Chapter 34 - The Fire That Remains

(Caring Mother)

*

I held her close as flames did rise,
Felt death’s cold whisper in her eyes.
A moment stretched—so thin, so near—
I almost lost what I held dear.

Her fire burned beyond control,
Yet in that blaze, I saw her soul.
Broken, fierce, but still alive,
A fragile spark that fights to thrive.

No greater pain than love’s sharp sting.
To watch her fall, then hear her sing.
The song of strength born from the night.
My daughter’s heart, still burning bright.

*

---

“I asked His Majesty not to send reinforcements.”

Galahad’s voice fell like a sword into silence. Cold, unapologetic.

Adonis didn’t answer him.

She just stared.

Her breath was slow, coiled like a viper about to strike. Every muscle in her body was taut beneath her robes, forged in tension and fury. For a heartbeat, she looked like a statue sculpted from flame. Not the kind that flickers—but the kind that scorches, that melts steel, that devours cities.

Galahad walked forward without hesitation, as though her rage were nothing more than a breeze brushing past armor long too heavy to notice. The woman beside him, calm and composed, matched his pace.

Adonis didn’t move until they stood within arm’s reach.

Then—

She struck.

Or tried to.

Her arm came up like a whip, her open palm aimed with surgical precision at the side of Galahad’s face. Every ounce of her fury, every unanswered letter, every funeral she’d never attended, every name she’d buried without a body behind it—was in that strike

But it never landed.

A single hand closed around her wrist with inhuman speed and grace.

CRACK.

The sound echoed across the throne chamber like a thunderclap, a shockwave rattling the marble underfoot and sending parchment flying around the Emperor’s chamber. Even the wards on the walls shimmered, reacting instinctively to the clash.

Adonis’s body jerked from the recoil, but she didn’t stumble. She didn’t blink.

Her eyes snapped to the one who’d stopped her.

The woman.

Her master.

The elder magus.

Her fingers gripped Adonis’s wrist like stone, yet her gaze wasn’t cold. It was calm—an unbearable calm, like the eye of a storm that had once shattered empires.

Adonis’s voice cracked through clenched teeth, trembling with disbelief, hurt, and betrayal.

“M… Master—”

Her eyes shimmered. Tears began to fall, slow and heavy, trailing paths down her cheeks as if reluctant to admit they existed.

“Why?” she whispered, voice breaking as it escaped her. “Why would you stop me?”

Her master didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

Adonis turned her head slowly, painfully, back toward Galahad. Her voice rose—not in volume, but in depth. In despair.

“It’s all his fault,” she said, choking on the words as they poured out. “If it weren’t for him… she wouldn’t be in this state.”

Her knees nearly gave, but she stood tall—shaking, seething.

“Your own daughter…” she spat, dragging the words from some place far deeper than anger. “Your own grandson…”

She tore her wrist from her master’s hand, and the elder magus let her go without resistance. Her fingers fell open like the passing of a judgment.

Adonis’s tears fell freely now, but her voice sharpened, cleaving through the chamber like broken glass.

“Did you even care for her?” she shouted. “Did you?!”

She took another step forward, rage unbound. “She loved you, you old bastard. She spent her whole life chasing your shadow—begging for you to see her, to be proud of her. But you never even looked. Not when she was breaking herself to earn your praise, not when she walked away… and not when her world was burning around her… You let that village fall. You let your daughter suffer. And for what? Pride? Silence?

Galahad said nothing.

But something flickered in his eyes. Regret? Guilt? Shame?

No.

It was steel.

His arm moved like a hammer dropping from the sky. There was no hesitation—no restraint. The back of his gauntleted hand aimed for Adonis’s cheek, a motion so practiced it could have been muscle memory.

But it never landed.

BOOM.

A deafening explosion of air erupted through the chamber as Galahad was blasted sideways like a ragdoll. His armored body crashed into the bookcases at the edge of the room, ancient tomes and glass shelves shattering on impact. Dust and light rained down in chaotic harmony.

He hit the floor hard, but to his credit, he rose instantly. His armor scraped against the stone as he steadied himself, expression unreadable beneath strands of silver hair knocked loose.

But before he could say a word—

The woman beside Adonis turned.

Her crimson eyes glowed with fury ancient and absolute. Magic surged around her like a hurricane beneath the surface, pressure so dense it made the very air crackle.

“Try that again,” she said, her voice a whisper wrapped in steel, “and I’ll take your head.”

The threat wasn’t shouted. It didn’t need to be.

Even the Emperor, who had quietly returned to his parchment, froze. His quill suspended in the air.

The elder magus took one step toward Galahad, her gaze locked, unwavering.

Not as a comrade.

Not as a woman.

Not even as a master.

But as a force equal to him in power and greater in wrath.

Arcane tension shimmered across her robes, runes dimly pulsing like a thousand hearts holding their breath. The faint scent of smoke followed her as if the very air feared what she might unleash. Her stare alone was a declaration: one more move, and you will not rise again.

But Galahad did not flinch. Not when she stepped closer. Not even when the magic coiled around her fingers like lightning winding through silk.

Instead, his eyes turned to Adonis.

And when he spoke, his voice was calm. It slid across the air like a blade freshly honed.

“If it were anyone else, you would be dead already, child.” His words stung not because they threatened her, but because they dismissed her. She wasn’t even worth the strike.

He looked to the woman in front of him—his comrade, his equal—then back to Adonis.

“Bellatrix… your precious Bellatrix. I noticed her. Her effort. Her resolve. I saw it all.

For a heartbeat, Adonis stilled. The breath in her throat lodged like a stone. Was this—was he about to—

“But it was never enough.”

The air dropped a degree.

“She could have been something more. Something great. But she stopped trying. She lacked the spine, the edge, the fury to seize greatness for herself. I waited. I watched. She had the potential to rise higher, to become something worthy of the name I would pass down but she chose to waste it. I didn’t raise her to become a sentimental fool.”

His voice deepened, bitter and cold.

“I wanted a son. A legacy worthy of my name. Not a soft-hearted little wench chasing fantasy with some back-alley knight. She chose weakness. She gave up, ran off with that knight as if love was some kind of victory. Pathetic.”

The word wench was spat like a curse, acidic and unrelenting.

Adonis’s fists trembled. Her nails bit into her palms, drawing blood she didn’t feel.

“And her mother?” Galahad said, glancing at the chamber’s high windows as if remembering a time long buried.

“The moment she died giving birth to that disappointment, I considered it a blessing. Good riddance.”

The emperor, silent as before. The elder magus’s expression was unreadable. Adonis, however—

A sound followed, something cracked deep inside her. Something that had been holding her together. Adonis was breaking.

Still, Galahad went on.

“I had hope,” he said coldly. “That even she could deal with a few weak cultists. That she might prove useful for once.”

“But no. What did she do instead?” He tilted his head. “She got her husband killed, her own son be taken like a piece of livestock.. She let them burn her home to ash. And now the little brat has disappeared like smoke.”

His eyes locked with Adonis’s.

“She is not my daughter. I don’t have such a weak child.”

“I regret nothing.”

The words hit her harder than any spell ever could. It was not just betrayal—it was the erasure of someone she loved more than breath.

Adonis’s knees buckled slightly. Her breath hitched. Her vision blurred not with tears, but with heat. Pure, uncontrollable rage.

Her aura began to flicker.

Tiny tongues of fire licked at the hem of her coat, her skin glowing like magma beneath cracked stone. The chamber groaned with pressure. The emergency wards reactivated with high-pitched pulses—this time not from an external breach, but from the overload of her internal power.

She went to move—

But she couldn’t.

Her limbs refused to obey. Her body remained locked in place, as though the weight of a mountain had pressed down upon her.

Chains of unseen power wound around her wrists, her ankles, her ribs. Not real chains—her master’s magic.

She had been sealed.

“No…” she whispered, breath ragged. “No—no, I won’t let this stand—!”

Her master did not answer.

So she pushed. With everything. Her aura erupted again, the force of it a sudden and brutal storm.

It coiled around her core, and without hesitation, she pushed it into her remaining artifacts. a red core of living flame. One of six.

Crack.

It shattered.

The release of power was instantaneous—waves of heat swept across the marble floor, singing the banners above.

Crack.

A second artifact broke. Then a third.

Panic flashed across the elder magus’s face. “Adonis—stop.”

But Adonis wasn’t listening. Her eyes were glowing, molten, wild with fury and loss.

Memories cut through her mind like lightning.

She saw Bellatrix, the only woman she would ever love.

Smiling. Laughing. Wind in her hair, sunlight catching in her eyes. That rare, warm smile that melted all of Adonis’s defenses.

And then—

Blood.

Bellatrix, lying broken on a stained cot. Her body wrapped in rough, haphazard bandages. Skin pale. Lips cracked. Dried blood seeping through the gauze at her side.

The once-proud woman—who had faced down armies without flinching—now unmoving, battered, reduced to barely more than breath and bone. A ghost of the warrior she had been.

A brittle whisper escaped Adonis’s lips—soft, trembling, sharp as glass:

“You did that.” she screamed. “You let that village burn. You let her bleed. YOU LET THEM TAKE HER SON!”

The fourth artifact shattered.

The magus moved quickly, sigils lighting around her fingers—but too late.

Crack.

The final artifact broke. The sound rang like glass breaking across the world.

A scream of pressure surged outward, exploding from Adonis’s core like a dying star.

The Emperor’s sigils flared at full brightness, racing through the walls and ceiling like arteries of light.

Books and scrolls ignited. Flames danced wildly but bent away from her, as if fearing what she had become.

At the heart of it all—Adonis. Breathing in short, uneven bursts. Her body glowing like a furnace. Her aura no longer restrained but tearing at the fabric of the chamber.

And in her eyes?

Pain.

Love.

Loss.

And the seething promise of vengeance.

“Aaaahhhhhh!”

A scream, raw and otherworldly, tore from her throat. Her flames flared brighter, shifting from brilliant gold to an ethereal, soul-deep blue—older than the sky itself. The fire coalesced, swirling upward with a shriek that made the marble walls tremble. Wings spread from the blaze, massive and glorious. A phoenix, its body forged from the remnants of broken seals and uncontained grief, rose behind her.

Through the roar of fire, she saw Bellatrix’s smile—tired, kind, full of quiet defiance. The way her lips curled when she teased. A memory like warmth in the cold.

“She is all I have.”

It screamed.

And then it charged.

The chamber groaned under the pressure. Everything in the path of the spectral bird was reduced to ash—statues melted, walls blistered, carpets combusted. Yet not a single spark touched the emperor’s desk. The countless documents before him didn’t even flutter. Within ten kilometers of him, there was no change—no warmth, no sound, no pressure. His wards, ancient and perfect, held.

The Emperor merely raised a brow.

Galahad didn’t move—not at first. His hand didn’t reach for the sword at his hip. Instead, he shifted his stance and drew back his gauntlet-clad fist. The light around the phoenix warped. With a single motion, Galahad struck.

The impact was deafening.

His gauntlet collided with the phoenix’s head, and for a moment—a breath, a blink—the phoenix fought back. Its wings howled. Its body twisted. The flames snarled and pressed harder.

But only for five seconds.

Then, with a sound like breaking glass and falling stars, the phoenix shattered—splintering into fragments of glowing blue ember before vanishing into nothing

The air went still. Galahad lowered his arm, eyes narrowing as he readied for a second assault.

But nothing came.

Adonis didn’t move.

She trembled, standing amid the scorched stone like a monument to fury. Her knees buckled. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, and her power—no longer lashing out—began to implode. She was burning herself alive from the inside.

“Adonis!” Freya’s voice broke the silence.

The elder magus no longer looked like the pillar of calm control she had been moments ago. Her voice cracked. Her eyes were wide, wet with tears that shimmered but did not fall. She reached toward the fire, her arms trembling, trying to get closer—but the heat pushed her back, biting into her flesh.

“Adonis, stop—! You’re going to kill yourself!”

The flames around the girl pulsed wildly, losing form. She was slipping.

And like the silence before a storm breaks—he moved.

No sound. No incantation.

One moment, he was seated behind his desk. The next, he stood before her.

His fingers touched her forehead, and with a single pulse of will, her body stilled.

Adonis legs finally gave, and she crumpled forward, unconscious before she hit the ground.

The Emperor caught her gently, holding her for just a moment. Her skin was still glowing faintly, her breath faint. Then Freya was there, rushing in, her composure lost, her arms wrapping around her student—her daughter.

Silence reclaimed the room.

“Galahad,” the Emperor said softly, though his voice echoed through the ruined chamber, “you are dismissed.”

Galahad did not argue. He bowed, low and wordless, then turned on his heel and began to leave.

But before he reached the doors, the Emperor’s voice cut through the air again—sharp and final.

“And this will be the last time I take your advice on matters of family.”

Galahad paused—just for a heartbeat—before continuing forward and stepping out of the chamber. The doors sealed behind him with a heavy thud.

For a long moment, the Emperor said nothing. His gaze, cool and unreadable, fell upon Freya as she held Adonis close.

“Will your daughter be alright, Freya?” he asked at last.

Freya looked up at him. Her eyes were still shimmering, her expression shaken, but her voice was steady. “She will. And… thank you, Your Majesty.”

He nodded once, then returned to his desk.

As he sat, the wards surrounding his space shimmered. The damage around him—charred bookshelves, shattered marble, melted sigils—began to repair themselves, the magic humming softly as reality was rewritten piece by piece.

Freya, understanding no more words would be spoken, rose to her feet with Adonis in her arms. Cradling the girl’s head against her shoulder, she turned and walked from the royal chamber in silence.

The doors shut behind her with a reverberating thud.

The Emperor sat still for a moment, eyes lingering on the sealed entrance. The room around him, once tempest-torn, had resumed its previous stillness. But the silence now was heavier, layered with the residue of fury, grief, and truth laid bare.

He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepling over the surface of his desk.

That girl…

Even Galahad—impossibly composed, maddeningly unshakable Galahad—had shown it.

Just for a moment. A flicker. Barely a second.

But he had seen it.

Fear.

A strain across the knight’s face, barely concealed. A micro-fracture in a mountain.

The Emperor’s lips curled upward into the faintest smirk, not of amusement but of realization. Then, with a quiet exhale, he lowered his gaze to the documents once more, his quill resuming its slow, precise movement.

There was no more fire in the room.

But something had changed.

…

Beyond the chamber, the castle’s great corridor stretched in solemn quiet. Columns rose like sentinels, their carved faces worn smooth by centuries of history. The torches lining the walls flickered gently as Galahad passed, casting his long shadow over marble and stone.

He walked alone.

The weight of his armor made no sound. Each step was silent, deliberate. Not out of pride, not even ritual—but something colder. Reflective.

He should have felt nothing. That was how it had always been. Emotions, to him, were distant memories—frivolous weights discarded long ago. But now?

He stopped.

The corridor extended endlessly ahead, empty. Without turning, he slowly lifted his right hand—his weapon, his shield, the hand that had met the phoenix of ancient flame head-on.

The gauntlet—a masterpiece of warfare. Forged from dragon-scale and tempered in the volcanic heart of Mount Kael’Tor. A gift from the emperor. Said to be unbreakable.

And yet…

His fingers trembled, just slightly.

The golden sheen of the gauntlet rippled with unfamiliar lines—hair-thin cracks that glowed faintly blue, like veins of dying fire. They spread, web-like, with every second he stared.

Then, without warning—

Shatter.

The gauntlet disintegrated.

Fragments fell like golden snowflakes, ringing softly as they struck the cold floor. Some pieces still glowed faintly, others crumbled to ash the moment they touched stone.

Galahad watched them fall. He flexed his now-bare hand, the skin beneath pale, tinged with a strange numbness.

A reminder.

A warning.

He stared for a moment longer, then exhaled—one breath, nothing more.

“You have a monstrous daughter, Freya,” he murmured.

His voice echoed faintly down the empty corridor.

Then his gaze lifted—not in fear, but with rare gravity. His tone was quiet but resolute, like a sword unsheathing in a silent room.

“I pray she continues to grow stronger… for we will need her strength in the wars yet to come.”

He turned, his cloak billowing behind him as he walked onward into the shadows of the citadel—leaving only the shattered remains of the past at his feet.