Hearing Marquess Briarwood begin to speak about his past and his younger sister, Riven and Melly showed no interest. Instead, a quiet discomfort crept into their chests. For Riven, the man before him was a traitor, someone who had hurt his sister. No matter what story he told now, Riven knew he would never feel sympathy.

Still, he didn’t interrupt. He said nothing at all. Because there was something different in the Marquess’s voice.

“She wasn’t my blood,” Briarwood murmured. “Just a little girl taken from a minor noble family for political purposes. Used as a bargaining tool… and discarded when she was no longer useful.”

He paused for a moment, as if holding his breath to keep his voice steady.

“But… she was kind. Innocent. The only one who ever sat beside me and treated me kindly. The only one who greeted me every morning… with a shy smile and a piece of bread she’d secretly taken from the kitchen.”

His head bowed slightly, and under the orange glow of the fire, his face looked older. More tired. The pride of a nobleman had long vanished. What remained was just an older brother remembering a past that had slipped far beyond his reach.

“She gave me a reason to survive,” he continued, barely above a whisper. “To wake up every morning. To keep going, so that one day… I could prove I was worth something.”

There was no response from Riven or Melly. They simply listened. Even the night wind seemed to hold its breath, as if it, too, was listening.

“After my family abandoned her, she lived in a small village to the east—on the border of Islandria, near the pine forest. Even though we were apart, we were never truly distant. Every two or three months, I went there… to visit her. Sometimes just for a few hours, sometimes overnight. We wrote letters to each other. She always waited for me.”

Briarwood’s gaze drifted toward the dying flames, as if drawn back to those days.

“You know… I was once just a regular knight. Directly under Aiden Rathsture, before I was promoted. We were stationed on the northern border to defend against potential Rosendahl invasions. A cold, wild land, hard to reach.”

He took a deep breath, then went on.

“Eventually, Rosendahl did make their move. But they didn’t attack from the main route. They came through a narrow pass we thought was too steep for any large army.”

His voice tensed.

“There was a small village in their path.”

He paused briefly before continuing.

“My sister happened to be there at the time. She’d traveled from somewhere else to visit me. She was staying overnight. In her last letter, she said she had something she wanted to show me… a painting.”

Briarwood lowered his head further. His fingers clenched the tattered cloth of his shirt.

“I begged Aiden. I asked for permission to go save her. Just one hour. I knew I could make it back in time. But he refused.”

He gave a dry, bitter laugh.

“He said there wasn’t time, and that the enemy forces would strike the fortress soon. And he was right… after passing through the village, they went straight for the fort.”

He stared into the fire. His voice was flat now.

“Aiden chose to let the village fall. He said we’d have the upper hand inside the fortress. That we had to choose victory… even if it meant letting those people die.”

He fell silent again.

“I should’ve gone,” Briarwood said quietly. “But I was a coward. Too afraid of losing my rank. So I stayed… followed orders. Guarded the fort… like a good dog.”

His voice cracked slowly, heavy with regret.

“And we did win. We held the fortress. We drove Rosendahl back.”

He gritted his teeth.

“Then I ran. As soon as the battle was over, I went alone to the village.”

His breath was starting to rasp.

“All I found was ash. Burned-out homes. Scattered corpses. Empty streets. And her… still clutching her painting. But her body was cold.”

Silence blanketed them for a moment.

“I buried her with my own hands. Just me… and my sister’s corpse.”

Briarwood leaned back against the tree again. His eyes were heavy. His voice slowly fading.

“That’s why I hate Aiden Rathsture… why I betrayed this kingdom.”

He gave a small, broken laugh, barely held together by his shallow breath.

“Thinking about it now… it’s almost funny,” he said softly. “After all that, hating him so deeply, I started gathering every piece of information I could about him. Anything. Something I could use to tear him down. To humiliate him.”

He exhaled, then gave another bitter laugh.

“But what I found… only made me sicker. Turns out he’s a man who truly loves his family. A good father. A responsible husband. A leader respected by his people.”

He turned his head, glancing at the nearly-dead fire.

“Isn’t that ironic? The man who preached honor, duty, and sacrifice… the man who let an entire village die for ‘strategy’… gave up his city without hesitation the moment his own family was taken hostage.”

He gave a crooked smile, but there was no joy in it—only a thick, sour bitterness.

“So easily… he surrendered. All for them.”

His laughter returned—brief, sharp, followed by a spatter of blood he struggled to suppress.

“I… honestly wanted to kill them. One by one. In front of him. I wanted to see his face. Would he stay composed? Or would he… finally cry like a child?”

He fell silent after that. His breathing was heavy and uneven. His aged eyes slowly shut, and for a while, the night was still again.

Melly bowed her head deeply. Briarwood’s final words had shaken her, but she said nothing. Riven remained still. His face cold, his gaze locked on the man before him—waiting.

Minutes passed.

Only the soft crackling of fire remained, barely alive.

Suddenly, Briarwood’s voice returned. Soft, but clear enough for Riven and Melly to hear.

“In this rotten world…” he whispered, “to keep living, to keep pushing through… a person needs something.”

He paused. His voice was broken, but resolute.

“Be it revenge… love… loss… or some foolish hope that doesn’t even make sense. But without it… we’re nothing. Just surviving without direction.”

Briarwood’s eyes half-opened, staring at his worsening wounds. His breathing was erratic. His body shivered, and his face had grown pale, corpse-like.

He knew the end had come.

The hours passed in silence. Cold wind swept through, biting at their skin. The once-bright fire had withered to glowing embers. The light flickered gently across their faces, revealing wounds, sweat, and a silence heavy with unspoken thoughts.

Riven still watched Briarwood in silence. Melly sat with her knees drawn up, head bowed. But then, through the stillness, Briarwood’s voice returned—weak, raspy, but clear.

“Looks like… I won’t be able to take us all to Arendise…” he murmured. “Or Mordune…”

He coughed softly. His voice was barely there, but the next words came out strong—because something in his tone had changed. No longer fatigue. Not surrender. But something darker.

“But what if… we do this instead…”

He lifted his head slowly. His eyes now wide open, but not with clarity. That gaze was unfocused… wild… teetering on the edge of madness.

“…What if I take you with me… to the world after death?” he whispered. “Maybe… it’s better there than it is here.”

A soft laugh escaped his lips. Strange, broken—closer to a stifled scream than joy.

Those eyes… now fully opened, red and wet, were filled with something that might have once been pain… then hatred… and now, pure madness. Whatever life remained inside him had ignited one last flame.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep