Chapter 38: Scars of Yesterday

"Father, you called for me?" Ingrid asked as she stepped into the dimly lit chamber.

Lord Gruhl lay weakly on his bed, his frail hands resting atop the heavy quilt. His once-imposing figure had withered with age, his skin wrinkled like parchment left too long in the sun. His fingers trembled as he reached for his daughter's hand, gripping it lightly.

"I heard that Golan is unwell," he said, his voice raspy and weak. "I need you to go and see him in his dwelling in the village. Take your husband with you and send him my best wishes."

Ingrid frowned. "Lord Golan? How long has he been ill, Father?"

"Just recently." Lord Gruhl coughed into his sleeve, the sound dry and hollow. "It weighs on me to know an old friend is suffering. You must go."

"Of course," Ingrid said softly. She leaned down and kissed his forehead. "Rest, Father. I will go see him."

… … …

The morning sun bathed the land in hues of gold as Ingrid and Belin rode toward the village. The cobblestone streets bustled with merchants, beggars, and peasants going about their daily business. As they neared the village center, they dismounted their horses.

"My lord!" a familiar voice called out.

A young boy ran up to them, his face beaming with excitement. It was the same boy Belin had helped.

"Allow me to guard your horses while you are away, my lord," the boy offered eagerly.

Belin gave him a brief nod. "Fine."

The boy grinned, taking the reins as Belin and Ingrid walked deeper into the village.

It did not take long before Ingrid began to feel the weight of the people's stares. Whispers filled the air, hushed yet sharp, piercing her like arrows.

"Look at her."

"A spoiled wretch."

"What a fool she is."

"Can you believe she walks so proudly?"

Ingrid lowered her gaze, her fingers curling into her palm. Belin, sensing her discomfort, reached for her hand, interlacing their fingers. His thumb brushed softly against the back of her hand—a silent reassurance.

"Lead me to Lord Golan's house," he said, his voice firm yet calm.

They pressed on, ignoring the murmurs and the judgmental glares, until they arrived at a quieter part of the village. Ingrid exhaled, releasing Belin's hand before knocking on the wooden door.

An elderly woman with gray-streaked hair opened it, and her eyes widened with delight.

"Ingrid!" she gasped, pulling her into a warm embrace. "Oh, how I've missed you, child. Forgive me for not attending your wedding—my husband needed my care."

Her gaze then shifted to Belin. "And this must be your husband."

"Yes, he is." Ingrid replied shortly.

The woman led them inside to Lord Golan's chamber. He lay upon his bed, his body weakened by illness. His long, graying beard contrasted starkly against his pale skin. But when he saw Ingrid, his weary eyes brightened.

"Ingrid," he rasped. "Is it truly you?"

Ingrid smiled, taking a seat beside him. "It is me, my lord."

Belin remained standing, watching silently as Ingrid reached for Lord Golan's hand, her fingers brushing gently against his.

"My father sends his deepest apologies for not being able to visit. He has been unwell himself. But he wishes you a swift recovery."

Lord Golan chuckled weakly. "We are all growing old, Ingrid. Time steals our strength, leaving only memories of our youth." He coughed, his body trembling. "Your father and I fought side by side in our glory days. Those battles are behind us now. This—this is the fate that awaits all warriors."

"You are still as strong as ever in my eyes," Ingrid murmured, squeezing his hand gently.

A deep warmth flickered in Lord Golan's gaze. "You have always mattered, Ingrid. Do not let anyone tell you otherwise."

"You were the only one who made me feel that way besides my father," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

Lord Golan turned his gaze to Belin. "Take care of her, young man. She is a rare soul."

Belin inclined his head. "I will. That is my promise."

After a long conversation, Ingrid and Belin finally bid farewell. Ingrid placed a gentle kiss on Lord Golan's forehead before they departed.

… … …

The afternoon sky stretched endlessly above them as they rode across the vast green fields. A comfortable silence settled between them, broken only by the rhythmic sound of hooves against the ground.

Belin finally spoke. "He seems to mean a great deal to you. May I ask why?"

Ingrid exhaled. "I used to be weak. Ugly. Fat. People inside the castle looked at me as if I were a fragile thing, something that would shatter at the slightest touch. Outside, they whispered behind my back, calling me a bastard."

Belin listened intently, his gaze never leaving her face.

"My mother was an entertainer," she continued. "Father met her in Windham Island while chasing rebels with your father. He fell for her, blinded by love—or lust, as they say. She demanded he pay her debts before she would marry him. He agreed, not realizing she already had a son, Leofrey, until they were ready to return home."

Belin frowned. "And the people never let you forget it."

"Never." Ingrid let out a bitter chuckle. "When I was eleven, a boy mocked me in the village. He called my mother a whore and said I would become just like her. That I was nothing but a bastard."

Her hands clenched. "I went home crying. My father asked what had happened. I told him. I did not want revenge. I only wanted to be heard. Lord Golan was there, listening. He said nothing. But that evening, he returned with a wooden box."

She looked at Belin, her hazel eyes dark with memory. "Inside was the boy's tongue."

Belin stiffened.

"He was alive," she added. "But he would never speak again."

Belin's grip on the reins tightened. His knuckles turned white. "Is that why they called you a spoiled child?"

"Yes," she whispered. "And they hate me for it."

Belin reached for her hand again, his touch warm and steady. "I am sorry."

Ingrid shook her head. "It's alright. He was the only one who treated me like a normal kid, he never looked at me in pity as everyone else did. " And for the first time in a long while, she almost believed it, that it was all alright.