Chapter Forty-One: Rozia
Rozia lifted her eyes to the sky; her gaze wandered among the heavy, piled clouds as if searching for a face behind that gray veil. The air moved cold around her, carrying the smell of blood and death. She could not stop the tears from falling — hot drops that mixed with the chill, as though her heart bled ahead of her body. (I can't believe… that it will be me who must go meet that vile man… before I die), her thoughts screamed inside her head, while a bitter tide of betrayal and sorrow swelled through her.
She would not let sorrow paralyze her for long. She bore the pain gnawing at her without mercy, each breath feeling like a knife in her chest. She raised her trembling right hand and wiped her tears with a slow motion, trying to erase any trace of weakness from her face. Then, her expression changed: grief hardened into a resolute, uncompromising stare. She touched her ring, activated its power, and a strange glow blossomed from it before she vanished from the place entirely — leaving behind the bodies of Malik and Risha, and Lucas thrown motionless on the sand.
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Somewhere far from the Verina Empire… Beneath the earth, in a cavernous darkness, there lay a space vast enough to be a city rather than a hall. The walls were veined with giant metal pipes — some as thick as tree trunks, others transparent, carrying a viscous blue-tinted fluid. Those conduits linked enormous tanks, and each tank contained a different kind of beast, bound by heavy enchanted chains, eyes flashing either with rage or resignation.
There were creatures with broken wings, others whose fangs were longer than a man's arm, and aquatic monsters imprisoned in cylindrical basins, swimming in slow spirals as if awaiting the moment of escape. At the center of those rows sat one beast occupying a massive transparent tube of glass-like substance: the Wofron — an SS-rank colossus. Its body throbbed with contained power; its eyes glowed murderous at the man standing before it. Alive, watching, threatening with gaze alone, yet unable to move a single muscle.
Before it stood a man cloaked head to toe in pristine white — gloves and boots as white as his robe — a phantom among the gloom. In his hand he held a small vial of an ink-black solution, viscous like liquid night. He was about to inject that brew into the pipes that fed straight into the Wofron's body when, suddenly, a girl appeared beside him: her body was laced with deep wounds, blood pouring without cease.
The man froze. Surprise widened his eyes as he stared at her. When he noticed the ring on her hand and saw it begin to crumble away like ash on the air, comprehension replaced his astonishment. He raised his hands gently and released a strange skill — a green gust of wind that poured from his palms and wrapped the girl like a transparent embrace. In an instant the wounds sutured and her breathing steadied, as if the ravenous pain were wiped clean.
But the man did not stop. He thrust his hand out once more and sent another gust, this one strong enough to lift Rozia into the air. She drifted toward him until his grip closed firmly about her throat. A faint smile played across his lips as he murmured, "Why… has my dear niece come for a visit after twenty years?"
Rozia met his gaze steadily, not with fear but with a quiet smile despite the situation. She answered firmly, "This… was my home to begin with. The inheritance my father left… is no longer with me."
The man's fingers tightened on her neck. His voice sharpened. "I expected this the moment I saw you… But tell me, why have you come? That lowly servant who helped you flee… he has met his end."
Rozia's smile vanished. Sorrow set her features in a hard line. "I want to be with my mother and father."
He laughed then — a long, shuddering sound. "Ha ha ha ha… Ha ha ha ha… Ah, truly you are my sister's child: the same face, the same speech, the same naive thinking." He stepped closer, staring at her. "So tell me… who was right, in your view? Me… or your father? We had the chance to seize this empire, if not for your father's narrow mind."
She spoke quickly, her eyes bright with determination. "Father's choice was the right one… if you had done that, so many of his people would have died in the war."
His smile warped into scorn. "His people, is it? That servant must have fed you bedtime stories." He leaned in and hissed, "Stupidity… If a war had broken out with another empire, or monsters from the Abyss attacked, we would have been at the front and his people would have been finished. Do you not see that I am the rightful ruler now, not my elder brother?"
Rozia cried out, furious. "No! Father deserved the throne. He was better than you in every way — skill, strength, wisdom."
Her uncle cut her off, a cold smile on his lips. "Yes, yes… better than me in everything. But if he was truly better, why is he dead and I the ruler?" He stepped even closer. "Do not tell me he died because I betrayed him. You are young; you know nothing of this world or the past. Do you think that what you took from your father when you fled ever belonged to him? Let me make it clear… that ring was mine first, and many other things besides."
Anger edged his voice as he continued: "At first I trusted my brother. I believed him a true brother. But I discovered he was doing everything to chain me; he took much from me… used my name against me. Everyone began to say he was better than I. And now… what will you say now that you know your father's past?"
Rozia fell silent. Her eyes widened and breaths came short. Words failed her — then a thought's glint crossed her face and she smiled softly. "Sometimes… cruel acts hide a greater mercy. One must not judge by appearances alone."
She had barely spoken when a sharp sound shattered the silence: "Kash-sha!" — the cracking snap that announced Rozia's neck had been broken.
From the shadows a man suddenly stepped forward, fell to one knee, hands clasped and voice low: "My lord… we could have tortured her and learned where the Nira you sought has been hidden."
Her uncle answered coldly, "No… Someone protects her. She can take her own life at any moment if she chooses."
The kneeling man asked, "Then… what shall I do with her body?"
"Take it," the uncle replied. "Bury it properly with her father… so his noble followers who still wait for her will know that their last hope has died."
"Obey and done," came the reply.
The man carrying the corpse vanished without delay, leaving the ruler alone amid the heavy silence. The Wofron watched him with burning eyes as the great chamber breathed only the hush of metal and the slow, dim glow of the captive beasts.