âI have found the boy. Or rather, the boy has been driven to me, much like a lost sheep herded by invisible wolves. He is a wretched thing currently, consumed by a grief so profound it threatens to stop his heart entirely. The news has finally reached him: his parents are gone, torn apart by the teeth of the beasts, victims of King Gorgerâs insatiable hunger for territory and fresh meat. The boy weeps for them, his body racking with a sorrow that disgusts me as much as it excites me. He does not yet understand that their removal was a necessityâa pruning of dead branches so that the trunk might grow stronger, straighter, and to my design.
I watched him from the shadows of the fungi forests for days before I made my approach. His heart is calcifying; I can practically see the soft, bruising tissue turning to granite under the weight of his loss. This is good. A heart of stone is heavy, yes, but it is armor. It is a weapon. When I finally emerged and spoke to him, he looked at me with eyes that had seen the end of the world. He has the look of royalty stripped of its silks, raw and exposed.
Over the last few cycles, he has returned to my sanctuary. We are becoming... close, in the way a sculptor becomes close to his clay. He speaks often of his sister, a fragile creature whose mind has shattered under the weight of their tragedy. She speaks in riddles now, lost to the madness of the trauma, useless to the throne. She is of no use to the future I envision, but she serves as a potent reminder to the boy of what weakness yields. I point to her and tell him, 'This is what sorrow does without direction. It breaks. You must not break, my dear boy. You must burn.'
To ensure he remains distinct from her madness, I offered him a giftâan escape. I showed him a secluded cavern, high in the cliffside near the city, a place often overlooked by the fliers and the guards. It is a deep, echoing hollow where the shadows stretch long and the silence is absolute. I told him it could be a place for him and his bond to fly to, a sanctuary where he could be alone whenever the suffocating pity of the court became too heavy to bear. 'The palace belongs to the people,' I whispered to him as he looked out over the dim lights of the city. 'But this cave... this belongs to you.' He visits it often now, retreating into the dark to nurse his grievances. It is in that isolation that he is most vulnerable to my whispers.
It was there, in the safety of that cave, that I began to instill in him the true nature of power. He believes power comes from armies, from swords, from the light of the sun. I teach him that true power is leverage. It is the ability to look at the beast that devoured your kin and see not a monster, but a tool. I suggested to him tonight, as we sat by the fire, that perhaps the path to the throne is not through the destruction of the Gnawers, but through their utilization. To treat with King Gorger. To wield the very teeth that killed his parents as his own instruments of conquest.
He recoiled at first, as expected. But the seed is planted. He is desperate to secure a future, to ensure no one can ever hurt him again. He does not know it was my hand that opened the gate for the rats. He does not know that I orchestrated the silence of his parents so that he might find his voice. He looks at me with gratitude, seeing a mentor where he should see his architect. The irony is a beautiful, bitter wine. He will seize the throne, and he will think it his own idea to shake hands with the devil. But it will be my grip on the scepter, and I will avenge our Bloodline. I will take back our rule."
Hey, dudes! I feel like doodlin, so if you wanna commission me to do some sketches, I'd love to! Iâll be opening up a couple of slots, so please DM me to claim yours! :o)
Midbody- $25 (addt'l char $20)
Fullbody- $30 (addt'l char $20)
Ask me about drawing anthro or non-human characters, I'd be happy to see if I feel like I can do them justice! (If I donât think I can, Iâll let you know!)
Paid thru PayPal invoice up front once we've discussed and agreed upon what I'll be doodlin for ya!
The quality of the sketches will be like something in the below images (and the other doodles on my blog, if you're familiar with my sketches :o) feel free to visit my blog and take a look! ) with some weighted lines and basic shaded bits to add depth.
Some disclaimers:
-I reserve the right to deny a commission for any reason
-Revisions are possible while the commission is still in progress, but after we've agreed it's done- it's done. No further revision.
-Please do not use my sketches for commercial purposes. If you are looking for commercial work, let me know.
-If you see my legal name on my Paypal invoice, no you don't lol.
Hey, dudes! I feel like doodlin, so if you wanna commission me to do some sketches, I'd love to! Iâll be opening up a couple of slots, so please DM me to claim yours! :o)
Midbody- $25 (addt'l char $20)
Fullbody- $30 (addt'l char $20)
Ask me about drawing anthro or non-human characters, I'd be happy to see if I feel like I can do them justice! (If I donât think I can, Iâll let you know!)
Paid thru PayPal invoice up front once we've discussed and agreed upon what I'll be doodlin for ya!
The quality of the sketches will be like something in the below images (and the other doodles on my blog, if you're familiar with my sketches :o) feel free to visit my blog and take a look! ) with some weighted lines and basic shaded bits to add depth.
Some disclaimers:
-I reserve the right to deny a commission for any reason
-Revisions are possible while the commission is still in progress, but after we've agreed it's done- it's done. No further revision.
-Please do not use my sketches for commercial purposes. If you are looking for commercial work, let me know.
-If you see my legal name on my Paypal invoice, no you don't lol.
I have too many so I will choose just one. And here is Solon Arclight, from my Legends of the Written realms. He's the headmage of the magic school Fablewood academy, most prestigious one and oldest school in all Scriptoria.
As for a voice... I would perfectly see him with the voice of Keith Silverstein. If like me you have a hard time remembering voice actors' names, it's Zhongli's VA in genshin impact.
The descent into Regaliaâs lower cells always felt like falling into a place the city tried to forget. There were no royal banners here, no gleaming torches lit in welcome. Only stone, sweat, and silence.
Mareth kept pace with the guards, his boots echoing down the spiral stairs like drumbeats. He didnât ask questions. His father had taught him better. Orders were to be followed, not understood.
Still, the details haunted him.
Assigned to the queenâs son.
Solovet's only son.
Six months in solitary confinement.
He hadnât asked what Hamnet had done. No one had offered.
The guards ahead reached the final doorâa thick slab of iron-banded stone. One gave a curt nod, then pushed it open with a groaning shriek of rusted hinges. Cold air flooded out, clinging to Mareth's skin, damp and sour. It smelled of mold, piss, and something sourer still. Not death. But close.
He expected something princely, still. Even after everything.
What stoodâno, hunchedâinside the cell stripped that hope away.
Hamnet clung to himself like he was trying to hold the pieces together. Thin arms wrapped tightly around narrow shoulders. He wasnât tall. Not anymore. He looked like a boy whoâd stopped growing the day he was thrown down here. His tunicâonce likely whiteâwas sallow, torn, and stained. His knees were red and raw, his feet bare. His ribs showed through his skin like the outlines of a broken cage.
His eyes darted up at the sound of the door.
They met Marethâsâbrieflyâand Mareth felt a cold that had nothing to do with the cell. There was no recognition in them. Only the vague, flickering presence of someone who had learned to wait for pain. Or worse.
Behind Mareth, a presence materialized with a sharp click of boots.
Solovet.
Her hands were folded behind her back. Her chin lifted, her tone dry and unimpressed.
âWell,â she said, looking down at the hunched figure of her son. âAre you feeling more cooperative now?â
Hamnet didnât respond. His grip on his shoulders tightened. Not in defianceâMareth would recognize that. No, it was shame. Cold and shame wrapped around him like chains that hadnât quite been removed.
Solovetâs nostrils flared, subtly
âYour stench is ghastly.â she said, bluntly.
âYou will wash. You will eat. Then you will be escorted to the hospital.â
Her gaze flicked toward one of the guards, then briefly passed over Mareth.
âSee that his quarters are cleaned and prepared for his arrival,â she added.
Then to Mareth, fully, sharply: âYou are responsible for him now. See that he does not return to this state.â
It wasnât maternal. It wasnât even cruel. It was clinical. Like she were speaking of inventory. A weapon misplaced and recovered.
She didnât wait for a reply. She turned and strode off, her cloak trailing behind her like a verdict.
Mareth remained.
He hadnât moved since the door opened. His hands were clenched at his sides, the cloth bundle of fresh clothing under one arm, a soldierâs straight posture at war with the turmoil now curling in his chest.
Hamnet hadnât moved either. Not even when the guards re-entered to help him stand.
He flinched when they touched him.
Mareth stepped forward suddenly. âIâll do it,â he said, voice firmer than he felt. The guards exchanged a look, then backed away with a shrug.
Mareth knelt and held out the clean garments, but didnât reach for him.
âI am Mareth,â he said quietly. âI have been assigned to you.â
Hamnetâs eyes twitched. He didnât speak. His fingers slowly released their grip from his shoulders, as if it took effort just to uncurl. He reached for the clothes with trembling hands.
They didnât touch.
Not yet.
But something passed between them.
Mareth wasnât sure what it was.
Only that thisâthis ruined, quiet boyâwas now his to protect.
The door creaked open with a soft groan, and Judith stepped inside as though breaching the silence might shatter something fragile beyond repair.
The room was dim, lit only by the soft amber flicker of a single wall sconce. Shadows stretched long across the floors, pooling gently beneath the carved legs of ornate furniture. It was a beautiful roomâtoo beautiful for the hollow that sat in the center of it.
Her eyes found him almost instantly.
Hamnet.
Or what was left of him.
He lay on his side, turned away from the door, curled toward the center of the great bed like a forgotten child. The blankets draped over his thin frame in rumpled folds, but they could not hide the sharp angles of his shoulders or the way his spine pressed faint ridges through the linen shirt he wore. He took up so little space, his body drawn inward, almost trying to disappear into the down-filled mattress. He looked more ghost than boy, more memory than prince.
The air in the room smelled faintly of bitter herbs and old salves, that sterile sharpness of ointments rubbed into bruises and burns. It was the scent of the hospital, of healing, and yet nothing about him looked healed. His hairâonce so carefully brushed and tied backâwas tangled now, overgrown and uneven. His face was turned just far enough that she could see the bruised hollows beneath his eyes, the faint twitch of his cheek as he dreamed. Or remembered.
Judith stood frozen in the doorway. She had come here quickly, moved through the palace like a whisper of wind, driven by the need to see him, to touch him, to know with her own eyes that he was real, alive, here.
But now that she stood in front of him, her feet would not move.
She felt it rise in herâthe rage, sharp and sudden and hot. The image of her mother flashed behind her eyes, not as a regal figure of state but as a woman, monstrous and unflinching, capable of locking her own son away like a mistake to be hidden. Judith wanted to turn and march through the palace, to find Solovet and strike her. Not just slap her, but drag her by her braid before the council, before the kingdom, and scream:
This is what you did. Look at him. Look what you made of him.
Her throat burned with the things she had not said, had not dared to say.
She clenched her fists until her knuckles paled. She wanted to run to him. Wrap him in her arms and beg forgiveness, sob against his chest like they were still children playing at sword fights in the garden. But she stood frozen, feet unmoving on the cold stone. Because she had let it happen. She had gone on. She had attended court, spoken her lines, done what was asked. And all the while, he had been here, beneath them. In the dark.
She did not deserve to rush to him. She did not deserve to touch him.
Her lips trembled.
She slipped off her sandals quietly and set them by the door. Then, with slow, careful steps, she padded across the room, her heart pounding in her throat. The bed loomed in front of her like a monument, wide enough to fit three grown men and still leave room. He looked swallowed by it, a lone figure adrift in a sea of linens.
Judith climbed in gently, not daring to shift the mattress too much. She moved like someone approaching a frightened animalâtender, cautious, reverent. Her knees sank into the edge of the bed as she crossed over, inch by inch, toward him.
And then, she was beside him.
She did not speak at first. She just watched the soft rise and fall of his breathing, the occasional twitch of his fingers. He did not know she was there. He did not stir. Her heart broke further at the stillness of him, the way his body remained so tightly curled, like it had forgotten how to rest.
Judith lay down behind him, stretching out slowly until her body curved along the shape of his. She pressed her forehead to the space between his shoulder blades and closed her eyes.
âNettieâŠâ she breathed. It came out half-formed, barely a whisper. A name she had not spoken aloud in years, not since they were children whispering under blankets and laughing at jokes only siblings could understand.
He did not respond. His breathing stayed even. Deep. Distant.
She told herself he was asleep. That it was good. That he needed rest. But the silence felt cruel.
So Judith did the only thing she could.
âI am sorry,â she whispered.
Her arm reached across his waist, trembling, and she carefully pulled him against her, as gently as she could. Her fingers splayed against his chest, desperate for him to feel her, to knowâsomehow, even in dreamsâthat she was here. That he was not alone.
âI am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorryâŠâ
The words came again and again, each one softer than the last, as she breathed them into the fabric of his shirt, into the room, into the empty months that had passed without her.
âI did not know what to do. I did not know how to help. I thought if I stayed good, if I stayed obedient, if I did everything she wantedâmaybe it would be better. Maybe she would let you out. That her anger would dim. But I was wrong. And I am soâŠso sorry.â
Her voice cracked, and a tear slipped down her cheek, trailing across his back. She tightened her arm around him, not hard enough to wake him, but firm enough to anchor herself to him. Her hand trembled as she gripped his shirt.
âI should have come sooner.â
She buried her face against him and cried silently, her tears swallowed by the warmth of his body, by the quiet that pressed in from all sides.
For the first time in months, Hamnet did not sleep alone.
And Judith would not leave. Not tonight. Not ever again.
Al, that comic panel truly opens up such a deep and rich story thats begging to be told.
The descent into Regaliaâs lower cells always felt like falling into a place the city tried to forget. There were no royal banners here, no gleaming torches lit in welcome. Only stone, sweat, and silence.
Mareth kept pace with the guards, his boots echoing down the spiral stairs like drumbeats. He didnât ask questions. His father had taught him better. Orders were to be followed, not understood.
Still, the details haunted him.
Assigned to the queenâs son.
Solovet's only son.
Six months in solitary confinement.
He hadnât asked what Hamnet had done. No one had offered.
The guards ahead reached the final doorâa thick slab of iron-banded stone. One gave a curt nod, then pushed it open with a groaning shriek of rusted hinges. Cold air flooded out, clinging to Mareth's skin, damp and sour. It smelled of mold, piss, and something sourer still. Not death. But close.
He expected something princely, still. Even after everything.
What stoodâno, hunchedâinside the cell stripped that hope away.
Hamnet clung to himself like he was trying to hold the pieces together. Thin arms wrapped tightly around narrow shoulders. He wasnât tall. Not anymore. He looked like a boy whoâd stopped growing the day he was thrown down here. His tunicâonce likely whiteâwas sallow, torn, and stained. His knees were red and raw, his feet bare. His ribs showed through his skin like the outlines of a broken cage.
His eyes darted up at the sound of the door.
They met Marethâsâbrieflyâand Mareth felt a cold that had nothing to do with the cell. There was no recognition in them. Only the vague, flickering presence of someone who had learned to wait for pain. Or worse.
Behind Mareth, a presence materialized with a sharp click of boots.
Solovet.
Her hands were folded behind her back. Her chin lifted, her tone dry and unimpressed.
âWell,â she said, looking down at the hunched figure of her son. âAre you feeling more cooperative now?â
Hamnet didnât respond. His grip on his shoulders tightened. Not in defianceâMareth would recognize that. No, it was shame. Cold and shame wrapped around him like chains that hadnât quite been removed.
Solovetâs nostrils flared, subtly
âYour stench is ghastly.â she said, bluntly.
âYou will wash. You will eat. Then you will be escorted to the hospital.â
Her gaze flicked toward one of the guards, then briefly passed over Mareth.
âSee that his quarters are cleaned and prepared for his arrival,â she added.
Then to Mareth, fully, sharply: âYou are responsible for him now. See that he does not return to this state.â
It wasnât maternal. It wasnât even cruel. It was clinical. Like she were speaking of inventory. A weapon misplaced and recovered.
She didnât wait for a reply. She turned and strode off, her cloak trailing behind her like a verdict.
Mareth remained.
He hadnât moved since the door opened. His hands were clenched at his sides, the cloth bundle of fresh clothing under one arm, a soldierâs straight posture at war with the turmoil now curling in his chest.
Hamnet hadnât moved either. Not even when the guards re-entered to help him stand.
He flinched when they touched him.
Mareth stepped forward suddenly. âIâll do it,â he said, voice firmer than he felt. The guards exchanged a look, then backed away with a shrug.
Mareth knelt and held out the clean garments, but didnât reach for him.
âI am Mareth,â he said quietly. âI have been assigned to you.â
Hamnetâs eyes twitched. He didnât speak. His fingers slowly released their grip from his shoulders, as if it took effort just to uncurl. He reached for the clothes with trembling hands.
They didnât touch.
Not yet.
But something passed between them.
Mareth wasnât sure what it was.
Only that thisâthis ruined, quiet boyâwas now his to protect.
The door creaked open with a soft groan, and Judith stepped inside as though breaching the silence might shatter something fragile beyond repair.
The room was dim, lit only by the soft amber flicker of a single wall sconce. Shadows stretched long across the floors, pooling gently beneath the carved legs of ornate furniture. It was a beautiful roomâtoo beautiful for the hollow that sat in the center of it.
Her eyes found him almost instantly.
Hamnet.
Or what was left of him.
He lay on his side, turned away from the door, curled toward the center of the great bed like a forgotten child. The blankets draped over his thin frame in rumpled folds, but they could not hide the sharp angles of his shoulders or the way his spine pressed faint ridges through the linen shirt he wore. He took up so little space, his body drawn inward, almost trying to disappear into the down-filled mattress. He looked more ghost than boy, more memory than prince.
The air in the room smelled faintly of bitter herbs and old salves, that sterile sharpness of ointments rubbed into bruises and burns. It was the scent of the hospital, of healing, and yet nothing about him looked healed. His hairâonce so carefully brushed and tied backâwas tangled now, overgrown and uneven. His face was turned just far enough that she could see the bruised hollows beneath his eyes, the faint twitch of his cheek as he dreamed. Or remembered.
Judith stood frozen in the doorway. She had come here quickly, moved through the palace like a whisper of wind, driven by the need to see him, to touch him, to know with her own eyes that he was real, alive, here.
But now that she stood in front of him, her feet would not move.
She felt it rise in herâthe rage, sharp and sudden and hot. The image of her mother flashed behind her eyes, not as a regal figure of state but as a woman, monstrous and unflinching, capable of locking her own son away like a mistake to be hidden. Judith wanted to turn and march through the palace, to find Solovet and strike her. Not just slap her, but drag her by her braid before the council, before the kingdom, and scream:
This is what you did. Look at him. Look what you made of him.
Her throat burned with the things she had not said, had not dared to say.
She clenched her fists until her knuckles paled. She wanted to run to him. Wrap him in her arms and beg forgiveness, sob against his chest like they were still children playing at sword fights in the garden. But she stood frozen, feet unmoving on the cold stone. Because she had let it happen. She had gone on. She had attended court, spoken her lines, done what was asked. And all the while, he had been here, beneath them. In the dark.
She did not deserve to rush to him. She did not deserve to touch him.
Her lips trembled.
She slipped off her sandals quietly and set them by the door. Then, with slow, careful steps, she padded across the room, her heart pounding in her throat. The bed loomed in front of her like a monument, wide enough to fit three grown men and still leave room. He looked swallowed by it, a lone figure adrift in a sea of linens.
Judith climbed in gently, not daring to shift the mattress too much. She moved like someone approaching a frightened animalâtender, cautious, reverent. Her knees sank into the edge of the bed as she crossed over, inch by inch, toward him.
And then, she was beside him.
She did not speak at first. She just watched the soft rise and fall of his breathing, the occasional twitch of his fingers. He did not know she was there. He did not stir. Her heart broke further at the stillness of him, the way his body remained so tightly curled, like it had forgotten how to rest.
Judith lay down behind him, stretching out slowly until her body curved along the shape of his. She pressed her forehead to the space between his shoulder blades and closed her eyes.
âNettieâŠâ she breathed. It came out half-formed, barely a whisper. A name she had not spoken aloud in years, not since they were children whispering under blankets and laughing at jokes only siblings could understand.
He did not respond. His breathing stayed even. Deep. Distant.
She told herself he was asleep. That it was good. That he needed rest. But the silence felt cruel.
So Judith did the only thing she could.
âI am sorry,â she whispered.
Her arm reached across his waist, trembling, and she carefully pulled him against her, as gently as she could. Her fingers splayed against his chest, desperate for him to feel her, to knowâsomehow, even in dreamsâthat she was here. That he was not alone.
âI am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorryâŠâ
The words came again and again, each one softer than the last, as she breathed them into the fabric of his shirt, into the room, into the empty months that had passed without her.
âI did not know what to do. I did not know how to help. I thought if I stayed good, if I stayed obedient, if I did everything she wantedâmaybe it would be better. Maybe she would let you out. That her anger would dim. But I was wrong. And I am soâŠso sorry.â
Her voice cracked, and a tear slipped down her cheek, trailing across his back. She tightened her arm around him, not hard enough to wake him, but firm enough to anchor herself to him. Her hand trembled as she gripped his shirt.
âI should have come sooner.â
She buried her face against him and cried silently, her tears swallowed by the warmth of his body, by the quiet that pressed in from all sides.
For the first time in months, Hamnet did not sleep alone.
And Judith would not leave. Not tonight. Not ever again.
Al, that comic panel truly opens up such a deep and rich story thats begging to be told.
đŹ 1  đ 1  â€ïž 1 · did you know that sometimes I just sit around and draw dramatic stuff for no reason. And sometimes I find it just lurking o
đŹ 1  đ 1  â€ïž 1 · did you know that sometimes I just sit around and draw dramatic stuff for no reason. And sometimes I find it just lurking o
Owen crouched beside him, the beam of his flashlight casting shaky light over Aidenâs shoulder. The joint looked wrongâswollen, bent slightly out of place, skin stretched tight and glistening. He felt his stomach twist.
âMan, I donâtâwhat if I screw it up? What if I yank too hard or something?â
Aiden looked at him then, eyes dark and steady despite the pain. âYou are not strong enough to tear my arm from my body, Seeker,â he said dryly.
It should have been comforting, but the faint tease in his tone made Owenâs throat tighten for entirely different reasons. âThatâs not funny,â he muttered, lips pulling into a pout before he could stop himself.
âI just donât wanna fuck you up more than you already are.â
âOn my count,â Aiden said, his voice lower now, steady despite the tremor running through him. âOne... twoââ
He never made it to three.
Owen pulled.
Aidenâs arm hung limp for a second after the pull, his whole body locked tight with shock. Then came a strangled soundâhalf-groan, half-growlâas he lurched forward, forehead pressing hard against Owenâs collarbone, breath ragged. Owen froze, eyes wide, his hands still hovering near Aidenâs arm like he wasnât sure if heâd fixed it or just made it worse.
Aidenâs next exhale came through gritted teeth. âWhatâwhat became of three, Seeker?â he managed, voice sharp but trembling with pain.
Owen winced. âI panicked!â he blurted, the words tumbling out fast. âI saw you gearing up, and on TV they always say itâs better to catch the person off guard!â
Aiden turned his head slightly, disbelief cutting through the haze of pain. âA dislocated shoulder, Overlander,â he hissed, âis not the same as an unknowing gnawer, there is no need for sneaking upon it."
Owenâs face flushed. âOkay, okay, Iâm sorry! My bad!â He raised both hands defensively. âYou just looked like you were gonna brace, and I figuredââ
âNever mind what you figured,â Aiden snapped, though the bite in his voice was already softening. His breathing hitched again, the pain settling into a dull, heavy ache. âBy the godsâŠâ
Then the breath heâd been holding came out all at once, breaking into a hoarse sound that sat somewhere between a groan and a sigh of relief. âYou did it,â he whispered, his forehead still resting against Owenâs collarbone.
âBy the gods, you did it.â
Owen sat frozen, heart thudding so loud he swore it echoed. The heat of Aidenâs breath burned through the thin fabric of his shirt, and the soundâthe quiet, grateful rasp of itâdid something strange to his chest. He wasnât sure what to do with his hands, or his thoughts, or the fact that every part of him felt wired and alive.
In tomorrow's episode of Return to Regalia, Oona and Mike discuss chapter twenty-one of The Marks of Secret, in which the group gets caught in some currents.
"How fair he?" Howard asked softly, his voice a rare thread of sound in the somber quiet of the room.
Mareth's jaw tightened. It was a difficult question, one he had been asking himself every day since the boy had been brought in. Aidenâs condition fluctuated wildly. Some days, Mareth found hope, a flicker of life fighting to survive within him. Other days, he despaired, watching as the poison ravaged the boyâs body, a relentless tormentor that would not let him rest.
The boy, stubborn as ever, hid his suffering as best he could, refusing to show weakness before anyone. He would wait, biding his time until he was sure he was alone, and only then would he allow himself the small mercy of tears. In those solitary moments, Mareth would watch from the shadows as Aiden gasped for breath, his body trembling with pain. His fingertips had been rubbed raw from gripping the edges of the basin as he heaved, the poison still eating away at him. Mareth had heard the soft, strangled sounds of his sobs, the whispered prayers that no one else was meant to hear. It tore at him.
"He's alive," Mareth finally managed, his voice tight, the weight of his own helplessness heavy on his shoulders. "Much to the council's chagrin."
He glanced over at the boy, lying motionless beneath a thin sheet that did little to mask the violent shudders wracking his frame. His breath came in quick, shallow bursts, labored and ragged as though each inhale were a battle hard fought. There wasnât a Regalian alive that could convince Mareth this wasnât punishment. Aiden, though still a boy in many ways, was made to bear the sins of his father, and it sickened Mareth to see it. No matter how strong, no child should suffer like this.
Yet Aiden had refused to give in, his iron will pushing him forward even as his body tried to betray him. Mareth knew the council saw it as a trial, a necessary hardship to harden him for the tasks ahead. Aiden was to be Luxa's shield, her weapon, her first and last line of defense. He would stand by her side, a symbol of her grace and humilityâa living testament to her capacity for forgiveness. The idea both angered and saddened Mareth. This was not the way it should have been.
"It is to make him a resilient warrior, Mareth." Howard's voice was low but firm as he placed a reassuring hand on Mareth's shoulder, pulling his thoughts back to the present. They stood side by side, their eyes fixed on the fragile figure through the glass partition. Aidenâs chest rose and fell erratically, each breath a reminder of the battle waging inside him.
Mareth clenched his fists, his fingers digging into his palms. "He does not deserve this," he said bitterly.
"There is no one to speak for him, no one to fight for him. Do you not feel it, Howard? Do you not fall ill at the sight?"
Howard sighed, his face heavy with the weight of his own memories. "When Vikus placed Aiden in our care, he knew it would be difficult for you. But he also knew you would not abandon him. He knew you would be there when Aiden pulls through."
Mareth shook his head, the frustration bubbling up inside him.
"He begs for death, Howard. He thinks no one hears him, but I do. When he believes he's alone, he pleads for it. He begs for an end to the suffering."
Howard was silent for a moment, his gaze distant. He raised his hand to his opposite wrist, his fingers brushing over a small circular scar that marked his skin. It was one of many, remnants of his own brush with death during the plague. He knew too well the desperation that Aiden felt, the all-consuming agony that made death seem like the only mercy. But he also knew the strength it took to survive it.
"He will make it, Mareth," Howard finally said, his voice steady with quiet conviction. "He has to."
Mareth looked back at Aiden, at the boy who had been forced to carry more than his fair share of burdens. He saw the rawness in him, the suffering that was almost too much for anyone to bear. But beneath it, there was also a flicker of resilience, a stubborn refusal to let the poison claim him completely. Mareth wanted to believe Howard, wanted to believe that Aiden would make it through. But watching him now, so fragile, so close to breaking, he wasnât sure how much more the boy could endure.
Mareth's jaw clenched as he stared through the glass, the sight of Aiden's body trembling and writhing beneath the thin sheet almost too much to bear. He could feel Howardâs eyes on him, a silent warning.
"You know weâre not allowed toâ" Howard began, his voice firm but wary.
"I'm going in," Mareth interrupted, his voice like iron.
"Mareth, you canât. Itâsâ"
But Mareth was already moving, his heavy boots hitting the stone floor with finality. Howard reached out as if to stop him but hesitated, knowing well enough there was no point. Mareth's mind was made up.
The door clicked shut behind him, sealing the two of them inside the dimly lit room. The air was thick with the smell of herbs and sweat, of the acrid remnants of poison. Aiden lay in the center, his small form dwarfed by the bed, his body a trembling mess. His breath came in uneven gasps, punctuated by pitiful groans as the poison continued to tear through his veins. Every inhale seemed to catch in his throat, rasping like sandpaper. His fingers twitched and curled, clenching the sheets as though trying to hold onto something solid, something to ground him.
"Nnnghâ" Aiden moaned, his voice strained and broken, the sound of a boy fighting an invisible enemy. His legs jerked under the sheets, the muscles spasming uncontrollably as a wave of pain surged through him. His skin was pale, almost gray, and covered in a sheen of sweat that clung to him like a second skin. His hair, usually wild and untamable, was plastered to his forehead, soaked through. A thin trail of saliva trickled from the corner of his mouth as his head lolled to the side, his eyes fluttering shut as another pained groan escaped him.
"Nnhh...please..." Aiden whimpered, his fingers now gripping the bedframe so tightly his knuckles were white. He gasped sharply, his body convulsing as he twisted onto his side, knees drawing up to his chest in a desperate attempt to shield himself from the agony. The tremors in his limbs didnât stop, his entire frame wracked with shivers despite the heat radiating from his fevered skin.
Mareth stood at the foot of the bed, watching in silence as the boy fought a battle he couldn't win alone. He had seen many soldiers suffer, many warriors pushed to their breaking point, but this... this was something different. Something crueler. This was a child, and it was killing him slowly.
Without a word, Mareth moved closer. His hands were steady, his face set with quiet determination. He grabbed the cloth that lay on the stand next to Aidenâs bed, the fabric already damp with half-forgotten care. The bowl of water next to it was cool to the touch, a small mercy in a room full of suffering. Mareth soaked the cloth, watching the water drip back into the bowl as he wrung it out, before returning to the boy's side.
Aiden let out a low groan, his body seizing momentarily as another ripple of pain passed through him. His eyelids fluttered, half-conscious, his breath ragged and thin.
Mareth placed the cool cloth gently on the boyâs burning forehead.
At the touch, Aidenâs body stilled for a brief moment. His lips parted as he released a soft, relieving sigh. The tension in his frame eased, if only slightly, the worst of the shivering subsiding. His eyelashes fluttered, struggling to lift, and after a long moment, his eyes barely cracked open, glassy and unfocused. The faintest glimmer of recognition passed over him, his breaths still uneven but less frantic.
"Rest, boy," Mareth cooed, his voice uncharacteristically gentle, almost a whisper. His hand remained on Aidenâs forehead, keeping the cool cloth in place, offering the only comfort he could give in that moment.
Aiden's eyes drifted shut again, a small flicker of relief passing over his face. His breaths came slower now, though still labored, his body no longer thrashing in agony but sinking into an uneasy, fragile calm. For the first time in hours, perhaps even days, the boy found a sliver of peace, however fleeting it might be.
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