Episode-800
Chapter : 1599
There were no bodies. Not in the traditional sense. There were just stains. Dark, wet stains on the cobblestones where men had stood. And next to every stain, a pile of rusted metal. Swords, breastplates, helmets—all corroded into orange dust.
"No," Lloyd whispered.
He scanned the area. The stables were flat. The main keep had cracks running up its face like lightning bolts. The windows were all blown out.
He saw a movement near the main entrance. A servant, one of the kitchen maids, was sweeping. She was sweeping the dust. She was crying, her shoulders shaking, but she was sweeping. It was a mechanical, traumatized action. Trying to clean up the apocalypse.
Lloyd walked up to her. She looked up, her eyes hollow. She didn't bow. She didn't speak. She just looked at him with a thousand-yard stare.
"Where is my father?" Lloyd asked. His voice was hoarse.
The maid pointed a shaking finger toward the main building. "His room," she whispered. "He is... he is alive."
Alive. The word was a lifeline. Lloyd grabbed it. If Roy was alive, then maybe it wasn't total defeat. Maybe they had held. Roy was a Sovereign. He had Gog and Magog. He was the strongest man in the North.
Lloyd left the maid and ran into the building. The interior was a mess of shattered glass and fallen tapestries. He took the stairs three at a time, ignoring the pain in his legs, ignoring the warning bells in his mind that said trap.
He reached his father's chambers. The heavy wooden doors were open.
He walked in.
The room was dim. The curtains were drawn. The smell of medicinal herbs and iron was thick in the air.
Arch Duke Roy Ferrum lay in his massive bed. He looked small. That was the first thing Lloyd thought. His father, the giant, the mountain of iron, looked small. His skin was the color of old parchment. His right arm was bandaged heavily, immobile. His breathing was a shallow, rattling wheeze.
Lloyd walked to the bedside. "Father?"
Roy’s eyes opened. They were dim. The golden light of the Sovereign spirit was gone. They were just the eyes of an old, tired man.
"Lloyd," Roy rasped. He tried to sit up but failed. He coughed, a wet, painful sound.
"I'm here," Lloyd said, kneeling by the bed. "I'm here. Who did this? I will kill them. I will hunt them down and I will—"
"Stop," Roy whispered. It wasn't a command of strength; it was a plea.
Roy looked at his son. He looked at Lloyd's face, searching for something. He saw the anger. He saw the confusion.
"Don't look at me," Roy said, turning his head away. "I am not... I am not the story today."
"What are you talking about?" Lloyd demanded. "You're hurt. The estate is destroyed. Who attacked us?"
Roy closed his eyes. A single tear leaked out, cutting a track through the grime on his face.
"Go," Roy said. His voice broke. "Go to the infirmary. The central medical wing."
"Why?" Lloyd asked. "I need to get the healers for you. I need to—"
"GO!" Roy roared. It was a shadow of his old voice, but it still had authority. The effort made him cough violently, blood flecking his lips. "Go to the infirmary, Lloyd. Don't waste time on me. Go see... go see what your inheritance cost."
Lloyd stood up. A cold dread, colder than the northern wind, settled in his stomach. It was a heavy, leaden weight. He had thought the worst thing he could find was his father dead.
He was wrong.
He turned and walked out of the room. He walked down the corridor. He didn't run. He walked with the heavy, measured steps of a man walking to the gallows.
He went down the stairs. He crossed the ruined foyer. He walked down the long hallway that led to the medical wing.
The air got colder with every step.
________________________________________
The hallway leading to the medical wing felt endless. It was a tunnel of stone and silence. Usually, this part of the estate was bustling with activity—healers tending to training injuries, servants rushing with linens. Today, it was quiet. The kind of quiet that falls after a catastrophe, when everyone is too shocked to speak.
Lloyd walked. His boots echoed on the floor tiles. Click. Click. Click. It sounded like a clock ticking down.
He reached the double doors of the infirmary. They were propped open.
He stepped inside.
Chapter : 1600
The room was large, filled with rows of beds. Most were empty. The attack hadn't left many wounded. It had left dust. But the room was full of people.
He saw the healers. They were standing along the walls, heads bowed, hands clasped. They weren't working. There was no one to work on.
He saw the servants. The kitchen staff, the gardeners, the stable hands. They were huddled in groups, crying softly.
He saw Faria. The fiery, passionate artist was sitting on a bench near the window. Her face was buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Her bright red hair looked dull in the dim light.
He saw Mei Jing. His CEO, his general of commerce. She was standing by a pillar, staring at the floor. Her face was a mask of stone, but tears were streaming down her cheeks, unchecked and unacknowledged.
They all looked up when he entered.
The room went deathly still. The sobbing stopped. The whispering stopped. Everyone turned to look at the Young Lord.
And then, they moved.
Like the parting of the Red Sea, the crowd separated. They stepped back, clearing a path down the center of the room. They didn't look him in the eye. They looked at the floor. They looked at their shoes. They couldn't bear to watch him.
Lloyd didn't look at them either. He didn't ask Faria why she was crying. He didn't ask Mei Jing for a report.
His eyes were locked on the center of the room.
There was a single bier there. A simple wooden table used for laying out the dead.
It was covered with a white sheet.
The shape under the sheet was small. Slight. It wasn't a warrior. It wasn't a large man.
Lloyd’s heart stopped. It literally missed a beat, a painful thump in his chest. His blood ran cold, freezing in his veins.
No, his mind whispered. No. Please. Take the money. Take the power. Take the estate. Burn it all down. Just... not that.
He walked. One step. Two steps. His legs felt like they didn't belong to him. They felt like wooden stilts, clumsy and heavy.
He reached the bier.
He stood there for a long time. He stared at the white fabric. He could see the faint outline of a face.
His hand came up. It trembled. He tried to stop it, but his fingers shook like leaves in a storm.
He gripped the edge of the sheet.
Don't look, a voice in his head screamed. If you don't look, it's not real. If you don't look, you can turn around and wake up.
He pulled the sheet back.
The world ended.
It didn't end with fire or an explosion. It ended with a quiet, terrible stillness.
Jasmin lay there.
She looked like she was sleeping. Her face was pale, almost translucent, but peaceful. Her eyes were closed. Her dark hair was fanned out on the pillow.
But then his eyes moved down.
Her chest...
The white tunic she wore was stained red. But it wasn't just blood. Her chest was caved in. There was a terrible, unnatural depression in the center of her sternum, as if she had been hit by a cannonball. The fabric was torn, revealing skin that was bruised purple and black.
And her hand.
Her right hand was resting on her chest, right over the wound. Her fingers were curled tight, locked in a death grip.
Lloyd looked closer.
Clutched in her cold, stiff fingers was a silver hairpin. It was cheap. It was simple. It was the first gift he had ever given her, back when he was just starting the soap business. She had cherished it like a crown jewel.
She had died holding it.
Lloyd couldn't breathe. The air in the room had vanished. His lungs were trying to pump, but there was no oxygen.
He looked at her face again. He waited for her to breathe. He waited for her eyelids to flutter. He waited for her to jump up and say, "Master Lloyd, you're back! Would you like some tea?"
She didn't move.
She was so still.
The silence in Lloyd’s mind was deafening. It was a white noise, a high-pitched ringing that drowned out everything else. He couldn't hear the healers shifting. He couldn't hear Faria sobbing. He could only hear the silence of the girl who used to hum while she worked.
"I gathered her," a voice said.