As Amukelo walked back to his room that evening, his mind was a whirl of confusion and uncertainty. The voice in his head from earlier haunted him. It had been so vivid, so real, and yet so impossibly strange. 'How could something like this be right?' he wondered, his thoughts spiraling as he tried to make sense of it. The voice had guided him exactly to where he needed to be, leading him to the butler who knew Bral.
Once inside his room, he closed the door behind him and leaned against it, staring at the floor. "Thank you," he whispered softly, as though addressing the voice, hoping for some kind of response. But there was only silence. What had it been?
Shaking his head, Amukelo tried to push the thoughts away. There was no use dwelling on something he couldn't explain. He had more pressing matters to focus on now. He cleaned himself thoroughly, washing away the dirt and grime from his journey, making sure that every inch of him was presentable for tomorrow. Tomorrow, he would meet Bral's family, and he had no idea how he would find the words to tell them what had happened.
The next day, Amukelo woke early, the pale light of dawn creeping through the window. He felt a familiar sense of heaviness in his chest, but today it was tempered by a quiet determination.
He cleaned himself again, making sure he was in the best state he could present. Every detail mattered now. As he prepared, his eyes drifted to the blue jacket hanging by the side of the bed—the same elegant jacket he had worn on his dates with Pao. The sight of it brought a painful lump to his throat. He hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering over the fabric, as the memories of those moments together came flooding back.
With a heavy heart, Amukelo put on the jacket, smoothing out the fabric and adjusting the collar. As he stood in front of the mirror, he barely recognized himself. He stared at his reflection, his mind drifting to Pao's face, and for a moment, he could almost hear her voice in his head, teasing him about his appearance.
As the morning sunlight began to warm, Amukelo made his way to the meeting spot where the butler had promised to meet him. When he arrived, the butler was already waiting for him, standing tall and composed despite the grief that had clearly weighed on him the day before.
The butler's eyes swept over Amukelo, taking in the sight of him in his elegant clothes. "This is much better," he said, his tone approving but still tinged with the gravity of the situation.
Amukelo nodded, feeling the weight of the day pressing down on him. "I'm ready to meet them," he said quietly, though the words felt heavy in his mouth.
The butler studied him for a moment. Then he spoke, his voice carrying a note of somberness. "We will have to wait some time. After I told my lord about the news, he arranged for all their families to come. This should save you some effort, as I assume Bral is not the only one you wish to honor, am I right?"
Amukelo's eyes flickered with a hint of gratitude. This would indeed save him the emotional toll of repeating the story multiple times. "Right," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Thank you."
The butler gave a slow nod but didn't smile. "But I have to tell you this," he said. "My lord kept a cool demeanor when I told him the news, but I can't promise it will be pleasant when you meet him. I can't predict how he will react once he sees you."
Amukelo's jaw clenched slightly, but his face remained resolute. He had anticipated this. The families had every right to be angry with him, to hate him even. After all, he was the only one who had survived. No matter how much he tried to honor his fallen friends, the fact remained that he had lived while they had not.
"I expect that," Amukelo said.
The butler could see the burden the young man carried, and though he didn't fully trust him yet, he could tell that Amukelo's intentions were sincere. With a brief nod, the butler gestured for Amukelo to follow him.
Over the next few hours, the butler assisted Amukelo in preparing for the meeting. They spent time organizing the belongings of his fallen comrades—items that Amukelo had carried with him all this way.
By the time everything was ready, the butler placed a reassuring hand on Amukelo's shoulder. "It's time," he said. "Prepare yourself."
The butler led Amukelo through the streets, weaving through the city's many alleys and walkways until they finally arrived at their destination. As they turned a corner, Amukelo's eyes fell on a massive mansion that loomed before them. It wasn't the largest building he had seen in the town, but it was certainly one of the more impressive ones. Its walls were crafted from smooth, pale stone that gleamed in the midday sun, and the iron gates that stood before it were intricately designed, giving the place an air of both wealth and tradition.
Amukelo paused for a moment, staring up at the mansion's towering presence. For a brief second, he felt a deep sense of dread settle in his chest, as though the weight of what he was about to do had suddenly become even heavier. He had imagined this moment over and over, but now that it was here, the reality of it was almost paralyzing.
The butler, noticing Amukelo's hesitation, motioned for him to follow. "Come," he said softly, and Amukelo snapped out of his thoughts. He gave a brief nod and hurried to catch up, though the heaviness in his chest remained.
As they passed through the gates, Amukelo couldn't help but take in the grandeur of the estate. The grounds were meticulously maintained, with lush gardens flanking the mansion and a wide path leading up to the front doors.
The butler opened the massive wooden doors, revealing a grand hall inside. The first thing Amukelo noticed was the sheer size of it. The ceilings soared above them, adorned with elaborate chandeliers that cast a warm, golden light over the room. Along the walls, large tapestries depicting scenes of battle and nobility hung with pride. The polished stone floors gleamed beneath their feet, and at the far end of the hall, a long series of tables was laid out, covered in food and drink. The scent of roasted meats and fine wines filled the air.
But it wasn't the hall itself that made Amukelo's breath catch in his throat—it was the people. The hall was filled with guests, at least fifty of them, all dressed in elegant clothing that spoke to their status and wealth. They ranged in age from the very young to the very old, and each one carried themselves with a certain noble grace that only those born into privilege seemed to possess.
Amukelo turned to the butler, confusion clouding his features. "Why such a party?" he asked, his voice low. "And why are there so many people?"
The butler glanced around the hall before replying, his tone calm but serious. "These are the three families of your friends. Noble families tend to have many children to ensure the continuation of their bloodlines. It's not unusual for there to be this many members of each family gathered here."
Amukelo nodded slowly, though the explanation did little to ease his nerves. He had expected to speak to the parents of his fallen comrades, perhaps a few close relatives, but this—this was an entirely different scenario. He wasn't just delivering news to grieving parents. He would have to face three entire bloodlines, each filled with dozens of people who had known his friends.
The butler, noticing Amukelo's unease, gave him a reassuring nod and gestured for him to follow. "Come," he said again. "I will take you to Bral's father."
They weaved through the crowd, passing noble after noble.
After a few moments, they arrived at the far end of the hall, where a group of people stood gathered near the head of the table. Among them was a man who immediately caught Amukelo's attention. He was tall—taller than Bral had been—and even in his sixties, he had a massive, imposing build. His shoulders were broad, and though age had softened some of his muscle into bulk, there was still a clear strength about him. His gray hair was neatly groomed, and his face bore the hardened lines of a man who had seen and endured much in his life.
The butler approached the man with the same respectful demeanor he had shown earlier and spoke in a low, formal tone. "My lord," he said, bowing slightly. "He is the one delivering the news."
The older man had been engaged in conversation with several other nobles, but as soon as the butler spoke, his attention snapped to Amukelo. He turned slowly, and when their eyes met, Amukelo felt the full weight of the man's gaze. It was sharp and piercing, filled with a kind of authority that could only come from years of command. His expression was serious, almost unreadable, and yet there was a depth of emotion behind his eyes—a restrained storm that Amukelo could sense but not fully understand.
For a moment, the older man said nothing, simply studying Amukelo with that intense stare. The air between them grew heavy, the sounds of the party fading into the background as the moment stretched on. Amukelo's throat tightened, his heart pounding in his chest.
This was the man who had raised Bral. And now, Amukelo was here to deliver the news that his son was gone.