Chapter 8 The Burden of Hate
The Black Crows were swiftly imprisoned, their comrades dragged off one by one to be interrogated. The soldiers who had once fought and bled beside them now faced endless questions, desperate attempts to uncover any shred of evidence about Hollen’s supposed betrayal.
Days blurred into weeks, then into months. Regras sat in his dark, damp cell, his mind a ceaseless storm of fury and anguish. His hands trembled in his lap, not from fear, but from the unbearable weight of betrayal. It clawed at him, growing sharper with every second of silence.
Are we really going to die here? The thought echoed relentlessly in his mind, a bitter mix of despair and disbelief. He looked to the rats scurrying in the corner, nibbling at crumbs scattered across the filthy floor. We did everything they asked. We followed orders. We risked our lives for them. And now... they throw us away like garbage.
He clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms. “Commander,” he whispered hoarsely, his voice cracking. “Where are you now? Why… why is this happening?” The words felt fragile, like glass about to shatter. His only answer was the cold, damp walls of the cell, their silence mocking him.
His thoughts spiraled into darker places. Memories of battles fought and victories won twisted into images of their undoing. Was this our reward for loyalty? To rot in chains while the world forgets us?
The monotonous suffocation of captivity ended abruptly one day. A soft shuffle of footsteps broke the stillness, pulling Regras from his despair. He looked up, and there, just beyond the bars of his cell, a cloaked figure emerged from the shadows.
The stranger’s presence was like a weight pressing on the air. The way the darkness seemed to cling to him, the deliberate stillness of his movements—it made Regras’s skin crawl. The man’s voice, sharp and deliberate, cut through the silence like a knife.
“I heard Hollen has been found guilty,” the figure said, each word laced with venom.
Regras’s head snapped up, his rage igniting like dry tinder. “What do you mean by that?! What are you talking about?”
“They say,” the figure began, savoring his words, “that letters from the Noclan army were discovered in Commander Hollen’s study. Proof of his treachery.”
“That’s a lie!” Regras roared, his voice raw. He surged to his feet, gripping the bars of his cell. “The Commander would never betray the kingdom! Never!”
The figure’s head tilted slightly, almost as if amused by Regras’s outburst. “Perhaps not,” he said smoothly. “But truth is irrelevant when power decides what’s real. And someone as powerful as Prince Kaelean will make sure his version of the story becomes fact.”
“Prince?” Regras spat the word as though it were poison. “When did that illegitimate bastard become a prince?”
The figure chuckled, the sound devoid of any warmth. “Ah, I like that fire in your eyes,” he said, his tone mocking. “Such a shame it will be extinguished so soon.”
Regras’s breath hitched, his chest tightening as dread began to creep in.
“Tomorrow,” the figure continued, his words slow and deliberate, “you and your comrades will be executed. The capital plaza will host quite the spectacle. A public display for all to witness your punishment.”
The chill in Regras’s chest spread, wrapping itself around his heart. The weight of despair bore down on him, suffocating, unrelenting. He slumped against the wall, his strength ebbing away.
But then the figure leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that was cold and coiling.
“Unless... you help me.”
Regras felt the last shred of defiance slipping away. The hope of escape, of vindication, of justice—it was gone. His voice, hollow and lifeless, escaped his lips. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” he muttered. “Fine. Whatever you want.”
The figure smiled, a cruel, satisfied grin that made Regras’s stomach churn. “Good,” he said softly. “I promise, you won’t regret this. Well… not immediately.”
As the cloaked figure disappeared back into the shadows, Regras slumped back against the wall. His mind churned with anger, bitterness, and despair. He bit his lip until he tasted blood, his thoughts a raging sea of unanswered questions and unrelenting fury.
There was nothing to do now but wait. Wait for salvation. Or damnation.
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The memory fractured, replaced by searing pain. Regras’s senses reeled, his body spasming as reality came crashing back. But then he heard a familiar mysterious voice someone so close yet felt so distant, he laughed, a wild, broken laugh, his thoughts teetering on the edge of madness.
"HAHAHAHAHA" he laugh loudly his mouth showing off a maddened glee.
"What happened to him?... Well, whatever..." the monster thought, pulling Regras from the ground and lowering him into its maw. The flower-like mouth organ devoured Regras whole, his laughter echoing into nothingness. Afterwards the monster contorted and twitched, shrinking until it became a regular naked man.
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"Ohhhh, the cold brbrbr," the mysterious man shivered. "Well, I better head back now to finish our business here…"
Once he had disappeared into the distance, another figure stepped forward. This one wore a mask, its blank surface revealing nothing of the man beneath. He knelt by the blood-stained ground, silent for a moment.
“Such a waste,” the masked man muttered, his voice low and laden with disdain. “To think this is all you amounted to. Suggesting you come here was my mistake.”
From his cloak, he produced a small vial and dipped it into the blood pooled on the ground. He examined the crimson liquid for a moment before slipping the bottle back into his pocket.
“At least you retained your sanity after transforming,” he mused. “If nothing else, that’s worth something.”
The masked man turned and walked into the forest, his voice barely audible over the rustle of leaves.
“One day, she will return… and when she does, she will cleanse this wretched world. All will be restored to what it once was.”
His words hung in the air, chilling and foreboding, as he vanished into the shadows.
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Mava stirred, the sting of smoke clawing at her throat, the bitter scent of death flooding her senses. She blinked slowly, the world around her coming into focus—a field of ruin. Bodies lay strewn across the blood-soaked earth, lifeless. Her comrades, her friends... gone.
Her heart twisted as her gaze settled on familiar faces. Millea, Rodrick, Finrod, Elanora... and then—
"Thaloril!" she cried, her voice raw and cracking as she stumbled forward, each step a struggle. Her side screamed in pain, but it was nothing compared to the ache in her chest. She fell to her knees beside his body, trembling hands reaching out.
"No," she whispered, pulling him close. His warmth was gone, his once-bright eyes staring into nothing. "I couldn’t save you... I couldn’t save any of you."
Tears fell freely, her grief mixing with the blood that painted her hands. "What did I do wrong? What’s the point if I can't save what matters most?"
The sound of slow footsteps broke through her despair. She looked up, wiping her vision clear, to see a tall figure emerge from the shadows. A man, his face hidden behind a mask of intricate, almost organic design. Behind him stood a hooded girl, her expression unreadable.
The man’s voice was low, almost amused. “What’s the point, indeed? A question humanity asks as it stumbles blindly through the dark.”
Mava staggered to her feet, still clutching Thaloril’s lifeless form. “Who... who are you?” she demanded, her voice breaking.
The girl spoke first, her tone cold. “We’re not here to harm you, Mava. Consider us... witnesses.”
“Witnesses to what?” Mava’s grief gave way to anger. “To all this? To their deaths?”
“Witnesses to your awakening,” the man said, his voice smooth and calculating. “You’re starting to see it, aren’t you? The futility of it all. You fight, you lose, you suffer—and for what? The cycle never ends. Good intentions die alongside the good people who carry them.”
Mava’s eyes burned as she glared at him. “You don’t understand! These people—my friends—deserved better! If we don’t fight, how does anything change? We can stop the cycle if we try!”
The man tilted his head, his mask reflecting the flickering firelight. “Trying is what keeps the cycle alive. Every act of defiance feeds the fire. Every act of salvation creates more pain. You say you fight to save others, but all you’ve done is add your grief to the mountain of suffering that already exists.”
Mava’s voice shook. “So you think the answer is to let it all end? To destroy everything?”
The man’s eyes narrowed, and his smile twisted into something cruel and knowing. “Exactly. If humanity’s suffering ends, so does its hatred. Let the world burn, and no one will ever hurt again.”
Mava stared at him, her heart hammering in her chest. The weight of his words gnawed at her resolve, stirring the doubts she had buried deep within herself. But then... a memory. Thaloril’s laughter, his unwavering smile. His words: “I’ve got your back. Always.”
“No,” Mava whispered, tightening her grip on his body. “You’re wrong. My brother would’ve done the same. He would’ve saved them!”
Scorn’s smile faltered for a moment before returning, sharper than ever. He took a step closer, his voice low and cutting. “Yes, and you did the same. And where did that take you? Your friends—the family you’ve built—they’re all dead.”
Mava flinched, her heart lurching as his words hit like daggers.
Scorn’s tone darkened, his voice dripping with disdain. “You speak of ‘following what you think is right.’ Of staying true to yourself. Yet all I hear is your family’s pride. Your father’s justice. Your brother’s will. Tell me, Mava—who are you? Who is Mava, when you strip away their words, their ideals? Do you even know?”
Mava’s lips trembled, but no words came. His questions clawed at something deep within her, something she wasn’t ready to confront.
Scorn continued, relentless. “You cling to their memory, their dreams, their righteousness. But look at where that’s brought you. Look at the blood on your hands, the lives lost because you were too busy being what they wanted you to be. Do you truly believe their path is yours?”
“I...” Mava faltered, her voice breaking. “I don’t know...”
His laugh was soft, almost pitying. “Of course you don’t. Because you’ve never lived for yourself. Not once. You’ve been a puppet of their ideals, a shadow of their pride. And here you are, standing in the ashes of their expectations, wondering why you feel so empty.”
Mava’s fists clenched, her nails digging into her palms. Tears streamed down her face as rage and despair churned within her. “What are you saying? That I should abandon them? That I should become like you? Someone who’s given up on everything?”
Scorn tilted his head "that is for you to decide" he said coldly.
Mava stared at him, her heart pounding. His words terrified her, but they also stirred something deep within—a spark of defiance she couldn’t ignore.
"Maybe you're right," Mava said, her voice quiet but trembling with the weight of her admission. "Maybe the cycle of hate never ends. Maybe humanity is doomed to repeat its mistakes, over and over again."
She raised her head, her tear-streaked face illuminated by the flickering light of the burning ruins around her. But despite the despair that had consumed her moments ago, there was something else in her eyes now—a spark, fragile yet unyielding.
"But you're wrong," she continued, her voice gaining strength, each word laced with burning defiance. "You're wrong to say it's better to let it all end. If the world is cruel, if the cycle of hate is unbreakable, then someone has to be brave enough—strong enough—to stand in its way."
She stepped forward, her body trembling but resolute. "Someone has to carry that burden, to bear the hate and the suffering, so others don’t have to. If just one person can be strong enough to contain it all, to hold the weight of the world’s pain... then the world would still be worth saving. And only one person would need to suffer."
Scorn chuckled, his smile twisted yet amused. “Well, now... this is getting interesting. You’re not ready to give in. Not yet.” His voice dropped, almost a whisper. “But will you survive the path ahead? That, I’m curious to see.”
He stepped forward, his presence commanding, his voice almost playful. “So, you want strength, do you? To carry the weight of the world?”
Mava straightened, her voice trembling but firm. “I’ll carry it. No matter what.”
Scorn’s grin widened, dark and knowing. “Then let’s see how far you’re willing to go.”