Chapter 77: Faded rage
My master stands suddenly, his shimmering eyes brimming with unshed tears. He moves with a silent urgency, and before I can react, he’s at the door. Without hesitation, I follow, my body moving automatically as it always does in his presence.
The click of his shoes echoes down the stairs as we descend swiftly. There’s something pressing in the air—thick and suffocating, like the moments before a storm hits. As we reach the bottom, the source of that suffocating presence becomes clear.
The crimson general.
The air around him is heavy with violence. He stands there, fists clenched at his sides, his clothing spattered with blood, the dark crimson stark against his skin and uniform. His face is streaked with it too, though Thorne rarely gets his hands dirty. When he strikes, it’s usually clean and controlled, often with the force of his mind, using weapons against their own masters rather than his fists. But not today. Today, the blood is tangible, real, soaking into his skin, evidence of something personal.
My breath catches as I take in the scene. Thorne’s eyes are dark, empty yet burning with a rage I haven’t seen in years. His aura is so terrifying, so thick with menace, that even standing near him feels dangerous—like the slightest touch could set him off again. It’s rare to see him like this. He’s usually calm, terrifying in his cold calculation. But now, he’s raw, untethered, the monster I remember from years past, unleashed.
And yet, despite all this, Noelle—my master—moves toward him without fear.
There is no hesitation in Noelle’s steps. The tension in the air doesn’t seem to touch him, as if the storm swirling around Thorne is a mere breeze in his eyes. He crosses the distance between them swiftly, his delicate hands reaching up to cup Thorne’s bloodied face.
Thorne’s eyes snap to him, wild and dangerous, but Noelle doesn’t flinch. Instead, he pulls Thorne down, guiding his head into the crook of his neck, wrapping him in a tender embrace. Thorne’s body tenses for just a moment, a beast on the edge of breaking, before something in him shifts. Noelle strokes his blood-matted hair, his voice low and soft, and the wildness in Thorne’s gaze flickers, then fades.
Thorne’s lips curve into a small, almost peaceful smile—something that shouldn’t exist on the blood-smeared face of a man who had just been hell-bent on destruction.