Thorne barely caught a glimpse of her before the room began to shift. The pulsating glow of the walls grew brighter, its intensity becoming almost blinding as the air around him vibrated with an unearthly hum. It wasn’t just light; it was a presence, seeping into his very core, overwhelming his senses. His instincts screamed, a primal alarm he couldn’t ignore, but the shift came too quickly.

His surroundings dissolved into darkness, then reformed into something entirely different. Thorne found himself standing in a place he hadn’t seen in years: the small garden behind his childhood home.

The scent hit him first—a heady mix of roses and lavender, mingling with the fresh, earthy aroma of damp soil. It was intoxicating, too perfect, like a memory made sharper by longing. The garden was exactly as he remembered it, yet somehow more vivid. Flowers bloomed in a riot of color, their petals gleaming as if kissed by morning dew. Sunlight filtered gently through the leafy canopy above, casting dappled patterns on the soft, verdant grass beneath his feet. A warm breeze brushed against his skin, tender and familiar, but it did little to quell the cold dread knotting in his stomach.

He turned slowly, his heart racing, and saw her.

His mother.

She stood among the flowers, just as he remembered her, yet not. Her form was achingly familiar—petite, with soft, curly hair that framed her face in gentle waves. She wore her favorite simple dress, the fabric flowing around her as if the breeze itself adored her presence. Her hands were stained with soil, a testament to her love for her garden. But her eyes—those warm, nurturing brown eyes that had once been his refuge—now burned with an anger so fierce that Thorne flinched.

His breath hitched, and he felt like a child again, yearning for her embrace, her voice, her reassurance. Years had passed since her death, but the sight of her now, impossibly real, struck him like a thunderclap. Grief and longing surged in his chest, battling the cold reality of her piercing gaze.

“Thorne,” she said, her voice sharp and laden with disdain. The sound of his name on her lips, so familiar and yet so cutting, sent a chill through him. “Why did you choose this path of strife? Why did you abandon us? We needed you, and you turned your back on us.”

Her words cut deeper than any blade ever had. Thorne felt his throat tighten, his chest constricting under the weight of her accusation. “Mother, I…” His voice broke, and he struggled to find the words. “I had no choice. They came for us—I had to—”

“No choice?” she interrupted, her voice rising, each word a lash. “You always had a choice! You chose violence and conflict over your family. Your father believed in you, and look at what you’ve become! A harbinger of pain, bringing sorrow wherever you go.”

Her words struck him like hammer blows. Thorne’s knees threatened to buckle as tears welled in his eyes. He tried to speak, but his voice failed him, his mind churning with guilt and regret. The mother who had once been his sanctuary now stood as his accuser, and her disappointment was a weight he couldn’t bear.

“Mother, please,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “I didn’t want any of this. I never wanted to hurt you.”

Her expression softened, but only slightly. Her anger gave way to sorrow, and her voice became quieter, though no less piercing. “But you did, Thorne. You hurt us all when you left. Do you know what your father sacrificed for you? What your sister endured?” She paused, the silence crushing. “You’ve lost your way, my son. You’re no savior. You’re a harbinger of pain.”

Thorne's vision blurred with tears. He reached out, but his mother turned away, her image dissolving into the garden's shadows. His heart ached with a deep, unrelenting pain, the weight of her words crushing his spirit. He remembered the nights he cried himself to sleep, missing her presence, yearning for the safety of her embrace.

"Do you remember, Thorne?" she asked again, her voice softer but laden with sorrow. She appeared beside him, her presence both a comfort and a torment. Her gaze bore into him, her expression a mixture of longing and despair. "Do you remember how we used to sit here, in this garden? You’d pick me flowers, weaving them into crowns while you told me about your dreams of becoming a hero. You were so full of hope back then, so full of love. What happened to that boy?"

Thorne's legs gave out beneath him, and he collapsed to his knees. The flowers brushed against his legs, their delicate touch a cruel contrast to the pain twisting in his chest. "I wanted to protect you," he sobbed, his voice breaking with the weight of his regret. "I wanted to make you proud."

"But you left us," she said, her voice trembling as though the words themselves pained her. "You left me and your sister to face the horrors alone. You chose a path of violence, believing it was the only way. But you forgot something far more important—the love and strength we shared here, in this garden."

Thorne met her gaze, his own eyes swimming with tears. Her face was etched with anguish, the kind that came from deep, irreparable wounds. He could see the tears brimming in her eyes, though she refused to let them fall. Her pain was a reflection of his own, magnified and thrown back at him.

"I thought I was doing the right thing," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart. "I thought... I thought I was keeping you safe."

"Safe?" she repeated bitterly, the word laced with venom. "We were never safe, Thorne. Not with you in our family. You—" Her voice broke, but she forced herself to continue, her words slamming into him like hammer blows. "You are the reason we are all dead!"

Thorne's stomach churned violently. The memory of that night came flooding back, sharp and merciless. He saw it all again—their destroyed kitchen, the shadows of armed men moving through their home, and the terrified screams of his family. He remembered cowering in the dark, too paralyzed by fear to act. He remembered the sound of his father's dying cries, the desperate struggle as his mother and sister were dragged away. He remembered doing nothing.

"I should have fought them," he croaked, the words catching in his throat. His voice cracked under the weight of his anguish. "I should have done something. Anything."

His mother's face twisted, her features contorting into an expression of deep bitterness. "You were a coward, Thorne," she spat, her words slicing into him like a blade. "You hid in the shadows while they took us. Your father gave his life to protect us, and you did nothing."

Each accusation hit like a physical blow, cutting deeper than any wound he had ever suffered. Thorne clutched at his chest as if he could tear the pain out by force. Guilt suffused every fiber of his being, a suffocating weight he couldn’t escape.

"I’m sorry," he whispered, tears streaming freely down his face. His voice was raw, pleading. "I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean to... I didn’t want to lose you. I was scared—I didn’t know what to do."

"Sorry?" she repeated, her voice rising, her fury igniting again. Her figure loomed over him, her anger suffocating. "Sorry doesn’t bring us back! Sorry doesn’t erase the horror we endured because of you. You left us to die, Thorne. You’re a coward, a selfish, pathetic coward!"

The chains he hadn’t noticed before rattled in the distance, the sound growing louder and louder until it drowned out her words. Thorne clapped his hands over his ears, his sobs choking in his throat. Her image blurred, dissolving into the shadows of the garden as the clanging of the chains grew deafening.

His mother’s voice echoed one last time, her words lingering like a curse: “A harbinger of pain.”

Skill Level Up: Mindguard!

The illusion shifted again, and the vibrant, painful memories of the garden dissolved into an oppressive darkness. Thorne found himself in a cold, damp cell, the air thick with the stench of mildew and despair. The stone walls glistened with moisture, their slick surface reflecting faint, phantom-like light. Beneath him, the uneven floor pressed its icy chill into his bare feet, each step sending shivers coursing through his body.

He braced himself against the rough stone wall, its jagged texture biting into his palms as if punishing him for seeking support. The darkness felt alive, a suffocating presence that pressed in on him from all sides. Somewhere in the shadows, chains rattled ominously. Thorne’s breath caught as his eyes adjusted to the dimness, revealing a figure bound to the wall.

His sister.

She was gaunt and hollow-eyed, her face a pale ghost of the lively, mischievous girl he remembered. Her tangled hair framed her sunken cheeks, and her wrists, raw and bloodied, strained against the heavy shackles that bound her to the cold stone. The dim light cast cruel shadows over her figure, exaggerating every sign of her suffering.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

"Thorne," she hissed, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade. It echoed off the cell walls, jagged and sharp with venom. "You abandoned me. You lived your life while I rotted here."

Her accusation hit him like a physical blow, knocking the air from his lungs. He staggered forward, his hands trembling. "Sister, no," he pleaded, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions. "I didn’t know where they took you. I—I was too weak to face them."

Her bitter laughter filled the cell, a sound devoid of joy. It twisted and warped, bouncing off the walls and reverberating in his skull. "Too weak?" she spat, her lips curling into a cruel smile. "Did you even try to find me? Or did you decide your little adventures with your friends were more important? While you played at being a hero, I was left to this hell."

Her words cut deeper than any blade ever could, tearing through the fragile armor he had built around his guilt. He had told himself that he was protecting her by staying away, by becoming stronger. But now the lie lay bare before him. He had abandoned her. He had failed her when she needed him most.

"I’m sorry," he whispered, his voice breaking as tears streamed down his face. "I’m so, so sorry."

"Sorry?" she mocked, her voice rising with fury. The raw pain in her tone made his chest ache. "Sorry doesn’t undo what you did. Sorry doesn’t change anything. You left me to this, Thorne. You are the reason I’m here. You’re a coward. A selfish, spineless coward!"

Each word was a hammer blow to his soul, shattering the fragile pieces of himself he had tried so desperately to hold together. The rattling of chains grew louder, echoing her anger. The weight of her rage was suffocating, pressing him to his knees. He clutched his head, trying to block out her words, but they burrowed deep into his mind, refusing to let go.

That night. That cursed night.

It replayed in his mind with ruthless clarity. His mother’s desperate screams, his father’s furious yet futile fight, and his sister’s terrified cries reverberated through his memories. He had done nothing. Frozen in fear, he had hidden like a coward while his family was torn apart.

"I should have been there for you," he choked out, his voice raw and broken. "I should have protected you. I should have fought."

His sister’s face contorted with rage, her eyes blazing with the fury of years of suffering. "You think your regrets mean anything to me now?" she shouted, her voice a crescendo of pain and fury. "Do you know how many days I prayed for you to come back? To save me? And every single day, you didn’t come. You left me to rot, to die in this place. You left me, Thorne."

Her image began to blur, her face dissolving into the shadows as his tears fell faster. The chains rattled again, louder and louder, a cacophony that drowned out her voice but not her accusations.

The darkness closed in, the cold biting deeper into his skin, into his bones. Thorne felt himself crumbling under the weight of her words, her pain, her anger. Every ounce of strength drained from him as guilt and failure suffocated him.

Skill Level Up: Mindguard!

The cell dissolved into nothingness, its damp cold replaced by the oppressive grandeur of a sprawling hall. The air was heavy with the scent of smoke and polish, a twisted echo of opulence that seemed designed to suffocate rather than inspire awe. Thorne recognized the place immediately—a warped reflection of his uncle’s estate, exaggerated and menacing.

At the far end of the hall stood his Uncle, an imposing figure cloaked in menace. His sharp, angular features were illuminated by a cruel smile that twisted his mouth into something grotesque. His piercing eyes, hard as polished stone, bore into Thorne, stripping away every shred of composure. The smirk was not one of greeting but of derision, a predator savoring its prey.

"Ah, Thorne," Uncle sneered, the name laced with mockery. "The orphan boy who thought he could be a hero."

Thorne’s blood ran cold. "Uncle, please, I—"

"Silence!" his uncle roared, his face twisting in rage. "You are nothing but a pathetic orphan! You thought you could escape your fate? You thought you could be more than the street rat you are?"

Thorne staggered back as if physically struck, the words cutting through him like blades. His uncle's voice carried the weight of every insecurity he had buried deep inside, dredging them up and laying them bare.

"I tried to make something of myself," Thorne whispered, his voice trembling, barely audible over the pounding of his heart.

"Tried?" His uncle’s laughter was sharp and bitter, devoid of any warmth. The sound grated on Thorne’s ears, each note a reminder of his perceived failures. "Oh, you tried. And look at what your pathetic efforts have wrought. Failure after failure, destruction in your wake. Shall I remind you?"

Thorne’s throat tightened as his uncle’s eyes gleamed with malice. The man’s voice lowered, dripping with venom. "Do you recall the letter, boy? The one you brought to me, thinking you were so clever? You set noble houses against each other in a bloody battle that tore half the city apart. Fire consumed the city, screams filled the air, and chaos reigned. All thanks to your brilliant handiwork."

The memories crashed over Thorne like a tidal wave. He remembered the nights illuminated by the inferno, the acrid stench of smoke mingling with the cries of the dying. He had believed he was doing the right thing, helping his uncle and securing the gang’s strength. But instead, he had unleashed a catastrophe, leaving death and ruin in his wake.

"And then," his uncle continued, his voice rising, "there was the Gravedigger’s base. You set it aflame, didn’t you? Thought you were striking a heroic blow for the family. But do you hear their screams, Thorne? The screams of your cousins as they burned alive? Because of you."

Thorne’s knees buckled under the weight of his uncle’s scorn. He felt his spirit breaking, his resolve crumbling. Every word his uncle spoke was a reminder of his deepest fears and insecurities. He remembered the early days with the gang, the constant struggle to prove himself, the gnawing feeling of inadequacy.

"I wanted to belong," he choked out, his voice barely audible. "I wanted to be someone."

"You?" Uncle spat, his face contorted with disgust. "You are no one. Just a frightened little boy playing at being a hero. Look at you, trembling like a leaf. Pathetic."

The words hit their mark, each one piercing deeper than the last. Thorne’s chest felt hollow, his mind reeling. His uncle’s face loomed closer, twisted with glee as he fed on Thorne’s despair. The grandeur of the hall felt like a cruel mockery, the walls closing in, the air thick with judgment.

"Why do you think they call me 'Uncle,' Thorne?" the man sneered, his voice a venomous whisper that seemed to fill every corner of the darkened hall. "Because I own you. You are mine—bound by your own weakness, your own fear. You will never escape that."

Thorne’s chest heaved, each breath a laborious effort under the crushing weight of his uncle’s words. "I just want to be strong," he choked out, his voice trembling but filled with a fragile determination. "To stop being afraid all the time."

"Afraid?" his uncle spat, his mocking laugh a knife twisting in Thorne’s gut. "You’ve always been afraid. Afraid of being nothing. Afraid of being alone. And look at you now, clinging to the scraps of your pathetic life, begging for strength you’ll never have."

The room grew darker, the shadows thickening like a living entity. The oppressive air pressed against Thorne, suffocating him. It felt as though the walls themselves were closing in, his uncle’s words sinking into his mind like poison.

"You think you can defy me?" Uncle’s voice dropped to a menacing growl, dripping with rage. "You think you can walk away from what you owe? You are nothing without me."

Before Thorne could react, Uncle surged forward, his hand latching onto Thorne’s collar with a vice-like grip. The sudden force lifted Thorne off his feet, his legs dangling as his uncle’s fiery gaze bore into him.

"I’ll show you what happens to cowards," Uncle snarled.

Thorne’s body jolted as a fist slammed into his stomach with brutal force, knocking the air from his lungs. He gasped, his vision blurring with tears as pain erupted through his core. He could barely draw a breath before another blow struck his side, the sharp agony radiating through him and making his knees buckle.

"Please," he whimpered, his voice a faint, desperate plea. "Stop..."

Uncle sneered, his face twisted with cruelty. "Stop? Why should I stop? You deserve this, Thorne. Every blow is a reminder of your place. You’re mine, and you’ll always be mine."

The punches kept coming, each one more vicious than the last, each one a hammer driving nails into the coffin of Thorne’s resolve. His body was a canvas of pain, his limbs trembling and weak. Uncle’s voice reverberated in his ears, louder than the pounding of his heart.

"You will never be free of me," his uncle hissed, leaning closer, his breath hot and rancid against Thorne’s face. "You are mine, and I will break you."

Thorne’s vision swam, the world around him twisting and fading as unconsciousness threatened to claim him. The pain, the humiliation, the crushing despair—it was all too much.

But somewhere, deep within the churning sea of agony and hopelessness, a spark ignited. A small, stubborn ember of defiance burned in Thorne’s chest, refusing to be extinguished. He had survived this long, endured this much. He wouldn’t give in. Not now. Not to him.

The darkness began to peel back, and with it, the crushing weight of Uncle’s presence. The echoes of mocking laughter grew distant, replaced by a growing clarity in Thorne’s mind.

Skill Level Up: Mindguard!

The oppressive darkness lifted as abruptly as it had descended, leaving Thorne sprawled on the cold, unforgiving floor of the strange room. The eerie glow of the walls remained, casting long shadows that seemed to pulse in time with his ragged breaths. His chest heaved as he gasped for air, his heart hammering in his chest. His Mindguard skill had saved him, anchoring him to reality, but it hadn't spared him from the raw, searing pain of what he had endured.

Thorne’s body gave out, and he crumpled to the floor, trembling uncontrollably. A sob tore from his throat, and then another, until they came in waves that he couldn’t contain. His forehead pressed against the icy stone, his hands tangled in his hair as if trying to physically pull himself back together. Each tear that fell seemed to carry the weight of his guilt, his grief, his failures.

The visions haunted him. His mother’s piercing words, his sister’s agonized cries, his uncle’s unrelenting scorn—they reverberated in his mind, growing louder and more unbearable with each echo. He felt like a shattered mirror, every broken shard reflecting his worst fears and deepest regrets.

"I’m sorry," he whispered hoarsely, the words barely audible over the sound of his own sobbing. He wasn’t even sure who he was apologizing to—his family, himself, or the ghosts of his past that now felt more alive than ever.

The cold seeped into his very bones, amplifying the emptiness inside him. He curled into a ball, his body a trembling knot of pain and anguish, as his sobs echoed in the eerie silence of the room.

He had survived so many trials before, but this—this was different. The weight of his memories, his failures, and his fears bore down on him like an unrelenting tide, threatening to drown him. Every battle he had fought, every scar he bore, felt insignificant in the face of this torment.

For what felt like hours, he lay there, his tears soaking into the stone. The cold floor was a cruel comfort, grounding him in the present even as the echoes of the past tormented him. He felt small, insignificant—a boy pretending to be strong in a world that demanded so much more.

As he lay on the cold floor, the weight of his past crushing him, Thorne realized that all those emotions he had hidden away for so long were enough to crush him in an instant.

And at that moment, he wasn't sure if he could ever find the strength to stand again.