Her voice trembles with hope as she says your name again — a whisper pulled thin by fear and yearning. “Please,” she breathes. “Choose me.”
You look at her for a long moment, at the tearful fire in her eyes, the faint tremor of her lips, the way her hands clutch yours like someone who has already begun to lose.
At last, you draw in a slow breath. “Margaret,” you say quietly, the words rasping through a throat gone dry. “I love you. I never stopped. But I can’t go. Not yet.”
Her face goes still — not in disbelief, but in heartbreak.
You take her hands, easing them from yours, though she resists at first. “I need to find them,” you continue. “My parents. I need to know what became of them. If they’re dead, I must see the truth with my own eyes. If they live…” Your voice falters. “If they live, they’ll need me.”
Her lips part, but no sound comes. The wind moves between you, carrying the scent of dust and cinnamon.
Finally, she speaks, her voice low, fragile as glass. “And if you find only graves?”
“Then I’ll know where to mourn,” you whisper.
A single tear slips down her cheek. She nods once, small, broken. “Then promise me you’ll come back.”
You want to. You want to promise everything she needs to hear — but you know the road ahead leaves no space for certainty. You reach for her face, your thumb brushing her jaw. “If I can, I’ll return. If not, remember that I loved you.”
She closes her eyes. For a heartbeat, you think she might collapse. Then she straightens, lifts her chin, and steps back with all the dignity of her bloodline. “Then go,” she says softly. “Find your ghosts. I’ll pray they leave you something to return to.”
You turn away before the weight in your chest can crush you.
You ride out of the city before dawn.
The road winds through ruined farmlands, empty watchtowers, and fields long since turned to dust. The banners of Drevanyn hang from broken keeps, crimson and iron, flapping weakly in the morning wind. You keep your hood drawn low, your horse silent beneath you.
For days you ride without rest, stopping only to drink from rivers and sleep beneath half-dead trees. You see villages burned to their bones, wells poisoned, churches stripped of their bells. In some, children stare with hollow eyes from doorways; in others, no one remains at all.
By the fifth day, you reach the outskirts of Moravice.
From afar, the city looks familiar — towers rising from the hills, the great river curving through its heart — but as you draw closer, the illusion shatters. The banners are wrong. The air smells of smoke and rot. Your home has become a stranger.
You dismount at the old stone bridge and walk the rest of the way, leading your horse by the reins. You keep to the shadows, moving beneath crumbling walls and shuttered windows. Once, you glimpse a patrol in Drevanyn colors; you hide behind a collapsed archway until they pass, boots thudding like drums.
When at last you stand before your family estate, you stop breathing.
The gates are gone — torn down, rusted into fragments. The gardens are a wasteland of weeds and ash. What remains of the house is little more than a blackened shell, the walls charred, the roof caved in.
You step through the ruins in silence. The wind stirs the ashes around your boots.
Here was the courtyard where you learned to fence with your father. Here, the fountain where your mother kept lilies floating on the water. The marble is cracked now, stained with soot.
Inside, the air smells of smoke and iron. You find the remains of the great hall — the long table collapsed, chairs burned to spindles. Your father’s banner still hangs from one beam, half-consumed by flame, the sigil of Zalenice blackened beyond recognition.
You kneel, touch the stone floor, and for a moment, the world narrows to the sound of your heartbeat.
They’re gone.
The truth stands silent and unyielding.
When you rise, the sky is bruised with dusk. The city bells toll somewhere distant — not for prayer, not for mourning, but for curfew. You turn away and walk down into the streets, into the dim and the noise and the smell of ale.
The tavern is small, its roof sagging, its air thick with sweat and sorrow. You push open the door and step inside.
Eyes turn. None recognize you — or if they do, they pretend not to. You find a corner, drop a few coins on the table, and ask for drink. The ale tastes sour, but you drink it anyway.
And another.
And another.
The night deepens. Your thoughts blur. You remember Margaret’s eyes when you told her no, your father’s voice calling your name across the courtyard, your mother’s hands as she tied your cloak before your first campaign. All gone. All ash.
By the time the tavern empties, you are slumped over the table, the last of your money scattered before you.
“Come,” a voice rasps behind you.
You turn, vision swimming. A man stands in the doorway — old, bent, cloak tattered and gray. His eyes are sharp, almost too sharp for such a frail frame.
“Leave me,” you mutter. “If you mean to rob me, take what’s left.”
“I don’t want your coin, my lord.”
The word lord stings you sober. You blink, trying to focus. “You know me?”
He nods. “I served your father once. I was steward of the east wing — Janek, by name. You were a boy then.”
The name stirs something faint in your memory. You stand unsteadily. “Then tell me, Janek. What happened here?”
He hesitates. “Not here. Come.”
You follow him outside into the alley, stumbling on uneven stones. The air is cold, sharp with rain and ash.
Janek turns, his face drawn tight. “They’re dead,” he says. “Both of them. Your mother and father. They tried to flee when Drevanyn’s men stormed the city. They didn’t make it past the river road.”
You feel the words like a blow to the gut. The world tilts; you grab the wall for balance.
Janek reaches for your arm, steadying you. “I buried what was left. No graves, no markers. It wasn’t safe. They died brave — your father fought till the end.”
You stare at him, your throat burning. “And Margaret knew?”
He looks away. “Aye. She knew. Her house helped arrange the surrender. I don’t think she wanted to tell you.”
Something inside you cracks. A sound escapes your throat — not a cry, not yet a scream, but something raw and hollow. You sink to your knees in the mud, hands covering your face.
She knew. She knew and said nothing.
Was it shame that sealed her lips? Or pity? Did she look at you — a broken exile, a ghost of a noble line — and decide silence was kinder than truth?
The rain starts to fall, slow and cold. Janek stands above you, waiting.
When at last you lift your head, tears mix with mud on your cheeks. “There’s nothing left,” you whisper. “No home. No name. Not even a grave.”
He nods slowly. “No. Nothing left for you here. You should flee, my lord. Before they know you’ve returned.”
You laugh — a cracked, bitter sound. “Flee where? To whom? I’m no one now.”
“You’re not no one,” he says quietly. “You’re your father’s son. And if there’s justice left in this world, one day you’ll reclaim what was taken. But not tonight. Come with me. I have a place — small, safe. You can rest, think, decide what comes next.”
You look at him through the rain. His eyes are tired but kind.
Behind him, the city looms — dark, haunted, full of ghosts. Somewhere beyond it, the sea waits. Perhaps Margaret waits too, her candles burning in a foreign port, believing you’ve chosen her.
You close your eyes.
In the silence behind your eyelids, you see the ruins again — the ashes, the flames, the banner of your house falling. You hear your father’s last command echoing faintly across years: Live. And remember.
When you open your eyes, the tears have stopped.
Two paths unfold before you like scars in the mud:
to return to Margaret, to seek warmth, forgiveness, maybe even love — or to follow Janek into the shadows, gather what fragments of power remain, and rise again from ruin.
You draw a shuddering breath. “Take me to shelter,” you say. “For tonight.”
Janek nods. “As you wish.”
You follow him into the maze of narrow streets, your footsteps echoing against stone slick with rain. Above, the crows cry out — not mournful now, but expectant, as if sensing the stir of something long buried.
And though grief still burns in your chest, a colder, sharper flame begins to grow beneath it — not mercy, not love, but purpose.
The night closes around you, and for the first time, you no longer walk as a survivor.
You walk as a heir denied — and somewhere, in the dark heart of Moravice, vengeance begins to breathe.
Morning breaks cold and gray, the mist clinging to the rooftops like ghosts that refuse to leave. You sit by the window of the inn, the taste of last night’s wine still bitter on your tongue, the old man’s words echoing in your skull like a curse: They’re gone. There’s nothing for you here. Yet outside, the bells of Moravice still toll, indifferent, as if the world insists on continuing without you.
…..
You rise, saddle your horse, and turn toward the northern road—toward Margaret, toward exile, toward the only heart that still beats for you.
….
You stay, pull your cloak tighter, and walk into the waking city, determined to dig through its ashes until you find a spark of what was once yours.
