Chapter 149: The Irony
"Daro..."
The name slipped from Rhaegar’s lips, leaving a bitter aftertaste that clung to his tongue. Just speaking it made his jaw tighten and his chest burn with resentment.
Rhaegar’s time among the nomads was a Chapter of his life etched with memories both soothing and searing. A period of refuge and revelation—but also of unhealed wounds and restless rage.
He had been found unconscious, wandering perilously close to Erelith’s border, teetering on the edge of life and death. The gypsies recognized him instantly. The honey-colored eyes, bronzed and flawless skin, unruly brown curls that framed his face, and, most notably, the seal—a mark that only one person could leave.
The Gypsy Witch. His mother.
When Rhaegar awoke, he found himself enveloped in the warmth of thick quilts and soft blankets, his aching body sinking into their comforting embrace.
Surrounding him was a circle of old shaman women, their expressions unreadable as they puffed on long, black pipes. The thick, pungent smoke hung in the air like an oppressive mist, forcing him into a fit of coughing every time he drew breath.
It wasn’t long before he learned the truth about the people who had saved him, and his heart, heavy with years of rejection and pain, dared to loosen its grip. For the first time, he felt as though he had found a place where he belonged—a family as vast as the sprawling nomadic population.
Yet even the solace of belonging could not extinguish the fire burning in his blood. Though he longed to savor the newfound peace, he knew there was no time for such indulgence.