The Sinful Young Master

Chapter 254: Family is what you make of it

The forest fell silent as Johamma approached her grandson, silver hair catching the afternoon light that filtered through the old trees. She wasnʼt paying attention to the gouges or trees which fell around her.

Green energy shimmered faintly around Joltharʼs form—the unmistakable aura of the Beast Kingʼs power that now coursed through his veins. Unlike his other abilities, this power was wild and untamed, refusing to be controlled like an obedient servant. It raged within him like a caged storm, oozing out of him, showing its dominance.

”When I found that you were in the barony, I couldnʼt stop myself from coming here,” Johamma said, her voice steady despite the tension between them. Her eyes—the same piercing shade as his own—studied him carefully.

”After you left, I thought about what went wrong. I have come to realize that I had been too harsh on you.

Johamma stood firm, the weight of her words pressing down on the silence between them.

Her maidservant and Cleora stood quietly behind them, a silent audience to the family bout.

The air felt heavy, thick with unspoken pain and unresolved history. Johamma had always been a woman of sharp intellect and unyielding will, but even she knew that there were wounds that time alone could not heal.

”I shouldnʼt have said what I said that day,” she repeated, her voice quieter this time, but no less steady. She spoke of the day when Jolthar left the clan and their conversation.

”Sometimes, even those who have lived long and gathered wisdom still stumble and make mistakes. Age does not make one infallible, nor does wisdom always guide the tongue as it should.”

Joltharʼs lips curled into something that wasnʼt quite a smile.

If anything, it was closer to a sneer. His arms remained crossed, his stance rigid, like a fortress refusing to open its gates. He felt she had the gall to speak to him like that, like a hypocrite. Thatʼs how she sounded to him now.

”But those words make oneʼs world shatter,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion, yet carrying the unmistakable weight of something deeper—something raw.

Johamma did not flinch, though his words cut deeper than she let on.

”I know,” she admitted. ”And that is why I do not expect you to forgive me, at least not today.” She took a step closer, her dark eyes never leaving his. ”But that does not mean I will not say it.”

Jolthar exhaled sharply through his nose, his expression hard. ”Words mean nothing, Johamma.”

She raised an eyebrow, surprised by how he called her. He wasnʼt referring to her as grandmother. And the way he called her, it didnʼt anger her; it just startled her. It had been a while since anybody had called her by name. The last time anyone called her by name, it was her husband.

She ignored his rude behaviour; it wasnʼt the time to mind such things.

She tilted her head slightly. ”Do they not?”

”They donʼt change what was said,” he snapped. ”They donʼt erase the moment they were spoken or the weight they carried. You say you regret it, but regret does not undo the damage.”

Johamma was silent for a moment, studying him.

”No, it doesnʼt,” she finally said, her voice quieter but unwavering.

”But understanding can.”

Jolthar let out a short laugh, humourless. ”A fucking what now?!!”

”Understanding?”

His gaze turned to steel. ”You donʼt understand, Johamma. You have never understood.”

Johammaʼs expression remained composed, but there was something in her eyes—something tired, something… grieving.

”I may not have understood then,” she admitted. ”Perhaps, in my arrogance, I thought I did. Perhaps, in my pride, I thought I was right.”

She exhaled slowly, as if steadying herself. ”But I understand now, Jolthar. I see the scars left behind.”

Joltharʼs jaw tightened.

”You think you see,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, but no less sharp. ”You think because you have had time to reflect, you suddenly understand?”

He scoffed, shaking his head. ”You donʼt know what it was like. You werenʼt the one left to pick up the pieces.”

Johamma let out a slow breath. ”No, I wasnʼt.”

A breeze passed between them, rustling the trees, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant rain.

Cleora stood to the side, watching them both in silence. She had no intention of interfering—this was not her battle to fight. But she listened carefully, noting every shift in their tones, every unspoken word that lingered between them.

Joltharʼs jaw clenched as Johammaʼs words settled between them like a slow-burning ember. His eyes, dark and stormy, bore into her, searching—perhaps for sincerity, perhaps for something else.

”It is easy to say ʼsorryʼ when you werenʼt the one who had to endure it.”

”A decade,” he murmured, his voice dangerously quiet. ”A decade of torture from your dear grandchildren.”

Cleora observed the way Joltharʼs jaw tightened, the way his fingers twitched ever so slightly at his sides. He was seething, though he held himself in check, barely. It wasnʼt just anger—it was something deeper, something darker. A fury so raw, so consuming, that if unleashed, it could tear everything apart.

She was astonished that a child of eighteen years was capable of holding back and talking with such controlled rage. She could see that it wasnʼt just family that broke him; it was everything as if the world was against him.

A complicated expression passed over Johammaʼs face. Her lips parted slightly, but for the first time, she did not immediately speak. Instead, she exhaled, her gaze flickering with something that looked dangerously close to pain.

”I canʼt make those years go away,” she admitted, her voice softer now, laced with something heavier. ”I canʼt undo what was done, nor can I erase what you suffered.” She took a slow step closer, watching his reaction. ”But I can always make it up to you.”

Joltharʼs laugh was short, sharp, and utterly devoid of humour. ”Do you know how funny you sound now?”

Johamma admitted, ”Yes, I do. Like I said, words donʼt heal you, but they give you comfort.”

Jolthar took in a sharp breath and said, ”It isnʼt that easy to make it go away with just a few words, though.”

”No, it isnʼt,” Johamma conceded.

”And I donʼt expect it to be.”

She hesitated for a fraction of a second before taking another step forward. ”Jolthar, my child…” The words, spoken so tenderly, almost made him flinch.

Almost.

”I will do whatever you want me to. I only ask that you return to the family.”

Jolthar exhaled sharply through his nose, looking away as if the very idea disgusted him.

Johammaʼs expression remained steady, though her hands trembled slightly at her sides.

Finally confessing her thoughts.

”I should have been there for you. I should have paid more attention to you. You were only a little child, but I put the blame on you for the death of my daughter. I had been a fool to do so.”

Joltharʼs jaw tightened, the green energy around his fingers pulsing with his emotion. The memories of his childhood in the Estate flooded back—the isolation, the cold indifference, the ruthless training. Though they were not his, he felt like he lived through them, too, like how Jolthar had lived the entire time. He owned his pain, his anger, and his emotions.

”Too late to realize, donʼt you think?” he replied, his voice like flint striking stone.

Behind Johamma, Cleora remained silent; her watchful gaze lingered on Jolthar. She could see the pain on his face, how he seemed to maturely talk now, despite all that pain.

Johamma took another step forward, crossing the invisible boundary Jolthar had erected between them.

”Thatʼs why I came. I made a mistake.” Her composure faltered for just a moment, revealing the pain beneath.

”You donʼt know how hard it is to lose a child before you. No parent would want to see their child pass away before them. How it breaks a motherʼs heart.”

Jolthar didnʼt respond. He could see the raw anguish etched into the lines of his grandmotherʼs face—a rare display of vulnerability from the formidable Johamma, the fallen goddess.

He knew the pain of losing loved ones too well.

But pain didnʼt justify what they had done to him.

The years of torment, the coldness, and the calculated way they had shaped him into a weapon rather than nurturing him as family. How he was neglected as if he was just a nobody.

While they stood in this fragile moment of near-reconciliation, Joltharʼs senses detected a shift in the air.

Before he could act, reality shattered around them.

The woman who had driven the carriage moved with unnatural speed, positioning herself behind Cleora in a heartbeat. Cold steel flashed in the dappled sunlight as she pressed a blade against Cleoraʼs throat.

Simultaneously, a hooded figure who had been tracking them through the forest revealed himself, moving with predatory grace to Johammaʼs side. His dagger gleamed at her neck as he pulled back his hood with his free hand.