Chapter 6: Breaking Point
The air was thick with silence, a kind of quiet that weighed down on Soren’s chest as he and Rhett approached the splintered doors of the study. Tremors had shaken the walls moments ago, a warning that something terrible had happened. Now, the corridor leading to the study was littered with shards of broken stone and smears of blood that led the way like a grim trail, guiding them forward.
Soren’s heart pounded as they drew closer. Shadows flickered from within, cast by the eerie, fractured light that seeped through cracks in the doorway. He exchanged a glance with Rhett, who looked as tense and pale as Soren felt, then pushed the door open. Together, they stepped inside.
The study, once a place of quiet power and measured strategy, lay in ruins. Shelves had been overturned, papers scattered like fallen leaves, and the air was choked with dust and the acrid scent of burnt wood. Chunks of stone were strewn across the floor, and the faint hum of residual energy lingered, filling the room with an unnatural vibration.
Soren’s gaze darted across the devastation—and then, in the dim light, he saw her. His mother, Elaina, was slumped against the far wall, her gown stained with dark, spreading blood. Her face was ghostly pale, her eyes closed, and her once-vibrant form looked alarmingly frail, like a candle on the edge of being snuffed out.
“Mother!” Soren cried, his voice cracking as he sprinted across the debris-strewn floor, stumbling over fragments of stone in his desperate rush to reach her. He dropped to his knees beside her, his hands hovering uncertainty before finally pressing against the wound at her side. Blood seeped through his fingers, warm and unyielding, and a wave of panic clawed at him.
Rhett was at his side in an instant, his face grim. Without a word, he reached into his pack and produced a small glass vial filled with a deep violet liquid. “Here,” he muttered, urgency thickening his voice. “This will stabilize her for a bit.”
With trembling hands, Soren took the vial, lifting his mother’s head gently and pressing the glass to her lips. He whispered a soft plea, coaxing her to drink. Her eyes fluttered faintly, and for a moment, her breathing steadied, though her skin remained ashen, and the tension in her body had yet to subside.
As he held her close, Soren’s panic simmered into anger, a dark, seething rage that burned beneath his fear. This destruction, this senseless harm to the person he loved most—it all pointed to one person.
Slowly, Soren lifted his gaze. On the other side of the room, amidst the ruin he had created, stood Arthur, his father. His face was shadowed, expression unreadable, but his hands trembled, and faint arcs of energy crackled around him, remnants of the power he had unleashed. He looked as if he, too, were trapped in the shock of what he’d done, his form unnaturally still.
Soren’s jaw clenched, his voice barely a whisper but laced with venom. “What did you do?”
Arthur’s gaze lifted, and for the first time, he noticed Rhett, recognition dawning in his eyes. His mouth twisted, almost a sneer, as he muttered, “So, even the city guards have taken to sneaking into my home?” The words were bitter, though they lacked their usual conviction.
Rhett, braced against the tension in the room, held his ground, though his face was tense. It was clear Arthur recognized him, perhaps even the purpose behind his visit. But Rhett kept his focus on Soren, standing by as a steady presence, ready if needed.
Soren’s hands tightened against his mother’s wound, his voice trembling with barely-contained rage. “This isn’t about him,” he spat, his gaze cutting into his father. “This is about you. About what you’ve become.”
The heavy silence of the room weighed on Rhett’s chest as he took in the devastation around him. Arthur stood, a shadowed figure amid the debris, his form flickering with erratic pulses of energy. Soren stepped forward, the light of the flames casting long, dark shadows across his face, his expression hardened with grim determination.
Rhett’s gaze shifted to Elaina, slumped against the far wall, her face as pale as the shards of shattered stone that littered the floor. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused and hazy, yet she seemed to fight against the pull of unconsciousness. Her gaze found Soren, a flicker of recognition passing over her face, and she weakly lifted a hand, her fingers barely reaching out as if to call him back. But Soren’s focus was locked onto his father.
Arthur’s gaze met his son’s, and for a brief moment, there was a flicker of something—regret, hesitation. Then it vanished, replaced by a cold fury, his body surging with power. The force of it made the air in the room heavy, crackling with a dangerous energy that seemed to pulse in time with his breaths.
Rhett took a step back, instinctively moving closer to Elaina’s side. “Soren, this isn’t—” he started, but his words died as the tension in the room snapped.
Arthur lunged, his movements blurring with speed as he brought his conjured axe down in a powerful, reckless arc. Soren was ready. He sidestepped, his body moving in a fluid twist, avoiding the strike by inches. The ground where Arthur’s axe struck fractured under the impact, sending shards of stone skittering across the floor.
Soren’s counterattack was swift, his katana gleaming as it cut through the air, a blur of metal and raw energy. He moved with a practiced grace that surprised Rhett—Soren’s steps flowed, each one calculated yet charged with a fierceness that spoke of years of pent-up emotion. He pivoted, leveraging the power in his legs to bring a hard kick into his father’s side. Arthur grunted, barely flinching as he swung his axe upward in response.
Elaina, her vision blurred, watched the fight unfold with labored breaths. She could see Soren, her son, moving with a skill that was both familiar and strange—a blend of their family’s legacy and something uniquely his. Her heart twisted with both pride and sorrow, watching the boy she had raised face off against the man she had once loved.
Rhett felt a chill settle over him as he watched Soren hold his own against Arthur. He had known Soren for years, had dismissed him as quiet, weird, perhaps even passive. But now, seeing him move, seeing the sheer power and focus etched into each of his strikes, he realized just how wrong he had been. Soren was a Veilstorm, through and through.
Arthur’s attacks grew more feral, his movements fueled by the erratic power of the Catalyst coursing through him. His strikes were wild, almost desperate, the energy spilling from him in unpredictable bursts. Each swing of his axe left deep gouges in the floor, sending more debris into the air.
But Soren was quick. His body shifted, adapting to Arthur’s erratic pace, his footwork swift as he dodged the onslaught. With each sidestep and counter, he layered elemental energy into his movements—small flares of lightning sparking off his katana, bursts of wind that carried him in sudden, agile shifts. He moved like a storm, relentless and unpredictable.
Arthur swung again, his axe descending in a brutal arc. Soren twisted, his katana intercepting the strike with a flash of lightning, the impact sending sparks flying. The force pushed him back a step, but he regained his footing, his jaw clenched with focus. His gaze locked onto Arthur’s, his voice a low growl. “This is what you’ve become? A slave to your own power?”
Arthur’s face twisted with anger, but his voice shook. “You don’t understand,” he hissed, his grip tightening on the axe. “Everything I’ve done—everything—was for this family!”
Soren’s response was a swift, powerful strike, his katana moving like a bolt of lightning aimed at Arthur’s shoulder. The blade bit into Arthur’s armor, sparks flying as metal met metal. Arthur roared, retaliating with a wide, sweeping strike that forced Soren to duck and roll out of reach.
Rhett’s fists clenched at his sides as he watched, caught between awe and horror. The intensity of their clash filled the room, the air thick with the scent of burning metal and the weight of years of unresolved pain. Each blow, each strike, was a reminder of everything that had brought them to this point.
Elaina, struggling to stay conscious, watched through blurred vision. Her heart ached as she saw the way Soren moved—so much like Arthur, yet so distinct. He was powerful, driven, his skill and precision reflecting a deep, unyielding strength. She could only hope he would survive this, that he wouldn’t lose himself in the same darkness that had consumed Arthur.
In that instant, she knew that her son was no longer the boy she had once known. He was a force of his own—a storm, relentless and determined, fighting for the family that had been torn apart.
The air was thick, charged with the tension of the clash, as Arthur moved forward, his form flickering with dark energy. He swung his conjured warhammer in a brutal arc, its weight promising devastation. Soren sidestepped, his body twisting with fluid agility, letting the hammer’s momentum pass by, splintering the ground where he’d stood.
Soren’s katana flashed, slicing upward in a precise arc aimed to test his father’s defenses. But Arthur, moving with the force of years of experience, met the strike, the impact reverberating through the air. Their blades locked, and Soren pressed forward, leaning into a series of rapid, measured strikes that forced Arthur to adjust, his posture shifting in response.
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Arthur’s gaze darkened, and with a flicker of Catalyst power, the warhammer dissipated. He summoned twin blades in its place, each gleaming with erratic energy, and charged. His movements were no longer steady; they had a wild edge, driven by something more than skill—something volatile. Arthur lunged, his blades slicing through the air with a speed that left little room for error. Soren met each strike, parrying one blade with his katana while narrowly evading the other, his steps light and calculated.
Then, with a flash of inspiration, Soren pivoted, dropping his katana mid-movement. The blade spun in the air as he sidestepped Arthur’s downward strike. Without missing a beat, he brought his escrima sticks forward, using them in tandem to deflect Arthur’s attacks. As his katana descended, Soren angled his body, striking his escrima stick against the katana’s hilt, redirecting its path in a surprising arc. The blade flew toward Arthur’s side, forcing him to pull back defensively.
Arthur’s scowl deepened as he stepped away, his breathing ragged, yet the Catalyst’s influence surged, pushing him to attack again. He swung with ferocity, his dual blades moving in unpredictable patterns. Soren adjusted, slipping into a series of precise, close-range counters that took advantage of Arthur’s wildness, his fists and elbows moving in swift, controlled arcs. He ducked low, his body a blur as he slipped beneath one of Arthur’s swings, then rose with a sudden strike to his father’s side, using his momentum to throw off Arthur’s balance.
But Arthur was relentless. He recovered quickly, his strength overpowering Soren’s for a brief moment as he deflected the next attack with a brutal swipe that forced Soren back. Arthur’s movements grew increasingly erratic, each strike heavy with the Catalyst’s unstable energy, as though he were a storm barely contained.
Soren knew he couldn’t match that strength directly, so he leaned into his agility, weaving between his father’s swings with quick, efficient steps. He dropped low again, a knee strike catching Arthur in the ribs, a calculated move that sent a ripple of pain through his father’s body. But Arthur only staggered slightly, his grip tightening on his weapons as he advanced.
Soren’s gaze shifted subtly, assessing the room, and he noticed the crumbling stone floor beneath their feet. A plan formed, his mind racing to connect each movement in a seamless sequence. He reached out with the earth’s power, manipulating the floor just enough to create an uneven surface beneath Arthur’s feet.
Arthur took a step, and his footing wavered, giving Soren the opening he needed. In one swift motion, he angled his escrima stick at Arthur’s wrist, using the force of his father’s forward momentum to disarm him temporarily. Arthur’s blade clattered to the ground, and Soren seized the moment, grabbing his katana in a smooth, fluid motion, its blade glinting as he drove forward.
Arthur retaliated, his free hand glowing with Catalyst energy as he swung a powerful fist toward Soren. But Soren anticipated it, slipping to the side and redirecting the force of Arthur’s swing with a calculated deflection. He transitioned, bringing his knee up and driving it into Arthur’s side, the impact sending shockwaves through both of them. Soren felt his muscles strain, but he held steady, pressing forward with the ferocity of a storm, unwilling to give an inch.
Breathing heavily, Arthur took a step back, his gaze wild, a mixture of pride and fury flashing in his eyes. “Impressive,” he snarled, his tone mocking yet tinged with a strange satisfaction. “But it won’t be enough.”
Arthur’s hands surged with dark energy as he conjured a new weapon, a glaive that radiated power, its long reach a new challenge for Soren. Arthur swung it in a wide, sweeping arc, the force tearing through the air. Soren darted back, feeling the wind of the strike graze his cheek, then closed the distance, using the glaive’s reach against his father.
In an unorthodox maneuver, Soren released one of his escrima sticks, allowing it to fall to the floor as he sidestepped the next swing. He ducked low, his remaining escrima stick connecting with Arthur’s wrist in a swift strike that disrupted his father’s grip. The glaive wavered, and Soren capitalized, striking the blade upward, sending it spinning from Arthur’s grasp.
Soren’s movements were relentless, a calculated dance of offense and defense. He swept low, his katana arcing through the air as he aimed for Arthur’s torso. But Arthur sidestepped, barely avoiding the strike as his hands ignited with dark energy. He brought them down in a crushing blow, forcing Soren to roll out of the way, the impact shaking the floor beneath them.
Soren rose to his feet, breathing heavily, his eyes locked onto Arthur’s with an intensity that matched his father’s. He could feel the limits of his strength pressing down, but he couldn’t stop—not now. Reaching deep within himself, he called upon the earth, letting its strength flow through his body.
Arthur charged again, his movements wild, erratic, the Catalyst’s influence evident in every step. Soren braced himself, watching his father’s footing, waiting for the exact moment to strike. As Arthur swung, Soren shifted, manipulating the floor beneath him to shift Arthur’s balance just enough.
Arthur stumbled, his movements unsteady, and Soren seized the opening. He advanced in a rapid series of strikes, his katana cutting through the air with precision. With one final surge, he delivered a powerful elbow to Arthur’s chest, the impact reverberating through his father’s body.
Arthur staggered back, his eyes wide, his strength faltering. Soren took a breath, steadying himself as he watched his father’s form waver, the Catalyst’s energy dimming.
For a moment, there was silence, both father and son locked in an unspoken understanding. And then, with a final, powerful knee strike, Soren drove his father back, sending him to the ground, unconscious.
The room was filled with the weight of shattered stone and bitter silence. Arthur lay unconscious against the far wall, his breathing shallow but steady. Soren stood over him, his breaths ragged and uneven, fists clenched, as the remnants of their brutal fight hung heavy in the air. But his fury hadn’t faded. If anything, seeing his father incapacitated only stoked the fire of anger smoldering in his chest.
In the corner, Rhett approached cautiously, his own chest tight with the enormity of what he had just witnessed. “Soren,” he said, his voice firm yet edged with caution. “Don’t do something you’ll regret. He’s down. It’s over.”
Soren’s gaze whipped to Rhett, eyes burning with accusation. “Now you’re defending him? Again?” His voice was raw, twisted with betrayal. “After everything he’s done to us, to her—” He gestured sharply toward Elaina, slumped and pale on the ground.
Rhett took a slow step forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture. “This isn’t about him, Soren. You know what taking that next step would mean, and I know you don’t want those consequences. Your mother needs you.” His gaze flickered toward Elaina, a reminder that cut through Soren’s anger like a blade.
The tension between them held for a heartbeat, then Soren’s gaze dropped to where his mother lay, her form as still as stone against the far wall. In an instant, his anger faded, replaced by a desperate fear that clawed at his insides. He dropped to his knees beside her, every trace of his wrath gone as he reached for her, his hands trembling.
“Mother…” he whispered, his voice breaking as he gathered her frail body in his arms. The warmth was slipping away from her, inch by inch, and he felt the world collapsing around him, his mind unable to accept what he was seeing. He pressed his forehead to hers, his voice shaking. “Please stay with me. Don’t leave me like this.”
Elaina’s breathing was shallow, her chest barely rising with each labored inhale. Her lips quivered as she tried to speak, but no words came at first. She was fighting—fighting to stay for him, but it was a battle she could no longer win. Her hand, slick with blood, gripped his wrist as if she could anchor herself to him, refusing to let go. But even her strength, the same strength that had always kept their family together, was fading.
Soren knelt beside his mother, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The blood pooling beneath her was too much for him to bear. Her eyes, once vibrant and full of life, had dulled to a muted green, the light within them fading fast. She gasped weakly, her trembling hand reaching out, her fingertips grazing his cheek, a touch as fragile as the moment itself.
Across the room, Arthur lay unconscious against the far wall, his formidable presence still threatening even in collapse. But none of that mattered now. Not as Soren cradled Elaina’s frail form, feeling her warmth slip away, inch by inch, and his world crumbling with it.
“Mother, please…” His voice cracked, barely able to form the words as he pressed his forehead to hers. “Please stay with me. Don’t leave me like this.”
Elaina’s breathing was shallow, each inhale a labored struggle, her chest barely rising with each fading breath. Her lips quivered, fighting to speak, but no words came at first. She was fighting—fighting to stay for him—but it was a battle she could no longer win. Her blood-slick hand gripped his wrist, as if she could anchor herself to him, refusing to let go. But even her strength, the same strength that had held their family together, was fading.
“Soren…” she whispered finally, her voice so faint it was nearly lost in the stillness. Her jade-green eyes, once so sharp, were distant and unfocused as they searched his face, trying to memorize each line, each shadow, as if it would be her last memory. “I’m… so sorry…”
Tears streaked down Soren’s face, his hands trembling as he pressed them harder against her wound, as if sheer will alone could stop the bleeding. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I should have been here sooner. I should have been faster—stronger—”
Her head shook faintly, a small, sad smile tugging at her lips. “No… You’ve always been enough.” Her hand lifted, fingers cool yet gentle, brushing his cheek as she had when he was a child, when she’d soothe his fears with a touch and a soft word. “You’ve always been… more than enough, my little storm.”
The nickname, so familiar and full of love, brought a flood of memories—of quiet evenings by the fire, of their stolen moments in the garden, of the way she’d looked at him, always with pride, even when the world was falling apart around them. Soren’s heart twisted, the weight of their shared past crashing down on him, almost more than he could bear.
“I never wanted this for you,” she continued, each word a struggle. “I wanted… you to be free. To live… without this burden.”
Soren’s tears fell faster, blurring his vision as he clutched her tighter. “You’re the only reason I’m strong at all,” he choked out, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re my strength, Mother. You’ve always been.”
Her fingers traced the line of his jaw, her touch feather-light, as though imprinting his face into her memory. “You’ll be… stronger than you know,” she said softly, her eyes unfocused yet full of love. “I see it… You’ll survive this… You’ll find your way.”
Each word faltered, her voice fading with each shallow breath, her chest rising and falling with increasing difficulty. Her body shuddered with pain, but still, she smiled at him—soft, gentle, the same unconditional love that had held him all his life.
Soren felt his heart breaking, piece by piece, as if her life were leaving with each tear he shed. He couldn’t lose her—not now, not ever. His grip on her tightened, as if holding her close could somehow keep her here, somehow hold back the inevitable. But deep down, he knew. He had known from the moment she had fallen, from the moment he had seen the blood pooling around her.
“No,” he whispered, shaking his head, fresh tears streaming down his face. “No, please… You can’t leave me. I need you.”
Elaina’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment, her breaths barely more than whispers in the silence. With a trembling hand, she reached for the ring on her finger—a band of dark metal, engraved with intricate symbols and set with a deep green gem. It was more than a ring; it was a part of her, a piece of their family’s legacy. As she slid it off and pressed it into his palm, he felt the weight of what she was giving him—a last gift, a reminder of all she had stood for.
“This…” she murmured, her voice a faint whisper, “it’s yours now… a reminder… of me. Of everything I believed in.”
Soren’s gaze dropped to the ring, his hand closing around it, the metal cool against his skin. The weight of it, both literal and symbolic, was crushing. He didn’t want this legacy—he wanted her. But he knew, even in this moment of heartbreak, that her strength was now his to carry. He wanted her warmth, her laughter, her steady presence, not a relic of all he was losing.
“I don’t want this,” he whispered, his voice breaking as he looked back at her, vision blurred with tears. “I don’t want to do this without you.”
Her smile was weak, but her eyes were full of love as her hand fell from his cheek, her strength finally leaving her. “You’ll never be… without me,” she breathed, her voice so faint it was almost swallowed by the silence. “I’ll always… be with you… my little storm.”
Her eyes drifted shut with a soft exhale, and the light that had shone so brightly within her went dimmed, as though she had simply fallen asleep, leaving her body limp in his arms, her face peaceful.
Soren’s world shattered, the silence that followed deafening, hollow. The echo of their fight faded, leaving only the faint, unsettling lingering energy in the air. He held her close, his body wracked with sobs, feeling the emptiness swell around him, filling every corner of the room and every space in his heart. His tears fell onto her blood-stained gown, his fingers clutching her hand as if he could pull her back, as if he could will her to wake up.
But she was gone.
And Soren, for the first time in his life, felt truly, irreparably alone.