Even though Marquess Briarwood had earlier said casually that they were “must be starving” and suggested they camp for the night, the reality was very different.

After they stepped down from the carriage and lit a makeshift campfire in the damp forest, there was no sign at all that the man had brought any food with him.

After the city’s horrific destruction, there was no way he had time to grab supplies. And from the way he moved—slow, weak, directionless—it was clear he had no intention of hunting or foraging either.

Now, slumped against a tree trunk not far from the flickering campfire, Marquess Briarwood looked utterly pathetic. Riven, who earlier had only seen his back, could now take in the full state of the man under the firelight.

It was horrifying.

The burns were severe. The skin along his arms, shoulders, and lower face was blackened and blistered. Some parts had already begun to rot, peeling away and sticking to the tattered cloak still hanging from his body. Cold sweat clung to his brow. His body trembled slightly every time the night wind brushed against his exposed wounds.

His once-regal outfit was nothing more than torn cloth barely clinging to his frame. Dried blood stained his chest and waist.

Riven watched him closely, silently analyzing.

And he didn’t need long to reach a conclusion, Marquess Briarwood was on the verge of collapse.

Wounds like that, untreated. No potions. No healing. Even if he was a powerful Lawbearer, the human body had limits.

And that limit… was very, very near.

Riven could see it in the way Briarwood hunched over. In the way his breathing grew uneven. In the way his eyes occasionally lost focus.

The man might still be trying to hold himself together with the pride of a noble, might still be putting on a calm facade. But his body… his body was already beyond negotiation.

And in Riven’s chest, a cold, inevitable thought began to take root:

If I can last just a little longer… he’ll die on his own.

The roots binding Riven and Melly were still tight, but now felt looser than before. Whether because the man’s power was weakening or because he no longer had the strength to maintain it—it didn’t matter.

If this continued…

His opportunity would come.

Amid the quiet of the night—punctuated only by the crackling of firewood—Riven suddenly spoke.

“How’s the Rathsture family you took hostage?” he asked quietly. “Are they… still alive?”

The mood shifted instantly.

Melly turned quickly toward Marquess Briarwood, her expression tight, anxious. She held her breath, biting her lower lip as she awaited his reply.

Marquess didn’t answer right away. He simply stared into the fire, the dancing flames reflected in his weary eyes. Then, without a shred of hesitation, he answered in a flat, toneless voice, as if he were talking about the weather.

“Oh… they’re all dead.”

The words fell from his lips like nothing.

“When the dragon came, they were right in the spot where Modrax unleashed his first blast of fire. Nothing was left of that place.”

Melly instantly went pale. Her small body trembled, and the hope that had lit her eyes just moments ago was extinguished, replaced with quiet sorrow.

Riven kept his gaze on the Marquess, eyes narrowing. He didn’t take the man’s words at face value.

“That so?” he muttered. “So when the dragon came… you just ran away?”

He leaned back slightly against the root binding him, voice dripping with sarcasm. “That explains how you managed to escape the city in one piece.”

Marquess Briarwood gave a dry, weak chuckle.

Once, hearing such mockery from a commoner would’ve enraged him. But now, pain had dulled his ego. Anger cost too much strength.

“I did run,” he said with no shame. “My abilities are useless against a creature of that scale. Knowing when to fight and when to flee is the art of survival.”

He inhaled sharply, clenched his jaw against the pain, and continued.

“And that dragon… wasn’t just any dragon. It was Modrax.”

The name weighed heavily in the air.

“No Lawbearer at the Runed Core or even Saint level could have defeated it,” he added, voice strained. “But… somehow it was split in half. Just like that.”

He stared into the fire again, as if replaying that impossible moment in his mind.

“How?” he whispered. “What really happened?”

Riven said nothing. Just stared back with calculating silence.

The Marquess pressed on, his voice beginning to thin.

“Modrax did die. But the collapse of his body turned the entire city into hell. Fire everywhere. Buildings caving in. The air boiled.”

His gaze dimmed as he looked into the firelight, sweat glistening across his dirt-streaked brow.

“If I hadn’t run, I’d have been roasted alive.”

Several seconds passed. He gasped once. Then looked weakly toward Riven and Melly.

“That’s what puzzles me,” he murmured. “How did you two survive? Weren’t you imprisoned by Count Yilesh somewhere around the city?”

He blinked slowly, vision flickering.

“Who is this golden-haired man you mentioned earlier?”

Riven and Melly exchanged glances. Neither of them answered.

Silence crept in once more.

The Marquess finally sighed. His eyes drifted forward again, unfocused. His face paled further. His breath came slow and ragged. He slumped deeper into the tree behind him, as though his bones had given out.

Riven studied him quietly.

His hands moved more freely now. The roots around his wrists were weakening, like the magic that held them had started to dissolve.

He could feel it.

The man’s time was running out.

Once more, silence fell over them like a shroud. The fire crackled lower. The stars above peeked timidly through the swaying canopy.

Then, from the dark, came Briarwood’s voice again—this time lower, quieter… with an unusual softness.

“…Would you like to hear a story?”

Riven glanced over. His expression was blank, disinterested. He turned his gaze back to the stars.

Melly still sat curled beside him, head bowed, her face cloaked in grief.

Briarwood didn’t look at either of them. His tired eyes stayed on the dying fire.

“Before I became head of House Briarwood,” he began, “I was nothing. Just a bastard child of the previous Marquess.”

Riven blinked, glancing sideways again. He didn’t interrupt.

The man kept talking. Not to convince. Not to justify. Just remembering.

“No one in the family wanted me. My mother was just a discarded servant. My father never spoke to me. The other ‘legitimate’ children treated me like a dog that had somehow learned to talk.”

He gave a weak, bitter chuckle. “But I endured. Day by day, insult after insult, I endured. Not because I was strong. But because of one thing.”

He drew a deep breath.

“I had a little sister.”

Melly slowly lifted her head. Her eyes, faintly glassy, met the firelight.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep