Chapter 12: Unspoken Bonds
The house was eerily quiet as Wicked descended the stairs. Morning light filtered through the windows, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. He could smell something faintly—nothing unpleasant, just something out of place. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he froze.
His mother, Lydia, lay on the floor, motionless. Wicked's heart skipped a beat, but he didn't panic. He had seen her like this before—chaos was woven into her very essence. She wasn't dead, not truly. This was just a consequence of her power, her body resting while her energy worked in the spaces between worlds.
Still, the sight of her was unsettling.
Wicked's eyes shifted from his mother's figure to the kitchen table, where Isabel sat, her expression unreadable as she sipped her tea. She didn't even look up when Wicked entered the room.
"Don't worry about her," Isabel said calmly, her voice cutting through the silence. "She'll be fine in a few hours. Happens every now and then."
Wicked sighed in relief, but there was something else in the room, something heavier. He moved closer to the table and noticed the tension in Isabel's posture.
"What's going on?" Wicked asked, his voice low, trying to read his sister's mood.
Isabel took another sip, her gaze still fixed on something outside the window. "There's a line outside Tijuana's house," she said. "Men and women, lined up... some happy, some leaving upset. Word's gotten around."
Wicked raised an eyebrow, sitting down across from her. "About the harem?"
Isabel finally looked at him, her eyes sharp but not unkind. "Yeah, you've been telling people the truth. Some of them are happy to hear it, to be part of it. Others? Not so much."
Wicked sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. It hadn't been easy, starting to explain the realities of harems and what it meant to truly be part of one. Some men were thrilled, while others felt betrayed. Some women left feeling rejected, others empowered. Tijuana's house had become the epicenter of this emotional storm, with people coming and going, each trying to understand where they fit in.
"And T?" Wicked asked, leaning forward. "How's she handling it?"
Isabel shrugged. "Same as always, I guess. She knew what this life meant. She's just dealing with the fallout."
Wicked nodded slowly, lost in thought. He knew this path wasn't for him—not right now. But seeing the effects of his honesty ripple through the village... it was a strange feeling. There was relief, sure, but also a nagging sense of responsibility. Some people thrived on the truth, while others were crushed by it. He hadn't expected the consequences to be so... complicated.
---
At the Forge
Later that day, Wicked, Isabel, and Autumn made their way to the forge. The sun was high, casting a harsh light over the village. As they entered the forge, they noticed something odd: Junior wasn't there.
Autumn was hammering away at a sword, focused but clearly annoyed. Wicked glanced around, confused.
"Where's Junior?" he asked.
Autumn didn't look up. "He left earlier. Didn't say much. He's been... off."
Wicked exchanged a glance with Isabel. Something was wrong.
They continued their training in relative silence, the rhythmic clang of metal against metal filling the air. But there was a tension hanging over the forge, a feeling that something was about to break.
It wasn't long before Junior appeared at the entrance, his eyes red and swollen. He looked like he had been crying for hours. Wicked straightened, exchanging a glance with Isabel before stepping forward.
"Junior?" Wicked asked, his voice softer than usual.
Junior didn't respond right away. He walked into the forge slowly, his movements sluggish, as if the weight of the world was pressing down on him. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and sat down heavily on a bench.
"I... I fucked up," Junior muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
Wicked sat down next to him, not pushing, just waiting.
Junior sniffled, his hands trembling as he tried to collect himself. "I went to Tijuana's house... after you told me not to. I—I slept with T, just to spite you."
Wicked felt a pang of frustration, but he kept it in check. This wasn't the time for anger. He had known that Junior was struggling with the way things had unfolded, with the way their rivalry had spiraled. And now, it seemed like Junior was coming apart at the seams.
"It didn't... it didn't make me feel better," Junior admitted, his voice cracking. "I thought... I thought if I did that, it would fix something. But it didn't. It just made everything worse."
Wicked sighed, placing a hand on Junior's shoulder. "I get it," he said quietly. "I understand."
Junior looked at him, eyes filled with regret. "You... you do?"
Wicked nodded. "Yeah. I've been there. You think doing something out of spite will make it hurt less. But it doesn't. It just piles more shit on top."
Junior's tears started to flow again, but this time they seemed more like a release than a breakdown. Wicked stayed by his side, letting Junior get it all out. After a few minutes, Junior wiped his face and looked down at the ground.
"I'm sorry," he muttered. "For everything. For trying to fight you. For... all of it."
Wicked gave a small, understanding smile. "It's okay. We all mess up."
The two of them sat in silence for a while, the sounds of the forge filling the background. It wasn't an instant fix—it never was. But in that moment, something shifted between them. There was an understanding, a recognition that they were both trying to navigate a world full of complicated relationships and difficult emotions.
Autumn glanced over at them, her expression softening. Isabel, too, seemed to relax as the tension in the room began to lift. They all went back to their tasks, but the air felt different now—lighter.
For the first time in a long while, Wicked felt like they were all moving in the same direction.