Not my story anymore

Warning: The following chapter contains references to suicide.

I lifted the small vial Kael had left behind, staring at the dark liquid inside.

A trick? A test? A way to humiliate me further?

My fingers tightened around the glass. I should throw it away. I should ignore it.

But the pain in my ribs pulsed like a cruel reminder of my weakness. My knuckles were raw, my body covered in bruises from today's beating. The academy's healers wouldn't waste their time on me. If I wanted to get stronger, I needed to start somewhere.

Even if it meant trusting Kael.

Before I could hesitate any longer, I uncorked the vial and swallowed the liquid in one swift motion.

A sharp, searing heat shot through my throat, spreading like wildfire in my chest. I gasped, clutching the edge of the bed as my pulse thundered in my ears. It burned. Then cooled. Like ice settling into my veins.

I sucked in a breath. The pain that had wrapped around my ribs, stabbing with every movement, vanished.

My eyes widened.

I pushed up the sleeve of my torn uniform and watched in stunned silence as the bruises on my arm faded before my eyes. The deep gash on my knuckles knitted itself back together, skin sealing as if it had never been there.

What the hell?

My heart pounded as I inspected my wounds. Healing medicine? No. This wasn't like anything I had seen before. This was different.

I had no time to process it.

The door swung open.

I barely had time to react before I shoved the half-full vial beneath my blanket.

Dante Ashbourne stood in the doorway.

I stiffened instantly, my whole body tensing as his dark eyes landed on me. There was no smirk. No arrogance. Just something... unreadable.

Not once in my time at this academy had he looked at me like that.

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. In his hand, he held a small container. Without a word, he walked over and placed it on the table beside me.

"Here." His voice was steady. "Apply this to your wounds."

My stomach twisted. What?

I stared at the medicine. At him. At the medicine again.

Dante Ashbourne. The same person who had watched me get beaten. The same person who let his friends treat me like garbage. And now, he was offering me help?

I clenched my fists, pushing down the instinctive rush of confusion and anger.

"Why are you helping me?" I demanded, my voice sharp, barely containing the fury bubbling beneath the surface.

Dante didn't flinch. If anything, his jaw tightened, but his expression remained unreadable.

For a moment, he just looked at me. Like he was searching for something. Then, after a brief pause, he exhaled.

"You ask too many questions, Elias."

He turned toward the door, leaving me with more questions than answers.

I didn't move.

My eyes flickered between the hidden vial under my blanket and the medicine on the table.

I hid the medicine in my pocket and lay down, letting sleep take over me.

---

Drip.

Drip.

The rain pattered against the windows, drowning the room in eerie silence. The chandelier above flickered, casting long, trembling shadows across the marble floor.

And in the center of it all—she knelt.

A woman draped in a silk dress, once pristine, now wrinkled and soaked in tears. Crying. Begging.

Her hands clung desperately to the man in front of her. His father. Elias' father.

Everyone was watching.

Servants. Guards. Figures blurred in the background like specters. None of them moved. None of them spoke.

They just stood there. Watching.

Watching her cry. Watching her break.

And in the doorway—stood a boy. Small. Fragile. Terrified. Elias Astiars.

Amber eyes, wide and shimmering with unshed tears. His tiny fingers curled against the wooden frame as if it was the only thing holding him up.

His mother's voice trembled. "Tell me it's not true." She whispered, gripping his father's sleeves. "Tell me this is a lie."

But the man—his father—stood still. Cold. Unmoved.

He wasn't denying it.

The little boy's hands trembled.

He didn't understand everything, but he understood enough.

His father had betrayed them.

Betrayed her.

And worst of all—he didn't care.

The little boy stepped forward, his small hands tugging at his father's coat, his voice shaking.

"Papa?"

For the first time, his father turned to him.

And there was nothing.

No warmth. No regret.

Just cold, merciless indifference.

The boy choked on a sob. "You're a bad father!" He screamed, his voice cracking. "I hate you! I hate you!"

His mother gasped, pulling him close, her fingers trembling as they ran through his hair.

"It's okay." She whispered, even as her tears soaked into his skin. "It's okay, my love. I'm here. I'm here."

But it wasn't okay.

It would never be okay.

His father pried her hands off him.

He didn't kneel. Didn't console.

Didn't stay.

"I've made my decision." His voice was steel. "Don't make this harder than it has to be."

Then—he turned.

He walked away.

The heavy doors slammed shut.

And that was the last time the boy saw his father. Or so he thought.

---

Because only a few days later...The house was quiet.

Too quiet.

The boy stood in the empty hallway, his fingers gripping the hem of his shirt, an unsettling feeling curling in his stomach.

"Mother?" His small voice echoed.

No response.

The servants wouldn't look at him.

Their faces were pale, their hands trembling as they whispered to each other.

His feet carried him toward his mother's bedroom. The door was slightly open.

His breath caught in his throat.

The air smelled different. Wrong.

And then—he saw her.

Hanging from the ceiling.

Her silk dress billowed slightly. Her head tilted at an unnatural angle. Lifeless eyes staring at nothing.

The boy froze.

His tiny body couldn't process what he was seeing. His mind refused to believe it.

But then, the weight of it crashed down on him.

A sound tore from his throat—a raw, broken scream.

"Mother—! No! No! Please!"

He ran to her. But small hands couldn't reach. Couldn't pull her down. Couldn't save her.

Footsteps thundered behind him. Servants. Guards. People rushing into the room.

Someone grabbed him. Pulled him away. He kicked and screamed, but their arms were too strong.

She lied. She left him alone. Just like his father.

He didn't understand why.

Why did she leave him?

Why did she give up?

Why did no one stop this from happening?

---

Then—His father came back.

He arrived days later, his presence looming like a storm cloud.

The boy stood in the grand foyer, his tiny fists clenched at his sides, his eyes red and swollen.

His father barely looked at him.

"You will come with me." His voice was distant. Empty.

The boy didn't respond.

He didn't want to go.

He didn't want to see him.

But he had nowhere else to go.

A carriage awaited outside. And inside—she was there.

The woman.

His father's mistress. Selene Snatias.

She sat with perfect posture, a slight, unreadable smile on her lips. Her eyes flickered toward him, sharp and assessing, as if he were nothing more than an insect.

His father placed a firm hand on his back, pushing him forward.

"This is your home now."

The boy didn't say a word.

He climbed into the carriage. The weight of his father's betrayal, his mother's death, and his own helplessness crushing him.

And as the carriage doors closed—so did the last remnants of his childhood.

He would never cry again.

Never beg.

Never trust.

Not after this.

Not ever again.

---

I woke up gasping.

My body jerked forward, hands gripping the sheets, my heart pounding.

What... was that?

I never wrote that. I never created that scene. I had only mentioned his mother died.

And yet, I saw it. Felt it.

His pain. His helplessness. His hatred.

It was Elias's past.

I swallowed, my chest tight with unease.

This wasn't just a story anymore.

Something was changing.

And I didn't know if I could control it anymore.