Chapter 107: New beginning
I stand leaning against my cane, the familiar pain in my left leg now reduced to a dull ache, something I can tolerate after years of endurance. Each step down the stairs sends a reminder of my past injuries, but the ache no longer consumes me. Today, Count Raymond, my former master, has requested an audience. I had expected Noelle to join me, but he refused, muttering something about not trusting his reaction. I was irritated at first, but the more I think about it, the more the a low chuckle escapes my lips.
The palace is on lockdown, supposedly to improve security, though I know better. It’s all about damage control—containment. They don’t want word of the events in the west wing getting out, and the tension around the place is palpable. I make my way into the drawing room, where Count Raymond and his son, Oliver, are already waiting. Their faces hold a mixture of tension and expectation, and whatever respect or warmth I once had for the man across from me has long since withered away.
"This is a surprise," I say, my voice cold and even as I enter. The count and his son both rise to acknowledge me, their movements stiff, unsure. I take my seat first, forcing them to follow, a subtle reminder of who holds the power in this room now.
I settle back, leaning heavily on my cane as I meet their gazes without flinching. Count Raymond clears his throat, his lips moving as though he’s about to say something, but I cut him off before he can get too comfortable.
"Thorne," he begins.
"It’s General to you now," I say sharply, not bothering to mask the bite in my voice.
He visibly flinches, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone, and I watch the momentary flicker of discomfort pass over his face. Good. Let him feel it.
"When you did that," I continue, my eyes locking on his with an unwavering intensity, "you severed any relationship we once had."
Silence hangs thick in the air, the weight of my words settling in, and I can see the regret flash in his eyes. But regret won’t fix what’s been broken.
."Thorne," Oliver starts, his voice calm yet cautious, "he was just thinking of me. Don’t blame him too much."
I pinch the bridge of my nose, a gesture I’ve grown too familiar with these days. My patience, already thin, teeters on the edge.