Weaves of Ashes

Chapter 26: Chapter 21: Nightmares of the Guilty

Location: Freehold Estate, Various Chambers | Lower Realm, Doha

Time: That Night

Night fell over the Freehold estate like a shroud.

In the medical hall, Saphira lay unconscious, her burned face wrapped in healing bandages soaked with expensive essence-infused salves. Burns crawled up her left cheek like angry red vines. Her forehead—where the skin had bubbled and melted from the explosion’s heat—would scar horribly. One side of her hair was singed down to blackened stubble.

She’d been beautiful once. Perfect. The kind of beauty that opened doors and won favor and made people forget you were the clan leader’s bastard daughter, not the legitimate heir.

That was gone now. Forever.

In another wing, Edvard also slept—forced unconscious by healers who’d pumped him full of numbing draughts and pain suppressors. His Crucible Core was shattered. Not cracked like it could be repaired. Shattered. Destroyed. He’d never cultivate again. Never advance. Would spend the rest of his life as a cripple in a world where power meant everything.

And in the clan leader’s quarters, Za’thul dismissed his servants early. Told them he wanted to be alone. Poured himself another drink that did nothing to ease the tightness in his chest or the weight settling over his shoulders like lead.

Three people. Three different chambers. Three different crimes.

But when sleep finally claimed them, they shared the same curse.

***

Edvard’s Nightmare

He stood in the library.

No—he was sitting up, pain radiating through his chest like someone had shoved broken glass into his Crucible Core. The explosion was over. The golden runes had finished their work. And Jade—

She was gone. Escaped. And his core—

(It hurts it hurts it hurts why does it hurt so much—)

Then the library dissolved.

Reformed.

He was in the courtyard now. The same courtyard where they’d held the feast. But different. Wrong. The stones were black instead of gray. The sky overhead was the color of old blood. And standing in front of him—

Jade.

But not the Jade he knew. Not the small, broken slave girl with dead black eyes and a body covered in scars. This was something else. Something terrible.

She was small. Child-sized. Maybe only ten years old. But she radiated power that made the air shimmer like heat haze. Her eyes—black as void, but glowing with inner light that hurt to look at. And around her, reality seemed to... bend. Twist. Like she was a stone dropped in still water and the world was the ripples spreading out.

”Hello, Edvard,” she said softly.

And then the pain started.

The whip came first. The same whip he’d used on her in the slave pits when he was thirteen and bored and she was just... there. Easy target. Voidforge trash who couldn’t fight back.

It bit into his back—crack—and he screamed. Actually screamed, high and terrified and shocked because he’d never felt this before, never understood—

Crack. Crack. Crack.

Ten lashes. Twenty. Fifty. Each one perfectly placed where he’d placed them on her. Each one tearing skin, drawing blood, leaving marks that would scar forever.

”You thought it was funny,” Jade’s voice said from somewhere. Everywhere. ”Making me scream. Making me beg. Making me—”

The whip vanished.

Water lash next. His own technique. The water magic he’d been so proud of, shaped into a cutting edge that could slice through flesh like butter. He’d used it on her during ”training sessions” in the library. Quick cuts across her arms, her legs, her back. Nothing fatal. Just enough to make her bleed and whimper and learn her place.

Now it cut him.

Slash across his forearm—skin opening in a thin red line. Slash across his thigh. Slash, slash, slash.

He tried to defend himself. Tried to call his Inferno essence, tried to—

Nothing. His Crucible Core was shattered. Empty. He had no defense. No escape.

Just the pain. Over and over and over.

”Every cut you gave me,” Jade whispered. ”Feel them. Understand them.”

The water lash dissolved into mist.

Then came the casual cruelties. The ”accidents” that weren’t accidents. Tripping her while she carried heavy loads so she’d fall and spill everything. Pushing her into walls. Slamming doors on her fingers. Pouring scalding tea ”by mistake” onto her hands.

Each one revisited on him now. Hundredfold.

He fell. Hit stone hard enough to crack ribs. Slammed into walls that shouldn’t exist. Felt fingers break under phantom doors. Burning liquid poured over his hands until the skin blistered and peeled.

”You didn’t think about it,” Jade said, and now she was standing right in front of him. Small and terrible and absolutely merciless. ”It was just fun for you. Just entertainment. Just a way to feel powerful because you were too weak to matter on your own.”

”I’m sorry,” he tried to say. ”I’m sorry, please—”

But the nightmare wasn’t done.

The library exploded again. But different this time. The golden runes poured out of the Divine Tome and turned on him instead of Jade. Liquid light burning through his Crucible Core, not healing it but destroying it. Unmaking it piece by piece while he watched helplessly.

His core—the thing that made him special, that gave him status and power and worth—cracked. Shattered. Turned to dust.

And Jade stood over him, black eyes glowing, power radiating from her small frame like heat from a forge.

”You wanted me dead,” she said matter-of-factly. ”You encouraged Saphira to attack me. You helped plan the ’accident’ in the library. You thought if I died, it would be entertaining.”

She knelt down beside him. Reached out one small hand. Touched his forehead.

”Let me return the favor.”

And then she killed him.

Not quickly. Not mercifully.

She killed him in a hundred different ways. Each death more creative and painful than the last. Each one forcing him to feel every bit of pain and fear he’d ever caused her.

Drowned in water, he couldn’t escape. Burned by fire he couldn’t dodge. Crushed by stone he couldn’t lift. Cut apart by blades he couldn’t block.

Died and died and died and died.

Until he couldn’t remember what it felt like to not be dying.

Until pain was all that existed.

Until he would’ve given anything—everything—just to make it stop.

Edvard woke crying.

Actually crying. Tears streaming down his face, body shaking with sobs he couldn’t control. The medical hall was dark and quiet around him. Other patients slept peacefully in their beds. But he—

He could still feel it. All of it. Phantom pains from the nightmare deaths. The whip. The water lash. The casual cruelties revisited. His core shattering over and over and over.

”Please,” he whispered to the empty darkness. ”Please, Jade, let me go. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please—”

But even awake, he could still see her black eyes watching him. Still feel her small hand on his forehead. Still hear her voice:

Let me return the favor.

He cried until dawn.

And even then, the phantom pains didn’t stop.

***

Saphira’s Nightmare

She was beautiful again.

That was the first thing Saphira noticed when awareness returned. Her face was whole. Unmarred. Perfect. Her hair was long and lustrous, cascading down her back in waves that caught the light like silk. Her dress—the finest she owned, dark blue with silver embroidery—fit perfectly, showing off curves that made nobles’ sons stare and stammer.

She stood in the grand ballroom. Hundreds of candles cast golden light across polished marble floors. Clan members surrounded her—nobles, elders, important people—all of them smiling, nodding, accepting her as one of them.

As she should be accepted.

”Congratulations, Lady Saphira,” someone said. An elder whose name she couldn’t quite remember. ”Such talent. Such grace. The clan is blessed to have you.”

”Thank you,” she said, and her voice was perfect too. Cultured. Refined. Everything a clan daughter should be.

(This is right. This is how it should’ve always been.)

Then the doors opened.

Jade walked in.

Not the scarred, broken slave girl. Not the Voidforge disgrace with magically blackened eyes and an altered face. This was Jade as she’d been. As she’d been born.

Five years old. Small and perfect and glowing with the kind of innocence that made people want to protect her. And her eyes—

Her eyes were AMBER.

Dragon-marked. Bright and luminous and absolutely unmistakable. The same amber as Father’s eyes. The same amber that marked only the purest Freehold bloodline. The physical proof of true paternity that everyone had seen for five years before Elder Koraven’s spell changed them to common black.

”Hello, sister,” Jade said softly.

The ballroom froze. All the nobles, all the elders, all the attention that had been on Saphira—it swiveled. Locked onto Jade. Onto those glowing amber eyes.

”The dragon-marked heir,” someone whispered. ”The chosen one.”

”Look at her eyes,” another voice breathed. ”True Freehold blood.”

No. No, this wasn’t—

The ballroom dissolved.

Reformed as courtyard stones and bright afternoon sun.

Saphira stood behind a stone pillar, nine years old again, watching the execution. Mother—no, not Mother, just Shyenho, Father’s wife—tied to the center pillar. Her beautiful face streaked with tears. Her voice hoarse from screaming denials that no one believed.

”I never betrayed Za’thul!” Shyenho screamed. ”The child is his! Look at her eyes—LOOK AT HER EYES!”

And there, held by guards at the courtyard’s edge, stood five-year-old Jade. Amber eyes wide with confusion and terror. Tears streaming down her perfect little face.

”Papa?” she called out, her small voice breaking. ”Papa, why? What’s happening?”

Behind the pillar, young Saphira watched.

Knowing.

She knew it was lies. All of it. The adultery charge. The claim that Jade wasn’t Father’s true daughter. She’d seen those amber eyes every day for five years. Seen the way Father looked at baby Jade with pride. Seen the proof of paternity stamped across the child’s face in glowing amber.

The first stone flew.

Hit Shyenho’s shoulder. She cried out, body jerking against the ropes.

”Speak,” nightmare-Jade whispered in Saphira’s ear, though she was still across the courtyard. ”Tell them the truth. Save Mother. It’s so easy. Just speak.”

But Saphira stayed silent.

Stayed hidden.

Another stone. Another. Another.

Blood on white stones. Screams echoing off courtyard walls. A woman dying for crimes she didn’t commit while her daughter watched and her husband ordered it and—

And Saphira said nothing.

”Why?” Jade’s whisper was poison in her ear. ”Why didn’t you speak?”

Because.

Because for five years, Saphira had watched everyone fawn over baby Jade. The dragon-marked heir. The chosen one. The perfect daughter with perfect eyes and perfect bloodline. Gifts and attention and love pouring over the infant while Saphira—bastard daughter, plain-eyed, nothing special—was pushed aside.

Because jealousy had roots that went deep.

Because part of her—a small, dark, horrible part—was glad when Kindling Day revealed Jade as Voidforge. Glad when the amber eyes were changed to common black. Glad when the attention finally shifted away from perfect little Jade and onto literally anyone else.

”Jealous,” Jade whispered. ”Of a five-year-old. Of your sister. Jealous enough to let Mother die.”

The courtyard dissolved.

Kindling Day. The ceremony. Jade standing before the Reading Stone with child-like hope on her face.

”Voidforge.”

The word echoing like doom.

The crowd’s gasps. Father’s face twisting with disgust. And Jade—small, confused, terrified—looking around for someone to explain why everyone was suddenly looking at her like she was diseased.

Saphira stood in the crowd and felt...

Relief.

(She’s nothing. Finally. She’s nothing and I’m something.)

Elder Koraven approached. Cast his spells with Father’s approval. The first spell burning Jade’s eyes—AMBER turning to BLACK as the child screamed. The second spell softening her features, making her face common and unremarkable instead of aristocratic and Freehold-perfect.

Removing the proof.

Hiding the bloodline.

And young Saphira watched and thought: Good.

”You knew,” Jade whispered. ”You knew the whole time. Knew I was Father’s true daughter. Knew the adultery was lies. Knew Mother was innocent. Knew those amber eyes proved everything.”

The memory shifted.

Ten years blurred past in nightmare speed.

Every beating Saphira had ordered. Every humiliation inflicted. Every casual cruelty delivered with a smile.

But now she felt them.

Felt the whip across her back—crack—skin tearing, blood flowing. ”Please, sister, stop!” her own voice begged, small and broken.

Felt the boot to her ribs—crack—bones breaking, breath exploding from lungs. ”I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

Felt the hunger. Days without food. Stomach cramping. Weakness spreading through limbs until lifting a hand felt impossible.

Felt the hopelessness. The absolute certainty that this would never end, that no one cared, that she was worthless and forgotten and might as well be dead.

All of it. Every moment. Every pain. Every terror.

And through it all, Jade’s voice: ”You did this. You knew the truth and did this anyway.”

The library exploded around her.

But this time, the runes turned on Saphira instead. Golden light searing through her face—burning, melting, destroying. She felt skin bubble and char. Felt hair singe to stubble. Felt beauty—the only thing that made her valuable, the only thing that gave her worth—turn to ruin and ash.

She stood before a mirror.

Saw her face. Burns crawling up her left cheek. Forehead scarred horribly. Half her hair gone. Beauty destroyed forever.

”This is what jealousy costs,” Jade said, standing behind her in the mirror’s reflection. Still five years old. Still with glowing amber eyes. ”You envied what I had. My eyes. My bloodline. The attention I received. So you stayed silent when Mother died. You hurt me for ten years. You attacked me in the library.”

Saphira tried to speak. To explain. To say something that would make this make sense.

But Jade wasn’t done.

”Look at your face,” she whispered. ”Look at what you’ve become. The outside finally matches the inside.”

The nightmare cycled. Repeated. Each iteration worse than the last.

Mother’s execution. Saphira’s silence. The jealousy eating her alive.

Kindling Day. The amber eyes changing to black. The relief and shame mixing together.

Ten years of cruelty. Feeling every blow. Understanding every pain.

The library. Her face burning. Beauty dying.

Over and over and over until Saphira couldn’t remember what it felt like to not be drowning in guilt and agony and the terrible understanding of what she’d done.

She woke screaming.

Actually screaming. High and terrified and unable to stop. The medical hall’s healers rushed to her bedside but she couldn’t see them through the tears and the terror.

”I didn’t know!” she sobbed, though she had known, she’d always known. ”The eyes—I saw the eyes! Mother, I’m sorry! I saw the dragon mark and I said nothing!”

”Saphira!” Her aunt rushed in—Edvard’s mother, who’d been taking care of her since the explosion. Tried to hold her, tried to calm her. ”Shh, child, it’s just a nightmare—”

”Jade!” Saphira screamed. ”Please, Jade, I was jealous! The amber eyes—you were chosen and I was nothing! I watched Mother die and said nothing because I was jealous of a five-year-old!”

”Saphira, please—”

But she couldn’t stop screaming. Couldn’t stop seeing Jade’s glowing amber eyes in every shadow. Couldn’t stop feeling the phantom burns on her face, the phantom whip on her back, the phantom weight of ten years of cruelty crushing her like stone.

Her aunt held her while she screamed.

While she confessed to crimes everyone already knew but no one had admitted.

While she broke under the weight of guilt that should’ve been there ten years ago, but had taken a nightmare to finally surface.

Dawn found her still trembling.

Still seeing amber eyes in the darkness.

Still hearing her own voice beg: Please, sister, stop.

***

Za’thul’s Nightmare

He stood in the courtyard.

Shyenho was there. Tied to the stone pillar, just like that day fifteen years ago. Blood on her white dress. Tears streaming down her beautiful face. Her voice hoarse from screaming denials no one would believe.

And beside her, tied to another pillar—

Za’thul himself.

He tried to move. Couldn’t. Ropes bound him as surely as they bound his wife. And standing before them both—

Jade.

Not the child. Not the fifteen-year-old running from his hunters. Something older. More powerful. More terrible. Her body shifted and changed, age sliding across her features like water. Child. Teen. Adult. Ancient. All of them at once and none of them completely.

But her eyes—

Her eyes were black. Void-black. The color Elder Koraven had changed them to ten years ago when Za’thul had ordered her marked as common instead of noble.

”Father,” she said softly. Voice layered with ages. ”Did you know that memory is the cruelest form of torture?”

She reached out. Touched his forehead.

And he remembered.

No. Not remembered.

Experienced.

He was her. Was Jade. Was his daughter living every moment of her life from her perspective, feeling what she felt, knowing what she knew.

Birth through Age Five:

Warmth. Mother’s arms. Soft blankets. The clan estate smelling of incense and safety.

Father’s face above the crib—proud smile, amber eyes (like hers, like hers!) crinkling at the corners. ”My perfect daughter. My dragon-marked heir.”

Being held. Being loved. Being cherished.

Clan members bringing gifts. ”The chosen one!” they said. ”Those eyes—true Freehold blood!”

Growing. Walking. Learning to speak. Every milestone celebrated. Every accomplishment praised. The world was warm and safe and full of people who loved her.

(This is what I destroyed. This is what she had before—)

Kindling Day:

Age five. Standing before the Emberstone, wearing her best dress. So excited. Today she’d prove she was special, prove she was worthy of all that love and attention.

The Emberstone pulsed.

”Voidforge.”

Confusion. What does that mean? Why is everyone looking at me like that?

The crowd gasping. Drawing back. Like she’s diseased. Like she’s wrong.

Father’s face—the face that had smiled at her with pride for five years—twisting. Disgust. Hatred. Absolute rejection.

The physical blow of that look. Like being hit in the chest. Can’t breathe. Can’t understand.

”Papa?” Her small voice, breaking. ”Papa, what’s wrong? What did I do?”

He turns away.

Turns his back on her.

And Za’thul—experiencing this from her perspective—felt his daughter’s heart break. Felt the love she’d had for him shatter like glass. Felt the confusion and terror, and desperate need for someone to explain why Papa suddenly hated her.

Then Elder Koraven approached.

Cast the first spell.

Her eyes—BURNING. Pain like fire eating through her skull. Screaming. Begging it to stop. And through the pain, watching her reflection in the Eberstone’s polished surface—

Amber eyes turning BLACK.

The dragon mark—the proof of bloodline, the sign of being chosen—melting away like it had never existed.

”Make her common,” Father’s voice ordered. Cold. Disgusted. ”Remove every trace.”

The second spell. Face changing. Features softening. The aristocratic Freehold bone structure that marked her as legitimate heir—gone. Made ordinary. Unremarkable. Common.

And five-year-old Jade understanding, with the terrible clarity children sometimes have:

He’s erasing me. Papa is making me disappear.

Za’thul lived that moment. Felt it. The betrayal. The pain. The absolute terror of a child watching her father deliberately destroy her.

Mother’s Execution:

Days later. Still confused. Still hurting. Still not understanding why everything changed.

Led to the courtyard. Made to watch.

Mother tied to the pillar. Beautiful face streaked with tears. ”I never betrayed Za’thul! The child is his! Look at her eyes—”

But the eyes were black now. Common. The proof was gone.

”Papa?” Little Jade called out, held by guards, trying to run to Father. ”Papa, why? What’s happening?”

He didn’t look at her.

The first stone flew.

Hit Mother. She screamed.

And Jade—five years old, tiny, terrified—watched her mother die.

Stone after stone. Blood on white stone. Screams echoing. The smell of copper and fear. Mother’s voice calling her name: ”My daughter was beautiful, powerful, destined for greatness! You are nothing—less than nothing—a void wearing stolen skin”

She couldn’t close her eyes. Couldn’t look away. Could only watch and understand:

Father ordered this. Father is killing Mother. Father hates us.

The final stone. Mother’s body slumping. Silent now. Forever.

Za’thul felt his daughter’s grief. Too big for a child’s heart to hold. Too vast for any words to describe. The world is ending. Everything safe and warm and good—dead on courtyard stones.

And he—Father—had ordered it.

Ten Years in the Slave Pits:

Thrown into darkness. Five years old and alone. Surrounded by adults who hated her for being Voidforge. For being cursed. For bringing shame to the clan.

The first beating. Overseer’s whip across her back—CRACK. Pain beyond anything she’d ever imagined. Screaming. Begging it to stop.

It didn’t stop.

Day after day. Year after year. Za’thul experienced all of it:

The hunger. Stomach cramping. So weak she could barely stand. Food thrown on the ground like she was an animal. Eating it anyway because starving hurt worse than shame.

The cold. Winter nights in a cell with no blanket. Body shaking so hard her teeth chattered. No one cared. No one came.

The beatings. Regular. Scheduled. For discipline. For entertainment. For no reason at all except she was there and Voidforge and easy to hurt.

Old Man Zhek finding her. Protecting her when he could. Teaching her to survive. To endure. Becoming the only bright spot in an ocean of darkness.

Then Zhek dying. Coughing blood. Lungs failing. Whispering with his last breath: ”Survive, little one. Promise me you’ll survive.”

And her promising. Even though survival meant more beatings, more hunger, more endless gray days that blurred together until she couldn’t remember what warmth felt like.

Ten years. Za’thul lived every single day of them. Felt every blow. Every hunger pang. Every moment of hopelessness. Every time she thought about giving up, about letting the next beating be the last one, about just... stopping.

But she didn’t stop.

She survived.

Because she’d promised Zhek. Because some tiny, stubborn part of her refused to die. Because—

The Library:

Age fifteen. Assigned to library work. Finally. Something better than the pits. A chance to learn. To read. To maybe, someday, find a way out.

Then Father came.

Za’thul experienced this from her perspective—saw himself through her eyes. A towering figure of authority and cruelty. The man who’d destroyed her life. Who’d killed Mother. Who’d stolen everything she was supposed to be.

”Voidforge trash.”

His fist hit her face. She felt teeth crack. Tasted blood.

”You dare steal from this clan?”

But she hadn’t stolen anything. The Divine Tome opened on its own when—

His boot to her ribs. Bones cracking. Can’t breathe. Can’t explain. Can’t do anything except curl up and try to protect her head.

”Worthless. Always worthless.”

More blows. More pain. More hatred in every strike.

And Jade—fifteen years old, broken and bleeding on library stones—thinking:

This is my father. This is what he chose. He could’ve loved me. He chose this instead.

Za’thul felt that thought like a knife to his own heart.

The Understanding:

The nightmare shifted. Pulled back. Showed him the whole picture.

The prophecy. Real. True. A Freehold heir would rise with power to save or destroy the clan. The Divine Tome would choose its master.

And it had chosen her.

The Voidforge child. The disgraced heir. The daughter he’d tortured for fifteen years.

The forest protecting her. Ancient law recognizing what he’d refused to see.

She was the chosen one.

Had always been the chosen one.

And he—through deliberate, calculated cruelty—had destroyed the clan’s greatest hope.

Not through ignorance. Not through accident. Through choice.

He’d chosen clan politics over daughter. Chosen pride over prophecy. Chosen cruelty over compassion.

Every single day for fifteen years.

Jade’s hand lifted from his forehead.

Za’thul stood in the courtyard again, tied to the pillar beside Shyenho’s corpse. The nightmare wasn’t done. Couldn’t be done until he understood fully.

”You knew,” Jade said quietly. Her form settled—fifteen years old now, small and scarred and absolutely terrifying. ”Deep down, you knew Mother was faithful. Knew I was your true daughter. Knew those amber eyes proved everything.”

”But you chose clan reputation over truth. Chose to hide your mistake—marrying a woman the elders didn’t approve of—by destroying us both.”

She stepped closer.

”You didn’t fail through ignorance, Father. You failed through deliberate choice. Every beating. Every hungry night. Every moment of suffering I endured—you chose that.”

Her black eyes locked onto his.

”And now you understand what you’ve done.”

The nightmare didn’t kill him. That would’ve been mercy.

Instead, it made him watch—forced him to watch—as everything repeated. Mother’s execution. Jade’s suffering. The prophecy unfulfilling itself. The clan’s future crumbling.

All because of his choices.

Over and over and over until he couldn’t remember what it felt like to not be drowning in the weight of ten years of deliberate cruelty.

Until he understood, completely and absolutely, that he’d destroyed everything that mattered.

And there was no fixing it.

No redemption possible.

Just the knowledge. The understanding. The guilt.

Forever.

Za’thul woke to dawn light streaming through his chamber windows.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Couldn’t move. The nightmare’s weight still pressed down on him like physical mass.

Then he tried to sit up. His body felt wrong. Heavy. Stiff in ways it hadn’t been yesterday.

He stood. Stumbled to the mirror mounted on his wall. Stared.

Stopped breathing.

The man in the mirror was ancient.

Hair that had been black with silver streaks yesterday was now completely gray. White-gray like ash, like dead things, like everything that used to be vital had been burned away.

His face—deep lines carved around his mouth, his eyes, his forehead. Lines that hadn’t been there yesterday. Lines that spoke of decades of regret compressed into a single night.

His hands trembled when he raised them. Liver-spotted. Aged. The hands of a man twenty years older than he’d been when he went to sleep.

”What have I done?” he whispered to his reflection.

The reflection stared back with eyes that looked ancient. Haunted. Eyes that had seen too much and understood too late.

He sank into his chair—the same chair he’d sat in last night, making decisions about protecting talented youth and continuing execution orders and hedging the clan’s bets.

All of it meaningless now.

The chosen one had come. The prophesied heir who would save or destroy the clan. She’d been right there in front of him for fifteen years. Small and scared and desperately trying to survive.

And he’d tortured her.

Not through ignorance. Not through accident.

Through deliberate, calculated cruelty.

Because it was easier than admitting he’d been wrong. Easier than facing the elders’ judgment. Easier than accepting that his daughter—his Voidforge, cursed, supposedly worthless daughter—was actually everything the prophecy promised.

The Divine Tome had known. The forest had known. The ancient powers had recognized what he’d refused to see.

And now she was gone. Protected by forces older than the clans. Beyond his reach. Beyond his control.

Beyond his redemption.

Za’thul sat in his aged body and stared at nothing as the sun rose higher.

Servants would come soon. Would see him. Would whisper. Word would spread—the clan leader aged twenty years overnight. Cursed. Marked. Punished by something greater than mortal authority.

They’d be right.

This was his punishment. Not death. Not pain.

Living with the knowledge of what he’d done.

Understanding completely what he’d destroyed.

And knowing, with absolute certainty, that there was no fixing it.

No redemption possible.

Just this: sitting in the morning light, staring at an aged reflection, understanding fully the monster he’d chosen to become.

The nightmare had shown him the truth.

And truth, he discovered, was the cruelest torture of all.

Outside his window, the sun rose over the Freehold estate. Servants began their morning routines. The clan woke to a new day.

But in Za’thul’s chambers, time had stopped.

Frozen in the moment of understanding that came ten years too late.

He’d personally destroyed the Freehold clan’s great future with his own hands.

The chosen one had come.

And he’d driven her away.

Not through ignorance.

Through choice.

His gray-haired reflection offered no comfort. No answers. No redemption.

Just the weight of ten years of deliberate cruelty.

And the absolute certainty that he deserved every moment of the suffering that was surely coming.

For him. For his clan. For everyone who’d stood by and let it happen.

The prophecy hadn’t failed.

He had.

And now they would all pay the price.