And just like that—before my eyes—Lunafreya was gone.
With Aurora still behind me, something inside me snapped. A rage I hadn't felt since the days I was still a conqueror tore through me like wildfire. And before I even realized what I was doing… they were all dead.
It wasn't a fight. It wasn't vengeance. It was instinct—blind, raw, unrelenting.
The world blurred. My vision went red. My hands moved on their own, driven by a fury too ancient to name.
And then—silence.
I turned. Aurora was bawling. Her tiny frame shaking, eyes wide with fear. Not fear of the Quintels.
Fear of me.
As I stepped toward her, I saw it—she flinched. And that's when I saw myself. What I had become in her eyes. What she had just witnessed.
And I felt sick.
Her mother had been murdered. Her home burned. And now, she had seen her father become… this. A monster soaked in blood. A demon dressed as a dad.
I didn't know what I was supposed to feel about Lunafreya's death—grief, guilt, rage—it was all tangled inside me like barbed wire. But in that moment, I knew one thing:
I had to be strong for Aurora. I had to pretend I was okay… even if I was dying inside.
But I saw it.
The light in her eyes had dimmed.
She wasn't just sad. She was changed. Something had been ripped from her. She lost her mother—and then she lost her version of me. The man who once made her feel safe had become something else. Something sharp and dangerous.
The days that followed were hollow. Gloomy. Sad.
Neither of us knew what to do. How to move. How to live.
The glue that held our lives together was gone… and we were crumbling.
And slowly, that itch began. That unbearable, unrelenting itch in the back of my throat. The urge for revenge. Like a scream I couldn't swallow. A wound I couldn't cauterize.
I didn't know what held me back.
Was it guilt? Fear? Or maybe… I didn't want to stain Lunafreya's memory by becoming what I used to be.
Or maybe… I was just too tired.
I'd reached an impasse.
My body was failing. My soul—fractured in places I didn't know could break.
But still, I made a choice.
I decided to leave it be.
The Quintels were dead. I was alive. Aurora was alive.
And maybe—just maybe—that was enough.
What good would come from diving back into the wreckage? What would vengeance give me that I didn't already lose?
I told myself that every day.
But my mind… it didn't listen.
Memories became ghosts, haunting me in the quiet moments.
Especially the ones with her—when she was still carrying Aurora, belly full of life, eyes full of hope.
She used to rest her head on my shoulder during those rare, quiet nights.
The world outside was always loud, always cruel—but inside our little home, there was peace.
And in that peace, she'd whisper, "Paint me a picture… of our golden years."
So I would.
I'd tell her about the life we'd build. How we'd grow old together—wrinkled and stubborn, still stealing kisses like teenagers.
We'd sit on some quiet porch, hands entwined, watching the sun rise slower and slower each year.
We'd take long walks and argue over trivial things—like which tea tasted better or who remembered what wrong.
And we'd visit our children, spoil our grandkids, fill their lives with stories they wouldn't believe.
They'd laugh when I told them I once set a king's castle on fire for love.
She'd roll her eyes, kiss my cheek, and remind them I was exaggerating.
In that dream, we had everything.
A little garden. A creaky house full of warmth.
Years behind us. More ahead.
Perfect.
But dreams are fragile things.
And ours never got the chance to breathe.
The painting we made in whispers and promises—was ripped from the canvas before it could dry.
And now, I sit with the silence.
Not just the silence of her absence—but the silence of everything that was stolen.
The silence of a future that will never come.
And every time I close my eyes… I still paint that picture.
Even though I know I'll never get to live in it.
I would tell her that it would all be worth everything we've been through, the deaths, the pain the betrayal
I would tell how our lives would be worth everything we've endured from deaths to betrayals
I would move on—not just for myself… but for Aurora. Most times she struggled to maintain eye contact and have conversations with me.
Until the night she broke.
She was crying—softly, at first. I knelt beside her, tried to hold her. She shoved me away. Looked me in the eye and asked:
"Why didn't you save her? Why did you let her die?"
And it shattered me.
And then I'd remember the quiet moments.
The ones that didn't feel important back then—but now, they haunt me.
I'd watch them together—just being.
Aurora would sit on the counter, wide-eyed, watching Lunafreya cook like it was magic.
And Lunafreya—always so patient—would smile, hand her a spoon, and say, "Come on, chef. Help me out."
Aurora never really helped, not in any useful way. She'd spill flour, stir too fast, ask a hundred questions.
But gods, it was beautiful. Like watching sunlight dance on still water.
And then bedtime—Lunafreya's stories, spun from nothing but imagination and love.
She'd tuck Aurora in, stroke her hair, and tell her tales no book could match.
And I'd listen from the doorway, caught in the spell myself—pretending I wasn't.
Now… all of that is gone.
Burned away by my choices.
By the path I walked, the enemies I made, the blood I spilled.
And the cruelest part?
My daughter is the one paying the price.
She wasn't wrong. She just didn't understand. And I couldn't explain.
All I wanted… was to watch the Quintels burn.
Not for justice. Not even for Lunafreya.
For me.
And I told myself it was because of Aurora. That I had to protect her. That I had to train her. Sharpen her rage. Point it at the world and let it burn.
But the truth?
I wanted them to suffer.
I wanted them all to suffer.
And even if I never told her, deep down—I knew:
I was terrified—terrified of what I was becoming, and even more terrified that I was dragging my daughter down the same dark path my mother once led me. I hadn't even realized I was doing to her what was done to me. In my mind, I told myself this was what Aurora wanted… or maybe I needed to believe it, so I could keep going. Because if I stopped to think about what Lunafreya would have wanted for our daughter—or for me—she would have hated every choice I was making. But I was too far gone. There was no turning back.
I was about to raise a daughter in the shadow of revenge.