The moment Grael heard Sushila's words, he passed me to the maid without speaking, his attention fixed solely on her. In a single, fluid motion, he swept her into his arms, cradling her bridal-style, her weight nothing in his grasp.
"I'm sorry I couldn't make it in time," he murmured, his voice low and rough with self-recrimination.
Sushila's face was pale, streaked with tears. She reached for him, her fingers trembling against his cheek. "It's… it's okay," she whispered, her voice cracking. "As long as our son is safe…"
Her words lingered, heavy with unspoken fear. Grael's expression darkened, a shadow flickering across his features—one that spoke of secrets still buried.
We stepped from the carriage, hearts laden with the grim aftermath. The butler, unwavering in his duty, arranged the bodies of our fallen—Ruby, the maid, among them—with a tenderness that belied the carnage. Their lifeless forms, laid gently in the carriage, stood as a stark testament to the cost of survival.
The traitors, whose betrayal had birthed this slaughter, received no such consideration. Their bodies were dragged like the refuse they'd become into the shadowed depths of the woods, left to be claimed by darkness.
With measured reverence, Reginald the butler gathered the weapons of our fallen—Ruby's dagger, the servants' worn swords—each blade a monument to their courage. One by one, he drove them deep into the earth. The steel vanished into hungry soil, leaving only the hilts exposed like grave markers, scarred into the land as symbols of sacrifice.
Sushila's voice trembled as she spoke. "Reginald… may I have Ruby's dagger, please?" Without a word, he obeyed, placing it in her palm without question, without judgment, as though honoring a sacred command.
Then, in a final act of respect, the carriage was set ablaze. Flames hungrily devoured the wood and the remnants of our protectors' last stand, sending their spirits skyward in smoke and spark. Back on Earth, this would be called cremation—I'd probably opt for it myself, no hassle, no burden on Grandma's pockets. But back in that world, nothing came free. Everything had its price, even the most basic of rituals—after your last breath, Death itself carried a bill.
We watched in silence as the flames consumed the carriage, reducing wood and metal to ash. When the fire died, nothing remained but the cold steel of their weapons, half-buried in the earth.
We boarded another carriage, as grand as the one that had burned. Behind us, the traitors' abandoned bodies would feed whatever stalked these woods. Even the horses, slain in service, were granted a nobler end—their ashes mingling with the fallen, a tribute the traitors would never know.
Before long, the carriage stopped before a sight so magnificent that any earthly palace would seem trivial in comparison.
The Wolfhard estate stretched like a city frozen in grandeur: towering spires piercing the sky, over three thousand rooms sprawled across hundreds of acres. Lakes mirrored the impossible architecture, while ancient forests and enchanted gardens sprawled endlessly. Marble statues of ancestors stood in solemn rows, their stone eyes watching history unfold.
Sushila's warm hand found mine, her smile fragile and forced. "Arthur… we're home," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, trembling with exhaustion—or something else I couldn't name.
The servants lined the grand entrance, bowing in perfect unison. Their synchronized greeting rolled across the courtyard: "We greet the Lord, Madam, and Young Master."
Inside, three women waited in the entrance hall, each a vision of elegance, their grace woven into every gesture. They were the Patriarch's wives—their beauty a mask for the tension that coiled beneath. Among them stood the architect who had sent knights to kill Sushila and me. They bowed, a gesture of respect that felt like a lie.
Then it came—Grael, with Sushila cradled in his arms, his frown carving shadows across the room. The air itself seemed to thicken, pressing against lungs and throat. The servants outside trembled, their breaths shallow, but the wives bore the brunt of his wrath. Their knees buckled under his gaze, cold sweat beading on their brows as they sank to the floor. They gasped for air, terror stripping away their composure until only something raw and animal remained. Without a word, they recognized that one of them had crossed him.
Grael ignored them, walking past as if they were furniture, his steps echoing toward the stairs. He carried Sushila with an almost detached grace toward the sanctuary of her chambers. The maid followed, holding me in her arms.
"I'll be sleeping with my son," Sushila said softly. The maid nodded, placing me into Sushila's arms. As she turned to leave, Grael's voice boomed, heavy with command: "Zora, where are you going? You belong to Sushila now. You will live—or die—by her word."
Sushila's eyes flashed, her tone light but edged. "Grael, don't say such things. He's joking, Zora. Don't mind him." Her gaze flicked to him, a frown tugging at her lips.
"Am I?" Grael's voice was low, almost curious, as if the thought hadn't fully formed.
Sushila's face tightened, her composure a fragile veneer. "Goodnight, Grael," she said, her tone final. Without another word, he departed—back rigid with pride, the depth of his love for her apparent in every subtle gesture.
That night became legend. It was remembered as The Bloody Wolfhard Carriage Incident. Grael, true to his threat, executed 0.1% of the empire's population, claiming thousands—entire family trees pruned for the crime of sharing blood with fifteen foolish knights who dared threaten his concubine and son. Yet the dark mage remained mysterious; his name, his past, his very existence erased from the world.
"Zora, forgive the imposition, but could you fetch Raina?" Sushila's exhaustion bled through every syllable. "I know you need rest, and I hate to ask—"
"Of course, my lady."
Moments later, Zora returned with a young girl no older than ten. Cloth wrapped her eyes. Blind, yet moving with the precision of experience. Clad in a maid's uniform marking her as an apprentice, she bowed gracefully.
"I, Raina, offer my respects to Lady Sushila," she said softly.
"Zora, please hold Arthur," Sushila murmured.
She pushed herself out of bed, but her legs gave way beneath her, betraying her completely. Before either Zora or Raina could move, she raised a trembling hand.
"Stay back."
Gritting her teeth, she crawled toward Raina. Each movement painted agony across her face, but she made it to the child's feet and wept—great, shuddering sobs torn from her chest.
Tears fell like raindrops onto the girl's feet as she clutched Ruby's bloodied dagger, bowing not in reverence but in anguish.
"Ruby didn't make it home," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Your mother died protecting us. I'm so sorry, Raina. I'm so sorry I took her from you."
The child accepted her mother's bloodied dagger with steady hands. "Please rise, my lady. You needn't kneel to me," she said, guiding Sushila back to bed.
Her face remained impassive, a mask of House Wolfhard's stoic discipline.
Without hesitation, without tears, Raina gathered her long hair and severed it with her mother's blade. The dark strands fell like mourning veils—a gesture of grief, sharp and final.
She paused, then spoke, her voice steady with resolve. "May I ask two favors?"
Sushila nodded, eyes soft with understanding.
"I cannot see because of this curse that stole my eyesight, and I know I'm unworthy, but…" The child's composure never wavered. "Might I serve the young master as my mother served you—when the Ceremony of Chosen Servants comes?"
Fresh tears tracked down Sushila's cheeks. "Nothing would honor me more."
Raina turned to Zora.
"And you, Head Maid," she continued, determination etched into every word, "could you help me grow strong, so I may protect him one day?"
Zora's grim nod was her only answer. "Prepare yourself," she said. "For when I'm done, you'll wish you'd never asked."
The child bowed once more and departed. Only then did her sobs echo from the hallway—quiet, controlled, but utterly broken. The sound deepened Sushila's grief.
"She's stronger than most," Zora said softly, her gaze distant. "She held herself together until the end, only breaking when no one could see. Most adults couldn't manage such restraint."
I wrote this scene to break hearts, to drag readers into grief's raw embrace. Yet now, reviewing these words, I feel only the author's peculiar detachment—the distance that comes from wielding suffering like a tool. Ruby was meant to be forgettable, a side character.
If I could rewrite their fates, breathe new life into these scenes I'm witnessing, I would. Ruby would live and die of old age. Raina would have kept her sight, seen the world with wide, curious eyes, kept her innocence, her mother, unburdened by grief like children her age. Sushila would stand tall, walk to her heart's content, not only a servant but also a friend would stand by her side.
But the chance has passed, and all that remains is the weight of regret as I witness all that I have written come alive before my very eyes.