In his dim chamber, only the flicker of candlelight cast any glow upon Lord Hadrir's face. The unsteady flame danced over the surface of the old wooden table, cluttered with curled parchment and dust-covered tomes. He sat hunched over, a single finger tracing each line of the thick book laid open before him.
The book was ancient—so old that its pages had yellowed and taken on a musty scent. The ink was fading, but the words were still legible. He had spent hours combing through its contents, his eyes moving carefully across every sentence. Then, they stopped. One line arrested his breath.
His heart thudded in his chest. His jaw clenched.
No. That couldn't be.
He read it again, needing to be sure. But the words had not changed.
A chill crept up his spine, slow and merciless, like unseen fingers tightening around the back of his neck.
With a sudden motion, he slammed the book shut. The sound echoed through the chamber like a muffled thunderclap.
His hand darted into the folds of his robe, pulling free a sealed scroll—hidden, still intact.
He had to act. Now.
Without wasting a breath, he rose from his seat and made for the door. When he opened it, the corridor beyond was empty. The torchlight lining the stone walls gave off only a faint, shifting glow, casting long, swaying shadows across the floor.
The air was damp, carrying that unmistakable scent of old stone long soaked in moisture. There was a lingering trace of burnt wax and torch oil.
Silence. Everyone was still at the celebration.
Good. That meant he could move unseen—at least, for now.
Lord Hadrir walked briskly. The echo of his boots rang down the narrow hall, each step amplified by the hush, followed closely by its own ghostly reverberation from the shadows.
Then, as his pace quickened, something changed.
A presence. A sensation creeping into his skin.
As if… he wasn't alone.
A sudden breeze whispered through the passage—a cold draft that had no place in a sealed hallway. The torches flickered, shadows leaping madly on the walls.
He glanced behind him. Nothing but the empty corridor, and the silent line of stone columns reaching into the dark. Yet something in his gut screamed—a primal instinct honed by years of caution.
He walked faster. The feeling deepened.
Now he was sure—something was following him.
He halted at an intersection, chest rising and falling in strained rhythm.
It's just in your head. You're being paranoid.
But—
He heard it.
Footsteps. Not his.
Soft. Measured. Barely audible.
He held his breath. Cold sweat traced a line down his temple. Slowly, he turned his head.
Nothing.
Only stone and wavering torchlight.
But his instincts roared.
Something was there. Lurking. Watching.
He moved again—faster now, nearly running. He needed to find someone. A guard. A servant. Anyone.
But the corridors stretched on like a lifeless maze, every path empty, like the world itself had vanished.
His heartbeat surged. He looked right—nothing. Left—nothing. His footsteps echoed wildly, but now there was another echo, just behind his own.
He broke into a run.
Each stride felt heavier, as though the darkness were clawing at his legs, trying to drag him down. His breath came ragged and quick. The scroll in his grip was tight, trembling. He rounded a corner, plunging into a dimmer corridor, lit only by a few dying torches.
He stopped there, pressing his back to the cold stone wall, struggling to quiet his breathing.
Silence enveloped the hall. No footsteps now.
Perhaps… it had been nothing.
He inhaled deeply, trying to still the panic thundering in his veins. Slowly, he turned to face forward—
A shadow streaked past his vision.
Swift. Silent. Close.
His eyes widened. His body froze. Then—a sharp heat ripped across his throat.
He jerked.
Hadrir felt something hot and wet gush down his chest—thick, sticky, unrelenting. His trembling fingers shot to his neck, clutching the gash now gaping there. When he looked at his hand—it was red. Drenched.
His throat felt hollow, carved open. Every breath was a blade of fire. He tried to scream, but only a gurgling sound escaped—a choking, blood-laced wheeze.
His knees buckled. He collapsed, clutching at his wound, trying desperately to stop the flood—but it was futile. His breath shortened. His chest convulsed. His eyes widened with terror.
At the edge of his vision, something moved.
A figure—cloaked in shadow—stood at the end of the corridor, watching.
Lord Hadrir wanted to cry out, to call for help, but only a rasping moan left his mouth. Blood and spittle frothed at his lips. His body convulsed. Fingers scraped against stone. His legs kicked, flailing. His body writhed in final resistance.
But it was no use.
The blood kept coming, seeping into the cracks of the floor.
His movements slowed. The spasms faded.
And at last… he stilled.
His eyes remained open. Empty.
His body sprawled across the stone, the blood beneath him still warm.
Here's the English translation in the same vivid, atmospheric style you used earlier:
Dawn had only just kissed the horizon, leaving behind a faint blush of orange still struggling to outshine the night's darkness. The morning air was cold and damp, seeping into the crevices of the old stone walls that made up the castle.
A maid walked quietly down the still-silent corridor, her morning duties just beginning. In her hands, she held a small basket of clean linens, her steps light and unhurried. It was early, and most of the castle's inhabitants were still asleep after last night's celebration of the King's coronation anniversary.
But then, her pace slowed.
Something on the floor.
Dark red droplets.
Her brow furrowed. She halted and bent down, peering closer. Blood?
Her heart began to beat faster. Her eyes followed the trail, some parts already dried, others glistening faintly under the torchlight. A sense of dread mingled with curiosity started to creep into her thoughts.
She stepped forward slowly, following the trail.
What happened here?
The blood stretched into a thin line across the stone floor, leading toward the darker end of the hallway. She swallowed hard. Her eyes darted right and left—but there was no one. Just her, standing alone in the long, cold corridor.
A morning breeze blew in through a narrow window slit, carrying with it the damp scent of old stone. But now the air also carried something else—a faint metallic tang of blood.
Her hands, still clutching the basket of linens, began to tremble. But her feet kept moving.
The further she went, the stronger the scent grew. And when she turned the next corner.
She saw him.
Lord Hadrir's body.
The maid let out a strangled gasp, her knees nearly giving out.
His body lay twisted in an unnatural position, skin bluish with death, blood pooled beneath him, dried into the cracks of the stone. His eyes were wide open—vacant, staring.
His neck...
The maid choked on terror.
The wound was gaping. His flesh and skin had been carved so deeply, it looked as though it had been sliced clean in one brutal stroke. The hem of Lord Hadrir's robes had turned black, soaked with the blood that had drained from him through the night.
His mouth hung slightly open, as if trying to scream—but no sound ever came. The maid couldn't breathe.
This wasn't real.
This was a nightmare.
The basket slipped from her fingers, landing with a dull thud. The pristine white linens were splashed with streaks of old blood.
Then her body moved before her mind could process it—
She screamed. A raw, shrill cry, and ran. Her feet stumbled as she fled the grisly scene, her cries echoing down the corridor, piercing the quiet of dawn.
And with that, the slumbering castle would soon awaken to the horror that had unfolded in the night.
Footsteps echoed through the hallway. The morning air felt colder than usual—or perhaps it was only Irindir's rising dread.
His steps were quick and uneven, his night robes billowing behind him, bare feet striking stone with faint slaps. His breath was ragged, chest heaving, but he did not stop.
Behind him, Sir Nutrin and several royal guards followed, their boots pounding against the stone in rhythm.
Hadrir… dead?
His mind reeled, but there was no time to make sense of it all.
When they reached the site, Irindir saw it immediately. The corridor was now crowded with castle guards. Torchlight cast long shadows across the walls, and at the center—stood Lord Thalion.
The man stood with arms crossed, his expression as cold as ever. Upon seeing Irindir, he bowed deeply.
"Your Majesty."
The King didn't reply. He was still catching his breath from the run. His gaze dropped to the floor.
Blood.
Thick, dark blood, pooled and smeared across the stones. The stench of iron hit his nose, mixing with the damp rot of the castle corridor. Flies buzzed in a frenzied cloud above the nearly dried gore.
At the center of it all lay a body, covered with a cloth.
Irindir looked briefly at Lord Thalion, then raised his hand in command.
"Uncover him."
One of the guards stepped forward and carefully pulled back the cloth—and for a moment, silence fell like a hammer on the hallway.
Irindir raised a hand instinctively, covering his mouth, then turned away.
His eyes shut tight. His breath caught in his throat.
Even for a king who had seen death many times—this was different.
Lord Hadrir's body was bluish and stiff, his skin hardened like wax melted and then frozen. His eyes were still open, staring at something terrible only he had seen. His mouth agape—but forever silent.
And his neck...
There was hardly any neck left.
The dried blood around him had formed strange patterns, as though he had thrashed in agony before death finally took him.
Irindir steadied himself, slowly lowering his hand from his face. He turned back toward the corpse.
"Such insolence…" he muttered, voice barely audible.
He turned to Thalion, eyes sharp. "Who did this?"
Thalion paused before answering. "We don't yet know, Your Majesty. But this—this was no ordinary murder."
Irindir stared at him. One thing was certain—whatever had happened last night, someone had sent him a message.
Written in blood.
Thalion raised his hand, signaling to the soldiers waiting nearby with a stretcher wrapped in dark cloth.
"Take him," he ordered firmly.
Two guards moved forward, lifting Lord Hadrir's stiff body with care. They placed it on the stretcher, the head slumping slightly as if death's grip had not yet loosened. As they carried him away, the sound of cloth scraping stone and boots stepping in solemn rhythm echoed through the quiet.
Irindir watched them with an unreadable expression. His eyes remained fixed on the lifeless form as it receded down the hall, as if hoping Hadrir would rise again and speak to him.
But only silence remained, and the stench of death.
"He was loyal," Irindir said at last, his voice heavy with restrained grief. "He served me... and my father before me. With all his heart."
Thalion stood beside him, face set like stone. "We will find who did this."
Irindir drew a long breath, his eyes narrowing. "And they will pay."
As the body was taken away and the soldiers' footsteps faded into the distance, Thalion remained where he was. He looked down at the bloodstained floor, then raised his gaze to Irindir.
"There's something you need to see, Your Majesty," he said quietly but firmly.
Irindir turned. "What is it?"
Thalion reached into his robe and pulled out a small scroll. Its surface was smeared with dried blood, making the parchment rough and dark.
"I found it clenched in Lord Hadrir's hand," he explained.
Irindir frowned, taking the scroll cautiously. His fingers touched the dried blood soaked into the fibers. Without a word, he walked toward one of the large windows along the corridor, where the pale morning light spilled through the glass—just enough to read by.
Lord Thalion stood behind him, watching closely.
Irindir slowly unrolled the scroll. His eyes moved across the lines of writing. His face remained unreadable at first—then tightened. His lips parted slightly. His breath hitched. He stared forward for a long moment, as if his mind raced to grasp the weight of what he had just read.
Then, suddenly, he turned to Lord Thalion.
"Summon the King's Council. We meet at once."
Thalion nodded without hesitation. "At once, Your Majesty."
Without delay, the two men turned and strode swiftly down the corridor, their steps tense with urgency. Behind them, the bloodstains on the stone remained untouched—silent witnesses to the horror of the night before.
The warm morning light slipped through the gaps in the silk curtains, casting golden glimmers over the deep crimson sheets. The scent of roses and soft incense still lingered in the air, mingling with the warmth of entangled bodies upon an ornately carved bed.
The room glowed with the dim flicker of candles, their dancing flames painting shadows across silk-draped walls. The air was thick with the fragrance of wildflowers mixed with the sharp tang of spilled wine upon the carved wooden table.
Upon the grand canopy bed, a pair of slender hands glided across the skin of a young man, her fingers tracing delicate paths over his bare chest.
The young man chuckled softly, relishing the tenderness of two bodies wrapped around him. His golden-blond hair was tousled, eyes half-lidded with a glint of mischief as one woman nipped playfully at his ear while the other trailed kisses down the line of his throat.
"Seems this morning will be longer than I thought," he murmured hoarsely, his fingers sliding between them, drawing them closer into his embrace.
Laughter echoed within the chamber, mingling with the sighs that hung in the air. The curtains swayed gently, as if dancing to the rhythm of movement growing ever more fervent.
Outside the room, two guards stood rigid, their expressions blank as they pretended not to hear the sounds coming from within. On a nearby chair, Sir Eryk Steelvein leaned his head into his hand and sighed heavily before shaking his head.
"He never changes…" he muttered, a whisper of complaint laced with weariness.
One of the guards turned toward him, stifling a laugh. "How long do you think we'll be standing here?"
Eryk shrugged, eyes still on the tightly shut door. "Until he's satisfied… or someone drags him out."
A quiet chuckle passed between them before silence returned, save for the muffled sounds within the chamber.
Inside, the young noble surrendered himself entirely to the waves of pleasure, savoring every moment of a long, indulgent morning in the arms of women well-versed in pleasing men like him—a young lord with a thirst for pleasure, unburdened by duty… at least for now.
Eventually, the noise inside the chamber faded, leaving only soft laughter and heavy breaths. Moments later, the door creaked open, and Leon Thazeiros stepped out leisurely. His golden hair was slightly disheveled, his loose shirt wrinkled, but a satisfied smile lingered on his face. Behind him, the two women remained sprawled on the bed, whispering and giggling softly to each other.
Sir Eryk, still seated with arms crossed over his chest, let out a long sigh before saying, "You've finally emerged. I thought you'd fainted in there from exhaustion, Your Highness."
Leon chuckled, running a hand through his hair. "Worried about me, Sir Eryk? That's rather sweet of you."
Eryk snorted. "Oh, I'm not worried about you. I'm more concerned for the two poor women inside. I nearly summoned a healer on their behalf."
Leon grinned. "They enjoyed every moment of it, I assure you. But if you're worried, you're welcome to go in and check for yourself."
Eryk gave him a flat look. "And let you stand outside judging me like a tournament referee? No, Your Highness."
Leon laughed harder. As they stepped out of the brothel, Sir Eryk reached into his pouch and tossed a few gold coins onto the table near the entrance.
Outside, the morning air remained crisp. Two royal guards stood waiting with their horses, and Sir Eryk mounted his steed without a word. Leon tilted his head back slightly, breathing in deeply before swinging into his own saddle.
"A beautiful morning indeed," he said with an easy smile.
Eryk glanced at him and snorted. "If the stench of cheap wine and woman's sweat is your idea of beauty, I won't argue."
Leon laughed, clapping Eryk's shoulder. "Life is meant to be savored, Sir. You're far too serious."
Eryk sighed. "Someone has to be. And someone has to make sure you don't get murdered naked in a brothel bed."
Leon chuckled. "Now that would be a legendary death, wouldn't it? The tale of Prince Leon, the man who died in the most passionate battle of his life."
Eryk rolled his eyes. "I wouldn't bother writing your epitaph."
They laughed together, then guided their horses out of the brothel's yard and spurred them forward.
The morning wind rushed past their faces as they galloped across the highlands. Dust kicked up behind their mounts, and a crimson banner bearing the golden lion's head fluttered proudly among their retinue. The clatter of hooves echoed along the stony path leading toward the hills, marking their steady approach.
Ahead, the silhouette of Mount Eryndor rose high, its peak veiled in a thin shroud of mist.
At the mountain's base, a vast encampment sprawled. White tents stood in neat rows, and at the center, a grander tent flew the royal banner proudly above it. Soldiers manned every corner, some patrolling, others busying themselves with their tasks—tending to horses, sharpening blades, or preparing supplies. The remains of a fire still glowed red from the night before, its smoke mingling with the scent of burning wood and iron.
Leon pulled gently on the reins, slowing his horse. The retinue behind him also paused atop a small ridge overlooking the encampment. From there, they could see the entire field below, like a lion surveying its domain.
Sir Eryk brought a small ram-horn trumpet to his lips. Taking a deep breath, he blew three short blasts—the notes echoed across the camp. The soldiers on watch turned at once, some immediately bracing themselves, recognizing the signal of their arrival.
Leon arched an eyebrow and turned to Eryk with a smirk. "I always forget how theatrical you are when on duty."
Eryk lowered the horn and shot him a deadpan glance. "Better theatrical than shot by your own men."
Leon chuckled. "Fair enough."
They finally descended into the encampment at the foot of Mount Eryndor, slowing their horses as they neared the main tent, where the banner of Estravar flew high. On both sides, the soldiers stood in formation, bowing respectfully as the prince rode past.
When the party arrived before the royal tent, Leon pulled the reins of his horse, bringing it to a halt. He dismounted with ease and handed the reins to a nearby soldier. Sir Eryk did the same, his eyes alert and scanning the surroundings, though his expression remained calm as always.
Then, the curtain of the main tent was drawn aside.
Loran Thazeiros stepped out, radiating a cold and commanding presence. His posture was firm, and his piercing gaze seemed capable of cutting through anyone who stood before him.
At the sight of his father, Leon gave a faint smile and stepped forward with open arms, ready to embrace him. But before he could even touch the King—
Thud!
A sharp blow struck his face—quick and brutal—sending him stumbling backward, landing hard on the dusty ground. Pain flared across his cheek, and his vision blurred from the sudden impact.
Sir Eryk tensed instantly beside him, his hand twitching as if to help Leon up, but Loran's cutting glare held him in place.
Leon winced, pressing one hand to his aching jaw. Dust clung to his sleeves as he propped himself up, his breath slightly ragged.
Loran stood firm, his eyes as cold as steel. "Rekhin Yon Ras: Where have you been?" he demanded, his voice low and laced with suppressed fury.
Leon wiped a trace of blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand and gave a crooked smile. "Attending to important matters, Patar: Father," he replied lightly, though the pain was clear in his voice.
"Important matters?" Loran scoffed and stepped closer. "Do these important matters involve beds and women bought with gold?"
The soldiers standing nearby kept their heads bowed, but the bitter sarcasm in the King's tone was unmistakable.
Leon offered a thin smile. "You know I always carry out my duties in my own way."
Before he could say more, Loran grabbed the collar of his tunic and yanked him upward, nearly lifting him off the ground.
"And your way always ends with you arriving late," Loran growled. "You think this is a game, Leon? You think the time of our forebears means less than your fleeting pleasures?"
Leon tried not to show the pain, but his father's grip was iron. His breath hitched just before Loran shoved him back, letting him drop to the ground.
"There is much to be done," the King said coolly. "Clean yourself. I do not wish to hear another excuse."
Without waiting for a reply, the King turned and stepped back into his tent, leaving Leon seated in the dirt.
Sir Eryk finally stepped forward and offered his hand. "I thought he'd hit you harder."
Leon clicked his tongue and took the offered hand, pulling himself to his feet. "Trust me, that was hard enough," he muttered, testing his jaw to make sure nothing was broken.
They exchanged a look before Eryk gave him a pat on the back and gestured toward the rest tents.
"Come on, before he decides to hit you again."
Night had fallen, and the starlit sky cast a pale shimmer across the land. The air at the foot of Mount Eryndor was cold, as if the spirits of the ancestors resting within were watching from above.
At the mouth of the great cavern that held the tombs of kings past, dozens of soldiers stood in formation, torches in hand. The flickering flames danced gently in the mountain wind, casting shifting shadows upon the stone walls—shadows that moved like living things, as if they too bore witness to this sacred rite.
At the front of the assembly stood two figures in silence.
Loran Thazeiros and his son, Leon, both cloaked in long crimson robes with hoods shadowing part of their faces. In their hands, each held an unlit torch. Tonight, they would perform a sacred ritual to seek guidance from the ancestors—kings and queens long laid to rest.
Without a word, Loran stepped into the cavern. Leon walked beside him, his steps steady though his jaw was still tight. Behind them followed Sir Nutrin, the King's chief guard, and Sir Eryk, the Prince's sworn protector, their lit torches illuminating the path for the royal pair.
The deeper they walked, the heavier the darkness became. The stone walls were cool and damp, and a faint rumble echoed in the distance—perhaps from an underground river flowing deep beneath the mountain.
After several minutes in solemn silence, the passage widened into a great chamber. The room was domed, supported by towering natural pillars. At its center stood a vast stone altar, the site of the ritual. The scent of damp earth mingled with the ghost of old incense that had once burned here.
Surrounding the altar were stone sarcophagi, each carved with exquisite detail, bearing the names of Estravar's ancient kings who had long since passed into legend.
At the heart of the altar stood a great iron bowl mounted atop a black stone pedestal. Within it burned a sacred fire, fueled by natural gas from deep within the mountain—an eternal flame said to have been lit since the first man set foot in Santara. It had never faltered, never died—a symbol of immortality and honor for those who had come before.
As Loran and Leon approached the altar, the fire's glow painted their faces in stark contrast, light and shadow warring upon their skin. Loran's eyes stayed fixed on the flame, while Leon glanced about, feeling the weight of history pressing in on all sides.
Loran drew a deep breath, then closed his eyes briefly before reciting a prayer in the ancient tongue of Atharia, his voice deep and reverent:
Undan rekhsuran ar rahkdin dat ekha dous warkhan: O ancestors laid to rest in stone and time
Farkhatha ar yahkun vorkhadin nan haran, dous turrat lernan ikh nultha: Kings who conquered lands and etched their names among the stars
Ar lekha gun rekhin dat yan res: Whose blood still flows in our veins
Lakhun lafere prithian nan'unamir: Hear now the call of your descendants
Hurdafir yan: Show us the path
Barkhon yan: Open the way
Morhat ar werhin yan akhom: All that we must know
Ik nurim dun yarkha dun lakharin, yon luk'ha dun'unamir firh ik'lakharin erek'hun: In the East I raise my throne—may my line sit upon it forever
Gefar dan Simar imor tokhiras lekhen undum: May our Simar roar until the end of days
Yan tersin hinuz gekeraz: Our Light Pierces the Darkness
When the prayer ended, silence filled the chamber. Only the sacred fire crackled within the iron bowl, whispering in a language known only to those long departed.
Loran opened his eyes slowly, then—without hesitation—raised his torch high and brought it close to the sacred flame. The moment the wood touched the fire, it was consumed in an instant, igniting the torch with a bright and pure light.
Leon mirrored his father's gesture, lifting his own torch and lighting it from the same flame. His eyes lingered on the fire, as if trying to grasp the meaning behind a ritual his family had carried out for centuries.
Behind them, Sir Nutrin and Sir Eryk stood in silence, observing the ceremony with quiet reverence.
Now the fire burned in the hands of both Loran and Leon. But the ritual was far from over.
Loran began to walk slowly, leaving behind the altar illuminated by the eternal flame. The light of his torch flickered, casting long, shifting shadows across the cold walls of the cave. Each of his footsteps echoed through the stone, a soft sound that somehow felt louder than silence itself.
Nutrin followed without a word, clutching his torch tightly. There was something in the air that unsettled him—not just the creeping cold that bit into the bone, but the sense that this place was not entirely empty.
On either side of them, stone sarcophagi stood like eternal sentinels. The names of Estravar's kings were etched into their surfaces—some worn away by time, others still sharp and legible. The air grew colder, and amid the scents of earth and stone, there was something else—a faint, metallic tang that cut through it all.
Loran paused before a large sarcophagus, brushing away a thin layer of dust with the palm of his hand. It wasn't the one he sought. He moved on, passing more tombs, his eyes carefully scanning the names engraved above each resting place.
And then, finally, he found it.
A stone sarcophagus still strong, untouched by age. Its carvings were sharp, as though even time had dared not defile it.
Erion Thazeiros, Son of Ethon, Son of Thrar, King of Estravar
Loran stared at the name for a long moment before placing his torch into an iron holder beside the tomb. The flame trembled, casting strange shadows that danced across the cave walls. Slowly, he knelt.
His hand came to rest on the cold surface of the stone.
Nutrin stood behind him in silence, his eyes fixed on the figure of his king, now bowing his head in quiet reverence.
And then—it happened.
The torch Loran had placed at the sarcophagus suddenly went out.
Just like that. No gust of wind. No motion. It was simply gone—snuffed out in an instant, leaving a darkness deeper than before.
Sir Nutrin jolted, gripping his torch tighter. Now his was the only source of light in the vast chamber. Loran's shadow grew longer, darker, and as the knight turned his eyes back toward the tomb, he felt as though something from within the stone was staring back.
Loran turned slowly, casting Nutrin a glance with an expression impossible to read. Their eyes met, and for a fleeting second, Nutrin sensed something strange in his king's gaze—something weighty, profound, and unsettling.
But Loran said nothing.
He turned back to the sarcophagus, bowing lower, his shoulders sagging, as if bearing the weight of the world.
Nutrin remained behind him, silent, his torch trembling ever so slightly in his grip.
On the other side of the grand, silent tomb, Leon stood before another stone sarcophagus. The engravings upon it remained clear. A name was etched there in noble grace—a queen he had never known, a mother whose face he had only seen through the stories of others.
His torch had already been placed in its holder, its light flickering weakly, casting long shadows that danced across the stone.
Behind him, Sir Eryk stood with both hands resting on the hilt of his sword, silent as a loyal sentinel.
Leon kept his head lowered. His eyes were fixed on the sarcophagus, but his thoughts were far away.
Silence.
And then, Leon's voice broke through the suffocating stillness.
"You know," he said quietly, his voice nearly lost in the hush of the tomb. "I never saw my mother's face."
Sir Eryk looked at him, his eyes softening just slightly.
"Your mother would be proud of her son," he replied.
Leon let out a dry, bitter laugh—without a trace of warmth.
"The son who killed her while being born?"
The words hung in the air, cold as the stone surrounding them. Leon bowed lower, then slowly knelt, placing his hand gently on the surface of the tomb.
Silence enveloped them once more. Only the sound of their breaths stirred the stillness.
After a while, Leon spoke again.
"Did you know her, Sir Eryk?" he asked, his voice gentler now, uncertain.
Sir Eryk looked at him for a moment before answering.
"I didn't know your mother," he said honestly. "But I once saw the queen. She was the most beautiful woman ever to walk Estravar—perhaps even Santara."
There was a faint lilt to his tone, as if he was trying to lighten the weight that clung to the space between them.
Leon lifted his head slightly, his eyes meeting Sir Eryk's. Then, he gave a small smile.
Not a happy one—but enough to show that Eryk's words had eased the ache in his chest, if only a little.