Homecoming(Part 2)

Veythor moved through the winding streets of Kranel, his steps slow but unrelenting. Blood soaked his tattered robes, each drop marking his path, staining the cobblestones. The scent of iron clung to him like a second skin, yet his face remained an unreadable mask. His crimson eyes, cold as death itself, burned through the dimming light. The pain gnawing at his body was a distant inconvenience, a trivial thing to be endured.

The evening wind brushed against his wounds, but it was of no consequence. His destination was near. The familiar sight of his home, a duplex rising amidst a well-kept garden, met his gaze. Its pale gray walls stood stark and silent, adorned with intricate black patterns that twisted like veins of shadow. It was beautiful. Controlled. A perfect reflection of Veythor's own existence. A world of blood and chaos trailed behind him, yet this sanctuary remained untouched, resolute.

As his eyes lingered on the house, a faint, bitter smile curled his lips.

How laughable. He had been on death's doorstep, saved by the hands of one of his greatest enemies. And yet, fate had flipped once more. He had slaughtered an entire tribe in his escape, barely clinging to life the entire time. The absurdity of it all a play where the roles shifted with every passing moment. He had been a mere actor, thrust into the lead by an unpredictable hand.

But beneath the irony, something simmered. A cold, unyielding annoyance.

At the gates of his home stood two guards. They stiffened at the sight of him, but not in shock. No, they had long since heard the rumors of his survival. Yet even so, the air between them was thick with hostility.

Veythor was the Supreme Commander of Narzan's military but admiration was a foreign concept. Hatred was his only companion. It wasn't his deeds that earned their scorn. It was his very existence. A lowborn commoner who had clawed his way to the highest military rank, a position that had always belonged to nobles. His rise had shattered their carefully crafted illusions of superiority, and for that, they despised him.

Veythor didn't care for their hatred. He had long since stopped caring for such trivial matters. But he understood the game of power. Reputation, like a finely honed weapon, could cut deeper than any sword. In a nation where the illusion of democracy stood precariously on the foundation of a tyrant's rule, perception was a deadly force. Even a whisper could be a dagger aimed at his throat.

The Emperor, Veythor thought, his mind as cold as the dead. That lecherous old fool, hiding his sins behind the mask of a dignified ruler. In his youth, he had gathered concubines like trophies, but the moment they bore his children, they were slaughtered. Paranoia had turned him into a butcher of his own bloodline.

The most corrupted family in all of Narzan, Veythor mused. How fitting. A kingdom ruled by filth, from top to bottom.

"Open the gates."

His voice was quiet, but the command carried an undeniable weight. The guards hesitated only for a brief moment, exchanging wary glances before the heavy gates creaked open. Their resentment was palpable, yet beneath it, a thread of fear trembled. They understood the difference between them. They were dogs, stationed at his doorstep and mercy.

Before stepping inside, Veythor paused. His next words were quieter, but no less sharp.

"Fetch a doctor. Quickly."

It was only then that the guards took in his condition bloodied robes, skin pale from the loss of blood. Their faces drained of color, and without another word, one of them turned and sprinted off.

Veythor entered his home without a glance back. The pain didn't matter. The exhaustion didn't matter.For now, survival was the only thing that mattered.

As he walked through the entrance hall, nostalgia swept over him. It had been over a week since he had set foot in this place. He reached the door, pushed it open, and stepped inside. The polished floors gleamed with a sterile brilliance. Before him stretched the dining hall, and beside it, the kitchen. Three bedrooms with attached bathrooms lay to the side. At the west end of the mansion, stairs led to the second floor.

The interior was impeccable, as always. It spoke of his taste, his control. Everything in its place.

Yet something was missing. The butler. Grey. Veythor's eyes flicked to the empty space. The old man should have been here by now.

Suddenly, the sound of boots echoed from the second-floor stairs. A tall figure descended, clad in a formal black suit and an eye patch over his right eye. It was Grey, the butler, his face frozen in shock at the sight of Veythor standing in the hallway.

"...Lord... Lord Veythor, you're alive?"

Grey's voice trembled, and his expression was unreadable a mix of shock, confusion, and something else. Was it sadness? Happiness? It was impossible to tell.

Veythor, indifferent as ever, let out a soft, cold laugh in his mind.

The whole empire knows I'm alive, yet this fool... he doesn't even know. How ignorant.

He spoke slowly, his tone flat, revealing nothing.

"Yes, as you can see, I'm alive... but"

Before he could finish, his body betrayed him. The world spun violently as darkness crept into the edges of his vision. Blood poured from his wounds, and he collapsed.

"Lord Veythor! Lord Veythor!" Grey screamed, rushing forward to catch him.

But Veythor's mind was already fading, consumed by the black void.

The scene shifted.

The Royal Court. The Sugen clan leader Sugen Riku was first to get out of the Royal court he walked, his fists clenched. He stopped in an isolated corner of the court, his teeth gritting in fury. With a swift motion, his fist collided with the wall, shattering it in an instant.

"Curse you, Emperor... Curse you, Veythor... you insects. Just wait. Just wait. I will crush you both underfoot."

His voice was a venomous whisper, filled with unrestrained anger.

He turned and strode to his carriage, his rage simmering beneath the surface. The wheels creaked as they began to turn, and the carriage vanished into the distance, leaving

only the aftermath of his fury.

As the Royal Court's session ended, the other nobles poured out, their expressions a mix of calculation and tension. Amidst them, Vaelina moved with quiet purpose her violet eyes cold, her face unreadable. The whispers around her didn't matter. The schemes and glances slid off her like water against steel.

She walked to her carriage without hesitation, and the moment she stepped inside, the doors shut with a finality that echoed her resolve.

"Veythor's mansion," she ordered. Her voice was calm, but the undertone of urgency couldn't be mistaken.

The horses surged forward, and the wheels rattled against the stones. Outside, the city of Kranel stretched in all directions a festering den of ambition and betrayal. But Vaelina's eyes remained fixed ahead.She knew Veythor was alive and wounded and no force in this empire would keep her from his side.