Chapter 14: The Edge of Mercy

The storm outside howled like a wounded animal, its cries echoing through the darkened halls of the house. Aeron sat in silence in his study, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows on the walls. Rain pounded against the windows, matching the chaos inside his mind.

He had tried to stop it — the strange warmth creeping into his chest, the moments of hesitation, the uncomfortable gentleness in his voice whenever he spoke to her. But it wasn't working. He was becoming weak.

Liora was undoing him.

The way she smiled even through pain. The way she hummed to a dying bird. The way her eyes, full of sorrow, still held a flicker of something more — a desire to live, a desire to matter.

And that scared him.

Because if she was different, then maybe the others had been too. Maybe his reasons, his pain, his revenge — maybe it had all been a lie to justify the monster he had become.

He gripped the knife on the desk, the cold steel grounding him. There was only one way to end this confusion, to silence the storm inside his head.

He would kill her.

Not because she was like the others — but because she wasn't. Because she made him feel things he wasn't supposed to feel. Guilt. Kindness. Regret.

He couldn't afford those emotions.

Aeron stood, the blade clutched tight in his hand as he made his way down the hallway. Each step felt heavier than the last, as if the house itself were trying to hold him back.

When he opened the door to the cellar, Liora was sitting on the mattress, the small book of poems resting beside her. She looked up at him, her expression calm. Peaceful.

She didn't scream when she saw the knife.

She didn't even flinch.

Instead, she smiled.

Aeron stopped in his tracks, stunned.

"Finally," she whispered. "You're going to set me free."

Her voice trembled with relief, not fear. Her eyes shimmered with something he hadn't seen before — gratitude.

"I thought you were changing your mind," she added softly. "But now… now you're doing what the world never had the courage to do."

He stared at her, frozen.

"What are you talking about?"

She lifted her hand slowly, as if giving him permission.

"I'm tired, Aeron," she said. "Tired of hurting. Of pretending. Of being unwanted. If you're going to do it… don't wait. I'm ready."

His heart pounded. This wasn't how it was supposed to go.

He stepped forward, kneeling beside her, and reached for her wrist. He moved with mechanical precision, trying to block out the noise in his head — the part of him screaming to stop.

The blade pressed against her soft skin.

She closed her eyes.

"I hope it's peaceful," she whispered. "Even if just for a moment."

Aeron's hand trembled as he made the cut. A thin line of blood bloomed from her wrist, and she inhaled sharply — not from pain, but from relief.

And then she smiled again, tears slipping silently down her cheeks.

"I'm free," she breathed. "Thank you."

Something inside Aeron shattered.

No scream. No pleading. No resistance.

Just… acceptance.

He stared at the wound, at the crimson pooling along her hand, at her pale skin growing paler with every second.

And suddenly — he couldn't breathe.

This wasn't justice.

This wasn't revenge.

This was murder.

Panic surged through him as he dropped the knife and pressed his hands against her wrist, trying to stop the bleeding. "No. No, no—what have I done?" he muttered, grabbing the cloth from the floor and wrapping it tightly around her arm.

Liora opened her eyes slowly, confused.

"I thought… you were going to finish it," she said, barely conscious.

"I can't," Aeron choked. "I can't let you die."

"But you hate me," she murmured.

"No," he said, his voice cracking. "I hate what I've done. I hate… myself."

Liora's breath was shallow now, her lips tinged with blue.

"You're not a monster," she whispered.

"You don't know me," he snapped, voice sharp with pain.

"I know enough," she replied weakly. "You saved me."

He lifted her into his arms and carried her upstairs, her head resting against his chest, her blood soaking into his shirt. Every step felt like a plea for forgiveness — for what he had done and what he had almost done.

He laid her on the couch, rushed to his supply cabinet, and began stitching the wound as best as he could. His hands were stained red. His clothes smelled of iron. His breathing was uneven, but he didn't stop.

He couldn't stop.

Hours passed before her color began to return. Her chest rose and fell slowly, but steadily. She was alive.

Barely — but alive.

Aeron sat beside her, exhausted, the knife long forgotten on the floor.

He stared at her sleeping face, his jaw tight with self-loathing.

What kind of man almost killed the only person who ever looked at him with softness?

He didn't deserve mercy.

But maybe… she did.

And from now on, he would protect her — even if it was from himself.