The morning air is brittle, carrying a taste of salt and frost. You rise before dawn, the decision made long in the night: you will leave Aldebryn, leave Margaret, leave the warmth of her presence. The thought gnaws at your chest like ice, yet you tell yourself it is mercy. Better she dies in comfort than endures the misery you drag behind you, the shadow of Claudius always close. You dress quickly, don your traveling cloak, and move through the house with silent purpose. Every step feels like betrayal, but every step also feels inevitable.
You gather provisions, coins, and weapons—what you may carry without suspicion. The pack feels light compared to the weight pressing on your soul. You pass through corridors lined with tapestries, portraits, and polished wood, avoiding her door. Every heartbeat echoes with the memory of her eyes, the soft brush of her hand on yours, and you tell yourself that absence will spare her more than your presence. Outside, the wind slices through the streets of Aldebryn, as though urging you forward.
That night, you wander the cliffs, restless. The moon is pale, the sea below roiling in quiet threat. And then you see a figure at the edge of shadow, her robes whispering against the stones. A witch. Her eyes gleam with an unnatural light, her presence both tempting and repulsive.
“You have doubts,” she says, voice smooth like water over stone. “Take this,” and she holds out a small mushroom, pale and almost luminescent. “It will show you the truth. How to escape, how to reclaim what was lost.”
You know better. You recognize the aura of the Emperor in her, the cruel, patient malice. This is not aid; it is trap. You throw the mushroom aside, rage and fear twisting in equal measure. “You will not manipulate me,” you growl, drawing your blade. The witch retreats, graceful and mocking, vanishing into the night before your steel finds flesh.
Returning to the house, your steps are frantic. You open her door, calling her name, dread knotting your chest. Silence. The room is empty, the air stale with decay. And then you see her—Margaret—lifeless, pale, her hands folded as if in prayer. A slip of paper rests beneath her fingers: faintly scented, faintly spattered. Poison. The crow in your chest rages now, wings beating against the bars of despair.
You fall beside her, the warmth of her body gone, and grief rises uncontainable, choking. Hours pass as you bury her on the cliffs overlooking the gray sea, the soil cold beneath your fingers, the waves striking like judgment. There is no solace. No consolation. The revenge you once plotted, the vengeance you imagined, is meaningless now. You have lost everything—her, your home, the fragile sense of purpose Aldebryn had given you.
Her parents, brother, and sister remain, broken and silent, grief mirrored in their eyes. You stand among them, a stranger bound by mourning. Perhaps, in shared sorrow, you will find a fragment of solace. Perhaps not. The streets outside continue, indifferent, the harbor alive with trade and voices, while your heart is emptied of care. Claudius’ wrath is not done—it has only begun—but you do not care anymore. You are untethered, a shadow drifting without anchor.
Days pass in a haze. Her family endures, you endure, Aldebryn continues as it always does. Yet nothing draws you to remain, nothing compels action. Claudius may strike again, armies may march, spies may watch—but you are untethered. Nothing here binds you anymore. Perhaps you will find fragments of solace among her kin. Perhaps you will leave and wander the earth, bearing grief as the only inheritance that remains. The future is uncertain, but it is yours to walk, alone, unclaimed, and unafraid of the shadow of a crown you will never reclaim.
Eventually, your spirit turns away from Aldebryn. You wander, walking without direction, letting the wind and the sea guide your steps. The world stretches before you, indifferent to loss, but at least it is vast. At least there is movement. You carry grief, memory, and silence, and nothing more. The future is unclaimed, and the past is ashes in your hands.
At dawn, one choice comes sharply into focus:
….
to leave the city behind, chasing a life unbound by grief.
….
to remain, to honor Margaret by rebuilding what little remains of her legacy.
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