth.
He had been silent the whole way, then suddenly: "Well done."
His image is still vivid in my mind—rubbing his neck, fidgeting with his brows, raking his fingers through that pale blue hair.
I thought he was bored, seeking distraction. But he was smiling...
That smile—faint as it was—carried things unspoken.
His crystalline pupils, ablaze, seemed to yearn for some warmth despite their cold gleam.
But I brushed the thought aside.
Because I had already entered the cellar.
---
The cellar was dark—no scent but cold metal and stale sweat.
In the far corner of the room: a woman.
Her brown hair clung to her face, as if her sweat feared to fall.
Her eyes—muddy and trembling—stared into nothingness, pleading for escape.
Her hands and feet were tightly bound to a wooden chair that creaked under the weight of shame and fear.
Beside her, a table—papers, a pen, and several tools... not meant for ink.
Against the wall stood Raphael.
His presence was like a shadow stepped out of a forgotten book.
A long cloak enveloped him entirely.
When he saw us, he moved, and his voice rang out:
— "Raphael humbly greets the Twin of Shira, of the Underworld."
He knelt in a ritualistic pose—right knee bent, left raised at a calculated angle. His right hand over his chest, left behind his back, chin raised, gaze steady upon us.
---
The maid flinched.
As if the word "Shira" alone summoned her entire past.
She trembled. Screamed. Then fell silent.
Her eyes widened as though she'd just seen her death approach.
She knew.
Yes, she knew well what that name meant.
---
Ayanth motioned gently for Raphael to rise.
There was no need for theatrics—not in front of us.
We—Iswar and I—knew his real face.
As for the maid...
She wouldn't live long enough to speak of it.
---
Iswar took a seat on a decorated chair, facing her dilapidated one, as though upon a throne overlooking an altar.
Before him, a carved table set with strange foods, emitting a searing aroma.
Ayanth approached and poured the tea.
Raphael withdrew to the side in silence.
Iswar began tapping the table with his finger.
It wasn't a casual rhythm…
It was the sound of execution laid upon wood.
His long hair swayed over his shoulder, brushing the table, as he spoke in a calm voice:
— "So… what's the latest information?"
— "Her name is Mira, of the remnants of House Arma—the royal bloodline of the fallen kingdom of Vellar."
Raphael's voice dropped as if the ground itself refused to echo it.
— "The unacknowledged daughter of Queen Elissan. Her estimated age… eighteen."
Then silence.
He remained standing—not looking at the girl, but watching Iswar's face, as if seeking permission: Shall we proceed?
But Iswar said nothing, merely tilted his head toward Ayanth.
A silence with meaning.
Ayanth approached slowly.
Knelt before Mira.
Looked straight into her eyes, then whispered:
— "So that's why you were so calm…"
She did not reply.
Her right eye trembled, but the left remained fixed—defiant.
She was no maid.
She never was.
Ayanth raised his hand and brushed her hair aside, as if reading memories buried in the strands.
Then he slapped her.
Once. Gently—but precisely.
More a test than an insult.
She didn't scream. Instead, she lifted her chin, even as blood trickled.
Iswar, seated, took a sip of tea and asked with icy calm:
— "Raphael, how long have we known?"
— "Two weeks. But we waited for confirmation through royal-blood analysis. She is Elissan's descendant—no doubt."
The air ceased to move.
Even the walls seemed to freeze, watching.
Iswar lifted a finger toward Raphael.
— "When did she contact the Northerners?"
— "Five days ago. Seen entering through the third passage, beneath the reservoir, and leaving hours later. We didn't report it—assumed it was a drill."
Ayanth stepped back.
Then, without hesitation, he kicked the chair she was bound to.
It toppled violently—her head struck the wall.
She gasped.
A sound escaped—but it wasn't a complaint.
It was as if something else inside her broke. Something nameless.
Iswar didn't move.
He simply gestured again.
Raphael stepped forward, undid a knot in his robe, drew out a blue liquid, and poured it over her wound. Then produced a short needle.
He was preparing her to collapse.
Ayanth watched like one observing a play.
He asked softly:
— "When did your kingdom die?"
Mira's lips quivered.
Perhaps to reply—or spit.
But she only cried.
Silent... defiant.
---
Suddenly, Iswar struck the table.
The teacup overturned, spilling to the floor.
He shouted, voice shaking the air:
— "Who helped you? Who opened the passage? Who promised you the throne?!"
Mira gasped.
Then screamed.
It was the scream of someone who doesn't refuse because they don't know—but because they do, and know the truth is the crime.
Raphael whispered:
— "Your Majesty… if we continue at this pace, she'll lose consciousness."
Iswar rose.
Approached her.
Knelt, lifted her face by the chin, and said:
— "All fallen kingdoms dreamed of return. But you… you knocked on the wrong door."
Then, almost tenderly:
— "Here… no one returns."
The distance from the door to the chair was only a few steps.
But between the first scream… and the final breath, a chasm opened—not measured in distance, but in sound.
---
Iswar entered the room as if it were a vacant classroom.
Sat on his carved chair. Gestured without looking at the bound body.
The echo of his shoes against stone was followed by Ayanth's soft whisper as he poured the tea:
— "Begin."
Raphael needed no more.
---
By the wall, the first sound pierced the silence.
The crack of bone—not a clean break, but a cold technique allowing one to hear every stage: Compression. Resistance. Then the slow split.
Followed by a stifled choke in the throat.
She didn't scream.
She was trying to remain a princess.
Raphael remained unfazed.
He said coldly, pressing a metal rod into her shoulder:
— "Tell us what we need, and this will end."
But this had only just begun.
---
At some point, Ayanth heard the sharp sound of the dagger piercing through the fingernail.
Like a shard of glass slipping between life and unconsciousness.
He took a sip of tea, then said in a neutral tone:
— "Strong."
Iswar, who had been watching his hair sway and brush against the table, murmured:
— "Not the strongest."
Then came the sound of a chain dragging across the floor—a long metallic echo, as if the walls were groaning with it—followed by the thud of a body being pulled and thrown to the ground.
**
— "Who helped you?"
No answer.
— "Who's the head?"
Silence.
— "Where do you send the messages?"
A moan. Just a moan.
Raphael approached the table, picked up a sharp tool with three metallic prongs, and slowly hovered it above her chest.
**
In that moment… Ayanth heard something he hadn't heard in a long time:
The sound of teeth grinding.
Not from pain... but from an inner decision.
Mira had decided not to speak—not because the pain was tolerable, but because she needed to die this way… to be sent this way.
Iswar whispered, his tone faint and cold:
— "The message speaks louder than words."
**
Hours later—or perhaps a single minute; time had no meaning here—
Raphael stood before Iswar.
— "She won't speak."
— "Perfect... proceed with the rest."
The first box was opened.
The knife was no longer for harm, but for precise dissection.
Each piece was laid carefully into a velvet-lined box, labeled with a note:
"To Elissan… No introductions."
Ayanth didn't lift his head.
The slicing was clear, but what stuck in his mind most…
was the final, wet sound—when the head separated from the body,
and landed on the fabric like an apple plucked in autumn.
**
Iswar rose to his feet and said:
— "Send it before sunset."
Then, glancing toward the corpse—or what was left of it—he whispered, as if she could still hear him:
— "You were brave. Unfortunately… in the wrong time."
And he walked out.
---