“All right, lad, stay put,” Halder said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He gave me a hard look before rising and striding off toward the commotion, his sword glinting as he disappeared into the chaos.
I stayed rooted in the alcove, but it was impossible to ignore the tension crackling in the air. Guards rushed past, their faces grim, their voices hushed but urgent. The castle felt different—like it was holding its breath, waiting for something terrible to happen.
I tried not to listen, I really did, but the whispers were everywhere, slipping through the cracks like water.
“Unbelievable… a child!” one guard muttered.
“Who let him get so close?” another demanded, his tone sharp with disbelief.
“They say he touched the Mural,” someone whispered, their voice shaky with fear. “Activated it. Absorbed something.”
“Poor kid,” another voice murmured. “That boy from the lower district. He didn’t know what he was doing.”
My stomach dropped. A boy from the lower district? My mind flashed to the scrawny, wide-eyed boy I’d seen earlier. Peckolin . Could it have been him? Had he gone into the Mural chamber?
I pressed myself against the cool stone wall, trying to breathe through the knot in my chest. My ears strained to catch more, but the guards swept past too quickly, their voices swallowed by the growing noise around me.
The image of Peckolin wouldn’t leave my head. If it was him, what had he done? What did they mean by absorbed something?
The air around me felt alive, thrumming with unease, as if the castle itself was trembling. I stayed where I was, just like Papa had told me, but my thoughts wouldn’t sit still.
Later, I found myself in the throne room, tucked behind a marble pillar, doing my best to be invisible. The room felt colder than the rest of the castle, the stone walls looming taller, the shadows deeper. Nobles and officials crowded the space, their stiff postures and sharp gazes pressing down on me like a weight I couldn’t shake.
The king’s voice cut through the room, cold and commanding. “Captain Argent,” he said, addressing my father, “this breach of security is a disgrace. You were entrusted with protecting the castle’s most sacred secrets, and you have failed.”
Papa stood tall in front of the throne, his jaw tight and his armor catching the flickering torchlight. To me, he still looked like the strongest person in the world, but the king’s words hit like hammer blows.
“With respect, Your Majesty,” Papa began, his voice steady even though the tension in the room was suffocating, “the breach was unforeseen. A boy—”
“A boy,” the king interrupted, his voice rising, “should never have been able to enter the Mural chamber. The fault lies with you, Captain. Your complacency has endangered us all.”
The silence that followed felt heavier than the stone walls. My hands balled into fists, my nails digging into my palms as anger bubbled in my chest. This wasn’t fair. Papa wasn’t to blame. He hadn’t let this happen.
I wanted to shout, to tell the king he was wrong, but I couldn’t. My voice stayed trapped in my throat, caught behind the crushing weight of helplessness. I could only stand there, hidden and useless, as Papa bore the blame for something I was sure wasn’t his fault.
“I hereby strip you of your rank,” the king declared, his words slicing through the silence like a blade. Gasps rippled through the room, but they barely registered in my ears. “Effective immediately. Guards, escort him out.”
Papa didn’t argue. He didn’t plead. He just unbuckled his sword belt with slow, deliberate movements, the metallic clink of it hitting the stone floor echoing in the chamber like a final, crushing note. The guards stepped forward, flanking him as they prepared to lead him away. The pity in the nobles’ eyes was worse than their judgment.
As Papa passed by, his gaze met mine. For a moment, everything else faded—the murmurs, the stares, even the heavy footsteps of the guards. His face wasn’t angry, and it wasn’t defiant. It was tired, so impossibly tired, and weighed down with a sadness that made my chest hurt.
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“Stay strong,” he whispered, his voice steady even as he walked away.
I didn’t even realize I was crying until I tasted the salt of my tears.
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Later that day, as we walked home the whispers among the city told me the rest.
“Peckolin’s been taken to the Repository of Sagecraft and Doorways,” one guard said, his voice low but tinged with contempt. “Locked away with the rest of them.”
“A fate better than he deserves,” another muttered.
“What about his parents?” someone asked.
“Dead,” came the blunt reply. “Executed as an example. The lower districts will think twice before letting their spawn wander where they don’t belong.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut. I swallowed hard, my stomach twisting.
I couldn’t stop thinking about his parents. I hadn’t met them. I didn’t even know their names. But the idea of them being executed because of something a child did—or maybe didn’t even mean to do—felt horribly wrong. Unjust.
The castle didn’t seem so grand anymore. The towering walls and gleaming armor I’d admired yesterday now felt cold, like they were hiding something ugly beneath all the shine.
I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the scuffed tips of my boots. The silence in my room was unbearable. Papa’s absence left a gaping hole, one that no words from Sergeant Halder or the other guards could fill. Their attempts at reassurance felt hollow.
I thought of Peckolin again—how out of place he’d seemed, standing there in the shadows. I replayed every detail of that moment in my mind, over and over. The way his head tilted, the curiosity in his expression. I hadn’t thought much of it at the time.
But now? Now I couldn’t stop wondering.
Could I have warned him? I thought. Warned Papa?
The questions gnawed at me, sharp and relentless. I hadn’t done anything wrong, yet guilt wrapped around me like heavy chains, pulling tighter with each passing second.
I didn’t know if Peckolin had been a victim or if he’d made a terrible mistake. I didn’t know if Papa would ever get his honor back or if I’d ever see him the same way again.
All I knew was that life in the city would never feel the same. Not for me. Not for anyone.
At first, I didn’t notice the change. Papa’s moods, though still dark, seemed less unpredictable. He would sit in his chair, quieter, calmer, like something had finally tamed the storm inside him. For a while, I thought things were getting better.
But then there were the little signs. The faint, acrid smell that clung to the air. The way his hands trembled slightly when he thought no one was looking.
And then, one evening, I saw it.
A small vial, nearly empty, tucked beneath a loose floorboard near his chair. The powder inside shimmered faintly, like embers caught in glass. Blaze.
At first, it seemed to help. Papa’s voice grew steadier, his words carried the authority I used to know. For fleeting moments, he even felt like himself again. But the relief never lasted.
The tempers came next.
He snapped over small things—the way a chair was moved, the sound of my footsteps, even the tone of Mama’s voice. His paranoia followed, creeping into his eyes like a shadow that wouldn’t leave.
“Did you move my things?” he asked one morning, his voice sharp and accusing.
“No, Papa,” I said, startled.
“Don’t lie to me!”
The fire in his words burned me more than I could show. I shrank back, my heart pounding as I stared at the man I barely recognized.
The man who had once been Captain Althor Argent of the castle guard was gone. In his place was someone... hollow. Someone whose noble bearing had crumbled under the weight of shame and addiction.
His hair, once neatly trimmed, hung limp and greasy. His eyes, once sharp and commanding, were bloodshot and frantic, darting around the room as though seeing threats only he could perceive.
The arguments grew louder. More frequent. I tried to help—I wanted to help—but every effort was met with scorn and suspicion.
“You think you know better than me?” he spat one evening, his voice trembling with rage. “You’re just a child. You don’t understand what I’ve lost.”
His words cut, but I didn’t dare argue. I couldn’t.
Our finances crumbled too. The modest savings we had drained away—first on failed attempts to rebuild Papa’s reputation, and then on more and more vials of blaze. Mama tried to hold everything together, her voice steady even as the cracks grew wider. But even her patience wore thin under the strain.
“You have to stop,” she pleaded one night, her voice breaking like glass. “This isn’t you. This isn’t who we are.”
Papa didn’t reply. He just turned away, retreating further into the shadows that seemed to consume him more with every passing day.
I watched it all unfold, powerless to stop it. The man I’d idolized—my hero, my father—was slipping away. And with him went the stability of our home, our family, and our lives. As the memory faded away, all I could think about was how much damage Peckolin had done to my family. I did my best to quell the anger, knowing full well the consequences.