The skies wept with him, though he did not shed a tear.
Lord Typhon knelt alone before the grave of his father, Lord Ashvale. The stone untouched by time, the name carved in cold finality. Rain poured over him, soaking him, yet he didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn't breathe too loud.
His head bowed so low it nearly touched the mud, hands clenched at his sides.
He hadn't spoken since he arrived. But then, at last, softly:
"I'm sorry."
The words cracked through the silence like thunder.
He had run, fled while his father was been captured
He remembered his father's last look: not angry, not afraid, but proud.
That was what broke him most.
"I should have died beside you," he whispered.
But he hadn't. And now he lived with a title he didn't deserve, a name he'd stained.
The wind howled across the empty field as if echoing his shame.
He didn't cry. He couldn't.
Tears were for the honorable
He was not.
***
The storm beat against the windows like a restless memory.
Sapphire sat by the hearth in her dimly lit chamber, wrapped in a deep blue shawl that did little to ease the cold seeping into her bones. The fire crackled softly, but her eyes were fixed on the rain trailing down the glass, her thoughts far beyond these walls.
Sire Volt.
Her son. Her only child.
Was he warm tonight?
Did he sleep well?
Did he still remember how tightly she once held him when thunder frightened him?
She blinked slowly, fighting the ache that welled in her chest.
She had raised him with all the love she could spare in a world ruled by power and duty. But even love, sometimes, wasn't enough to keep the world from taking what you hold dear.
"I should be with him," she murmured to the quiet room.
But the distance between them was more than miles. It was pride. Pain. Silence.
They had taken him from her When she needed him most. She told herself it was to protect him, but she feared it was because she didn't know how to hold on.
Now, the storm outside raged, and inside her, a deeper one churned.
She closed her eyes and pictured him. Older now. Stronger. But did he carry her absence like a scar?
The candle beside her flickered. A tear slipped down her cheek.
She didn't wipe it away.
***
The candle flickered wildly in Eugene's trembling hand as he paced the stone hallway for what must've been the tenth time. Shadows leapt and danced across the cold walls, matching the unrest tightening in his chest.
The hour was late, yet Lord Typhon had not returned. And Eugene, ever the quiet butler, could not calm the gnawing worry in his gut.
Today was the previous Lord's birthday. Lord Ashvale.
And every year, this day carved something deeper into the heart of the lord. He didn't weep. He didn't speak of it. But Eugene had served this family long enough to read what most couldn't see.
Lord Typhon always returned soaked from the rain on this day. And never spoke a word.
Eugene's boots creaked on the stone floor as he turned once more toward the great wooden doors. The wind howled beyond them, angry and cruel. He clutched the candle tighter.
"Where are you, my Lord…" he whispered under his breath.
A loud knock shook the door.
Eugene jumped, heart slamming against his ribs. He rushed forward, fumbling with the latch.
The doors opened, and there stood Lord Typhon, drenched, hair clinging to his face, cloak heavy with rain and mud. He said nothing. His eyes… hollow. Like something had stayed buried at the grave he'd just returned from.
"My Lord…" Eugene said gently, stepping aside.
Typhon stepped in slowly, water pooling beneath his boots. His jaw was tight. He didn't look at him.
"Leave the hall lit," he said, voice low and flat. "But don't follow me."
And with that, he disappeared down the corridor, the sound of wet footsteps echoing after him like ghosts.
Eugene stood there, flame trembling in the dark, whispering the only thing he could:
"I'm glad you came back."