Padrin's voice grew quieter as he stared down at his hands, almost as if he could still see the blood that had stained them all those years ago. "My heart was pounding. I remember it vividly, every beat thundering in my chest as I watched Celeste fall, disappearing with the caravan into the ravine. She was… she was everything to me. And yet, she was gone, lost in that instant because someone chose a sack of gold over a life."
He paused, clenching his fists as if reliving that rage. "It was a rage I'd never known before. I couldn't comprehend it, that a person—a human being—could make a choice like that, could choose to let someone die just to save his precious belongings."
Amukelo listened, his face impassive, but something stirred within him. He knew that feeling all too well: the blinding, consuming hatred, the way it boiled over, filling every corner of your mind until it was all you could see.
Padrin's expression darkened. "In that moment, I decided that the noble should die instead of her. I was certain that, if it had been the other way around, she would have saved him without a second thought. She would have chosen life over gold, every time. And so, I acted. I grabbed a heavy rock, barely thinking, and smashed it into the back of his head."
"I lost control. Just like you did. The rage took over, so powerful that I couldn't stop myself. I kept hitting him, again and again, until he was nothing but a broken, bloody mess. Later, when the rescuers came… they found me there, still holding that rock, my hands and clothes covered in his blood. And Celeste was gone, lost in the ravine, and all they saw was me, standing over his body."
Padrin took a shaky breath. "They sentenced me to prison for the crime, of course. My family tried to defend me, to claim it was an accident, but there was no saving me. I spent five years in that cell, five years with nothing to do but think about that one decision. Five seconds of rage… that's all it took to destroy five years of my life."
Amukelo's expression remained impassive, but there was a faint flicker of annoyance. It was as if he were silently questioning, *Why should I care? What does this have to do with me?*
"I'm not telling you this to vent," Padrin said, his tone growing softer, more earnest. "I'm telling you because I understand how easy it is to be consumed by that kind of rage. I know what it feels like to live for revenge, to have it blind you to everything else. And I want you to know, Amukelo, that while it feels hopeless now… this emptiness, this anger—it won't last forever. It doesn't have to."
Amukelo's gaze hardened slightly, his annoyance turning into something colder. Padrin's words, well-meaning as they were, felt hollow to him. Padrin's insistence that things would improve sounded more like wishful thinking than reality.
But Padrin continued. "I was lucky, Amukelo. The reason I got out of prison, was because I found someone who saw past the anger and the guilt, someone who helped me find a new purpose. A mentor who saved me from becoming a shell of my former self." He paused. "I can't give you the answers, and I can't tell you exactly how to find that purpose. But I do know that, out there in the world, there's something waiting for you."
He watched Amukelo. "I encourage you to go on a journey, to leave this place and search for something new. Maybe you'll find someone who can save you, just like I did."
Amukelo's expression softened, even if just barely. He didn't fully believe in the hope Padrin offered, but he wasn't so indifferent to ignore that perhaps, just perhaps, there was some truth in it.
Padrin took a breath, pushing himself up from the chair. "Think about it," he said, his voice gentle. "Staying here, doing nothing… it won't help you. In fact, it'll only make things worse. I've seen it happen to others—people who gave up and let the emptiness consume them. But you're stronger than that, Amukelo. I know you are."
As Padrin reached the doorway, he turned back, his expression softening. "I'll be leaving soon, Amukelo," he said. "I have my guild duties, and I can't stay any longer. But I want you to remember one thing." He paused, waiting for Amukelo to look up. "Next time you're in trouble, or when you feel like the darkness is getting too much to bear… don't try to shoulder it all by yourself. Reach out. Let me know, and I'll be there. I'm with you, brother."
For the first time, Amukelo's gaze met Padrin's fully. He didn't know what to feel, didn't know how to react to Padrin's offer. The emptiness that filled him was still too vast, too consuming for him to fully grasp the hope Padrin had tried to plant in his mind. But some part of him, however small, recognized the truth in Padrin's words.
Left alone, Amukelo sat in silence, staring at the sword across his lap. He clenched his hand around the hilt of his sword, feeling its familiar weight, the cold, unyielding metal pressing into his palm.
For the first time in what felt like forever, Amukelo wondered if there was something beyond this hollow rage, if there was some sliver of purpose waiting for him that he had yet to uncover.
At night, that day Amukelo decided to leave his room. As he reached the main hall, he was greeted by a young maid who looked up, startled to see him awake and out of bed.
"Sir, please… you must go back," she said urgently, her voice barely a whisper, to not wake up the others. "Your condition… it isn't stable. You need to rest."
Amukelo looked at her, his face blank, as if her words hadn't quite reached him. He nodded, more to appease her than out of obedience, and turned back down the hall.
But when he came back to his room, he moved to the window, and looked down. The ground below was a considerable drop, but that didn'tstopped him. He looked down again, bracing himself, and without a second thought, swung himself over the ledge.
He landed heavily, pain searing through his legs as his feet hit the hard ground. But he gritted his teeth, pushing the pain aside. He straightened slowly, taking in a steady breath before turning toward the edge of the estate, slipping into the shadows and making his way toward the walls. Making sure no one was watching him, he jumped through the walls, the same way he did the first day he arrived to Norton.
Once outside the walls, he felt the cold more acutely, as the witer was beginning. But even as the cold stung his skin, he barely noticed it.
As he walked, he reminded himself about all the memories. He remembered Bral, Idin, Bao, and Pao. It was as though he could see them there with him, their familiar faces etched into his mind. He remembered the first time they met, the day they fought the golem together. They had been strangers then, yet they still allied againstthe monster. But as they worked together, their bond had grown.
His chest tightened as he recalled that first battle with the landwyrm, the terror in their eyes, the way they had looked at him and his sword. He remembered vividly as after surviving the Landwyrm, they showed their awe.
He glanced down at his hand, imagining the weight of the blade in his hand. Yet a strange fog blocked his memories of how did he get this sword. Why is means so much to him? As he tried to remind himself, his head began to ache, a dull throb that intensified with each attempt to remember.
The ache grew sharper, pulsing through his skull until it became an unbearable agony. His hand flew to his temple as he stumbled, the pain spiraling out of control. He gritted his teeth, his vision blurring, and for a moment, he felt as if his head was about to explode. A groan escaped his lips, turning into a ragged yell as the memories closed in.
But then, just as quickly as it had come, the pain faded, leaving him gasping for breath. He took a deep inhale, clutching his chest as he steadied himself. His mind drifted back to the memories of his friends. He straightened, resuming his walk through the empty streets.
He passed a pub, its warm glow spilling onto the frosty street, laughter and voices carrying through the night air. He slowed, glancing through the window at the figures crowded around tables. He remembered nights like these, nights after difficult quests, when he and his friends would gather in a place just like this. They'd celebrate, drink, laugh, and let the weight of their burdens slip away, if only for a while.
He could almost see them there. Idin with his quiet but warm smile; Bao, with her sarcastic wit; Bral, with his fierce laugh; and Pao, her eyes twinkling with that familiar spark as she talked to him. They would toast their victories, each drink a small tribute to their survival, a celebration of friendship forged in fire.
For a fleeting moment, he could see it all as if he were there again, watching the scene from just outside, like a ghost observing his own past. He could almost feel the warmth of the fire, the weight of a tankard in his hand, the sound of their laughter echoing around him. And for just a second, the ghost of a smile curved his lips, a faint glimmer of happiness finding its way through the darkness in his heart.
But as quickly as the smile appeared, it vanished, replaced by the cold emptiness. His gaze drifted back to the pub, watching the unfamiliar faces inside, strangers filling the spaces his friends had once occupied.
The ache in his chest grew sharper, and he turned away, continuing down the street, the weight of his solitude pressing down on him like a stone. The streets were deserted, lined with shadows that crept along the walls, each corner seeming to hold a fragment of the life he'd lost.