Fractured Bonds
One of the Upper Realm castle hung heavy with the weight of unspoken words and shadowed memories.
Andreas walked its echoing halls, each step a muffled drumbeat against the silence, a rhythm mirroring the frantic pounding of his heart.
Regret, a cold serpent, coiled around his soul, constricting his breath.
His mind wondering through the one he loved Fenrathion, now dead due to his actions.
He saw her then, his wife, her presence a stark, unwelcome interruption in his self-imposed solitude.
Her eyes, usually sparkling with mischief, now burned with a cold, bitter fire.
"You fool," Lyraea hissed, her voice a venomous whisper that sliced through the stillness.
"A king, consumed by an elf. Blindly, hopelessly."
Each word was a poisoned dart, aimed precisely at the softest parts of his heart.
He felt the sting of her contempt, a familiar pain that had become a constant companion.
Andreas raised his head slowly, his gaze meeting hers. The years etched on her face were a testament to their fractured bond, a stark reminder of the choices they had made.
A black shadow, born of his despair and anger, snaked around his arm, its thorny tendrils sharp and menacing.
It felt like a physical manifestation of his inner turmoil, a dark reflection of his tormented soul.
With a controlled movement, almost reluctant, he flicked the shadow towards Lyraea. It struck her with the force of a battering ram, sending her crashing against the ancient stone wall.
The sound of cracking stone was a grim counterpoint to the sickening crunch of her body against the unforgiving surface.
Blood blossomed on her lips, a crimson stain against her pale skin.
Lyraea coughed, a ragged, painful sound that echoed the turmoil within her.
She struggled to rise, her eyes blazing with a mixture of defiance and despair.
He saw the flicker of pain, a brief moment of vulnerability that only intensified his self-loathing.
"He was… he was everything you are not," he pointed coldly, each word laced with a potent mixture of sorrow and spite.
The words were a cruel echo of his own unspoken doubts, a confirmation of the chasm that separated them.
Andreas felt a surge of fury, a dark tide threatening to engulf him.
"Hah! You speak so full of yourself yet you killed him yourself".
More shadows, sharp as shards of obsidian, erupted from his hand, each one a tangible expression of his rage.
"Speak no ill of my love," he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that shook the very foundations of the castle.
The shadows impaled Lyraea, pinning her to the ground, each thorn a searing reminder of her betrayal.
He felt a grim satisfaction, a twisted sense of justice, as he watched her writhe in pain.
But beneath the anger, a cold dread settled in his heart.
He turned and walked away, leaving Lyraea to her torment, each step a heavy burden of guilt and regret.
A small figure amidst the shadows, her son, Kaelvhar. The sight of her son, his innocent face etched with concern, pierced the hardened shell around his heart.
"Mommy!" Kaelvhar cried, his voice a desperate plea that cut through Lyraea's hardened exterior.
He rushed towards Lyraea, his small form a stark contrast to the brutality unfolding before him.
Lyraea raised a hand, a shimmering barrier of magic forming between Kaelvhar and herself.
It was a shield, but also a wall, separating her from her son, from any possibility of reconciliation.
"No," she whispered, her voice strained, a fragile thread against the storm raging within her.
"I need to die. Don't… don't pity me. Especially not you."
Her words were a confession, a desperate plea for release, a final act of self-imposed exile.
Kaelvhar's eyes widened, his small face a mask of confusion and hurt.
Unlike his father's harsh words, his mother's rejection cut deeper, a wound that would fester and scar. Tears streamed down his face, hot and uncontrolled.
"Why?" he sobbed, his voice cracking with the weight of his grief.
"Why do you hate me?" His question hung in the air, a desperate cry for understanding in a world that seemed determined to deny him solace.
Lyraea remained silent, her eyes closed, after a few minutes her body slowly dissolving into ash.
The barrier around her vanished, leaving only the lingering scent of decay and the echo of her final, heartbreaking words.
Kaelvhar fell to his knees, his cries echoing through the desolate hall, a lament for a mother lost, a love denied.
A maid who was strolling through the halls saw this and rushed to him, her arms offering comfort, a brief respite from the darkness that had enveloped him.
Kaelvhar's grief transformed into rage, a volcanic eruption of sorrow and pain.
A roar, raw and uncontrolled, shattered the castle's silence, a testament to the raw power of his despair.
The maid was thrown back, her ankles snapping under the force of his outburst.
Fear replaced rage in Kaelvhar's eyes, a stark realization of the destructive power he possessed.
He apologized frantically, his voice trembling with remorse. The maid, despite her pain, pulled him into a hug.
"Let it out," she murmured, her voice soft and understanding, a balm to his wounded soul.
For an hour, Kaelvhar wept, until exhaustion claimed him, leaving him drained but strangely calm.
He then went in his room when he heard his father's furious voice, a sound that sent a shiver down his spine.
He peeked out and saw Andreas gripping the maid's throat, his face contorted in a mask of rage.
In a flash of horror, he witnessed the maid's head explode, a gruesome spectacle that seared itself into his memory.
"Stop!" Kaelvhar screamed, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and outrage.
Andreas turned, a cruel smile twisting his lips, a chilling expression that mirrored the darkness within his heart.
"You will know suffering," he said, his voice cold as the grave, devoid of any warmth or compassion.
"Suffering like I have known." His words were a prophecy, a cruel promise of pain and despair.
After witnessing, Kaelvhar felt nothing. Emptiness consumed him, a chilling void that replaced the torrent of emotions that had ravaged him just moments before.
He walked to his room, his face impassive, a mask of emotional numbness. The castle around him seemed to mirror his inner turmoil, objects levitating and falling, a chaotic dance of destruction.
He heard a clang somewhat similar to a broken mirror, he turned and saw the slightly cracked mirror he cherished, he rushed to see if it would still work but no, it no longer did.
he hugged the mirror trying to piece it back but when he realized that it was totally broken, he had given up, that was when a spark of an idea ignited within the darkness.