Newfear

She felt a deep weight in her body. Her mind screamed at her to run, to keep going without looking back, but she trembled slightly… and kept staring at the floor.

Then, in a faint voice, she answered.

Liana: "Why do you think…?"

She raised her head, finally turning toward him. Her gaze wasn't fearful… but sharp, defiant, as if she were trying to convince him... or perhaps, herself.

Liana: "Just a beggar… poor… filthy. You found me on the streets, and you think that because you're a noble, you can impose your will on me?"

Her words carried a mocking tone, but behind that sarcasm, there was something else… something she couldn't completely hide.

The silence between them was heavy, suffocating with unspoken meanings.

Raymond lifted his eyes toward her, his voice steady but laden with something close to certainty.

Raymond: "You know that's not....

But she didn't let him finish.

Liana: "Not what?!"

She shouted, her voice trembling, her eyes holding a mixture of anger and brokenness. But she didn't stop there... she took a step toward him, her fists clenched as if trying to strangle the words escaping her lips.

Liana: "I'm a liar! A thief! A traitor!!..."

She paused for a moment, her eyes glistening... not from the dim tavern light, but from the tears she was desperately holding back… yet her lips trembled in clear betrayal.

She whispered, barely audible.

Liana: "This… is what I truly am…"

Then, without giving him a chance to reply, she swiftly pulled up her hood, covering her face just enough to hide the expression she feared he might see. Then, she turned and rushed out of the tavern.

As for Raymond… he remained standing where he was.

His eyes followed her as she left, but she never looked back. Not for a second... not even out of hesitation.

He took a step forward.

But a voice stopped him.

"Oh… easy there, young man."

It was Wilder's voice... sharp, with a sarcastic undertone... but behind it, there was something else… something impossible to ignore.

Wilder raised his hand in a simple gesture, and immediately, some of the men sitting in the tavern stood up. There were nine of them... large, broad-shouldered, their faces tense yet familiar with these kinds of situations.

Wilder: "You made a grave mistake coming here," he continued, tilting his head slightly as he lit his cigar. The smoke curled upward slowly, as if everything was moving at a slower pace than it should.

Wilder: But, since you're going to die anyway, let me tell you something about that girl.

Raymond raised an eyebrow slightly, his gaze sharp, but he didn't speak... he only listened.

Wilder: "...'Liana'..." he said, exhaling smoke into the air before continuing in a quieter voice.... one laced with harsh realism. "She's like all of us… just someone running away."

Raymond lifted his eyes toward him, but Wilder wasn't looking at him. He was staring at the rising smoke, as if seeing something in it that others couldn't.

Wilder: "You know, people love to label others. Thief. Traitor. Murderer. Poor. Noble… but in the end, no one is born with any of these titles. We just wear them when the world forces them upon us."

He took a deep drag from his cigar before continuing, his tone carrying a dark amusement.

Wilder: "She said she's a thief? A traitor? A liar? Maybe she is. But have you ever wondered why? Have you ever questioned whether the hand that reaches for sin does so by choice, or because the world left it no other option?"

He looked at Raymond, then spoke more seriously.

Wilder: "You're a noble, aren't you? Grew up in a mansion, had a warm bed, a roof over your head, food on your table. But imagine if you were born on the streets... if you woke up one day as a starving child, with no shelter from the rain, and the monsters weren't beasts, but people who kicked you like you were just trash on the road."

He smiled... a small smile, but not a happy one. It was a sadness too difficult to describe.

Wilder: "In that moment, you wouldn't think about right or wrong... you'd only think about surviving. And if survival meant lying, stealing, running… would you really have another choice?"

Raymond remained silent.

There was something in the man's words... something he didn't want to hear, yet couldn't deny.

Wilder: "You see, the only difference between us and you is that you can look down on us… while we are forced to look up. Forced to raise our heads… just to speak to people like you.

And that's why.... you see betrayal… while we see it as a means to survive."

Wilder flicked his cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his boot, then looked up at Raymond.

Wilder: "But don't worry, nobleman…" he said, his voice hoarse, tinged with bitter amusement.

Wilder: "Now, betrayal won't mean anything to you."

At that moment, the tavern's air grew suffocating, as if everyone's breath was racing against time. A tense stillness took over the room, broken only by the sporadic howls of the wind rattling the worn doors and windows. The eyes of those present watched in an unfamiliar silence, as if they all knew that what was about to happen would change everything.

Raymond stood in the center of the tavern, his gaze locked on the man before him. He felt the weight of the air around him. Her words still echoed in his ears, swirling between whispers, drowning him in a tide of anger and disappointment. He didn't have time to process what she had said. His mind was focused on only one thing: what now? What was he supposed to do?

But at that moment, behind him, he sensed an unexpected movement.

A heavy hand landed on his left shoulder. It was clear that this wasn't a mere touch. He moved with precision, feeling the grip tighten. In an instant, he twisted his body in a seamless motion, leaving behind his searing pain. In a flash, he grabbed the hand of the man behind him and yanked it violently, bending it at an unnatural angle. The man let out a cry of agony.

Raymond pressed down on the man's wrist, making him scream in torment. Then, in a swift movement, he placed his fingers against the man's throat. The touch was precise... so fast that the man barely felt it at first. But then, a sudden choking sensation overwhelmed him.

In a second, the man collapsed backward, gasping for air, flailing, before crashing onto the table in front of him.

At that moment, the world around Raymond sped up into a frenzied blur. He had no time to think... not even for a second.

He sensed the second man approaching, this time with a drawn sword, the blade aimed directly at his throat.

His heartbeat pounded, but inside him... there was only stillness.

Yet despite it all, everything around them seemed frozen. The wind howled through the room, and every noise that filled the tavern felt like the collapse of something deep within.

The onlookers, who had been silently watching, began to step back... as if unable to face the reality of what had just begun.

At that moment, when the noise of the tavern faded and the atmosphere suddenly fell silent, breaths quickened unnaturally. The eyes of those present were fixed on Raymond, but something made Wilder stop moving his hands or even looking at the tables filled with empty cups. There was something strange about the identity of the man standing before them. A few glances, subtle details, made him freeze in place, watching with indescribable precision as Raymond's thick hair shifted slightly with each breath he took. Then his eyes... dark voids filled with impenetrable secrets. His features were unusually cold, and his eyes carried a deadly, enigmatic smile.

Wilder then shifted his gaze to Raymond's attire, his sword gleaming with a sharp blade, bearing unfamiliar insignias. That made him take a step back. There was something eerily familiar about it. Even the wind inside the tavern seemed to pause for a moment, leaving Wilder in stunned silence, until he whispered, barely audible, yet the words carried a weight like magic.

Wilder: "Raymond... Vanheim..."

He continued in a hushed voice.

Wilder: "The Black Knight... of the red faces Battle of Draxul."

It was as if those words had cast a heavy shadow over the room. The hearts of those present pounded with an unexpected rhythm, and suddenly, the air in the tavern grew thick and suffocating. The atmosphere, once charged with violence and shock, shifted into something strange... tense. Even the sound of breathing was muffled, as if everyone feared that uttering a single word might ignite even more tension.

The man standing before Raymond, who had trembled for a moment and then felt something unsettling surge within his chest, suddenly found his body trembling uncontrollably. Raymond's calm yet intense gaze had invaded his mind like a poisoned arrow. Without realizing it, his neck twitched abruptly. He couldn't escape... the blade of Raymond's sword grazed his throat.

And there, in that moment, droplets of blood slowly splattered onto the ground, falling one by one, like the moments of his life slipping away before his eyes.

In another corner of the tavern, among the onlookers, a man cast a suspicious glance before whispering in a low voice to the one beside him, as if he could scarcely believe his own words.

"R...Raymond Vanheim?" The whisper was thick with tension and disbelief. "Isn't he the man who beheaded Duke Rosspiov Malacard!?"

Then he fell silent, as if the words had escaped into the air like a curse. Eyes darted around the tavern like a raging storm, trying to conceal the shock that had overtaken the room.

The atmosphere inside the tavern grew even more unsettled. Heartbeats thundered in their chests, and the whispers that swirled through the air collided and merged. No one had fully grasped the reality that was now unfolding before their eyes. Raymond Vanheim... the lost knight, the man who had slain one of the greatest dukes in the kingdom.

Raymond exhaled slowly, as if the weight pressing upon his chest was too heavy, even for the heart of a warrior who had endured countless battles. His breath was shallow, deep, as if it might be the last he would ever take. Slowly, he sheathed his sword, its blade reflecting the dim lights that filtered through the tavern's shadowed windows. The edge of the sword was cold, gleaming as if it carried a lethal mystery within it.

He walked toward the wooden door, each step feeling like a passage over a carpet of memories. Every step bore the weight of an old pain that time had failed to erase. Yet, the dawn rising in his heart made each moment a burden heavier than before.

Just before he could leave, a voice called out from behind... Wilder's voice. Low, but deep.

Wilder: "You arrogant noble..."

Raymond paused for a moment, tilting his head slightly but not turning to face him. His body was as still as stone, but inside, his heart raged like a storm. In that moment, it felt as if time itself had frozen. As if the entire tavern had been locked in place. There was nothing but silence... heavy, suffocating, wrapping around him like a noose.

Then, Wilder's voice came again, whispering, as if even the words themselves feared the answer that might come.

Wilder: "Did you truly love her…?"

Those were the words that sent a shiver down Raymond's spine, trapping him in a moment of hesitation. His eyes were frozen, just as his heart was unable to answer. Did he really love her? Was this a real moment between them, or just a trap... an illusion from the past?

Raymond gripped the edge of the wooden door, as if it were the last thing he could touch before running away. The air outside was cold, but he couldn't escape from what was inside. His voice came out low, muttering words that were barely audible.

"Yes..."

That word was all he had left... the answer pressing against his heart like embers burning inside his chest. It was the word he couldn't hold back, the word that made the past return to him violently. Yes... he loved her. Despite everything, despite all the betrayal, he loved her.

Wilder looked at him, but there was no smile on his face. His eyes were deep, sorrowful, as if they carried all the grief he had ever endured. He watched Raymond as one would watch a man walking down a path of no return.

Then, in an instant, the next question came, piercing the space between them like an arrow.

"And do you still?"

The question was deep, like a dark chasm opening in the depths of the earth. Wilder's voice was calm, yet carried a weight that was unbearable. Did love still exist? Or had time erased even its last traces?

Raymond did not answer immediately. He remained silent, and the entire room grew heavy, as if every brick in the tavern were watching that moment. He wondered to himself: was love still real? Could it return after all the wounds it had left in his heart?

Then, simply, he let the door close behind him with a quiet sound. And it was as if Wilder's answer had seeped from his heart, leaving behind a vague feeling... one he could not even explain.

But Wilder watched the silence that followed, holding onto the thought that had lingered within him from the start. He knew that some things in life remained unanswered, and sometimes, the questions that have no answers are the ones that stay with us forever.

Eastern Varlom Lands – Inside Duke Vanheim's Chamber

Blatir staggered amidst the chaos surrounding him. The room was nearly destroyed... shattered chairs, a table broken in half, torn curtains... Everything reflected the same disorder in his mind. The cup in his hand drowned in wine, but his thoughts were drowning in darkness, reliving the moment of failure that had turned his life upside down.

Then, his wife entered... 'Sabrina Cypher'. She wore a yellow dress that suited her usual calm demeanor, but today, the shock on her face was clear. Her apricot-colored hair and hazel eyes only intensified the horror in her expression. She scanned the ruined room, then ran toward Blatir, her face twisted with worry.

Sabrina: "Darling!... Darling, are you okay?… Did you hurt yourself?!"

But Blatir was in a state of uncontrollable fury. Even as she approached him, his eyes burned with hatred. Then, he snapped... his gaze ablaze with buried rage.

Blatir, in a muffled voice, shoving her away violently: "Get away from me!!"

He pushed her with all his strength. Her neck struck the edge of a shelf... a soft, dull sound, yet to his ears, it echoed like a cannon blast. For a moment, Sabrina wavered, her breaths shallow. Then her fragile body collapsed to the ground, a pool of blood spreading beneath her as if slowly consuming her. Her body trembled for a few seconds, then went still... like a withering flower beneath a violent storm.

But Blatir saw nothing except the darkness devouring him from within. His eyes were wide, his breath ragged, his heart pounding wildly. The room was silent… a heavy, deadly silence, like a bomb waiting to explode.

Then… the door burst open violently.

Dion Vanheim, the youngest son, stormed in like a raging tempest. A young man barely twenty, with short red hair and hazel eyes filled with shock, he stopped in place, unable to comprehend the scene before him.

Then… he ran madly toward his mother.

He dropped to his knees, his trembling hand touching her cold face, shaking her gently as if hoping this was all just a nightmare, a cruel trick. But the blood on his hands was real… Everything was real.

Dion, his voice trembling, screaming for help: "Someone… Someone help us!!!"

But when he turned… when he looked at his father… it was as if the air had been sucked out of the room.

Their eyes met.

That face, which had always represented power and authority, now looked… lifeless. Lifeless while still breathing. His eyes were wide, but not with anger, not with pride… but with fear. Pure, absolute fear.

He was trying to understand what had happened. How it had happened. When it had happened. But the answer was right in front of him… His hands were stained with his wife's blood.

Then… the scream erupted.

Blatir's cry tore through the night.

"Darling!!! Darling!!!"

"My love!!!… Sabrina!!!!"

"Please!!… Wake up!!! I'm sorry!!... I'm sorry!!!!"

"Please!!! Please, my love, don't leave me!!!"

Everything shattered.

Dion Vanheim, kneeling beside his mother, his trembling hand touching her cold face, his eyes filled with tears… But behind that deep sorrow, a doubt slowly crept into his mind, poisoning his thoughts.

He didn't understand. He couldn't believe it… but he had heard it.

Dion: "Sorry?...?"

The word slipped from him as a trembling whisper, barely audible, yet it echoed inside him like a terrifying realization.

Something cold crawled up his spine, as if the truth was beginning to sink in despite his denial.

A simple question, but heavier than he could bear.

He lifted his head slowly, his shaking eyes moving toward his father, searching for an answer… or for a denial.

Blatir Vanheim stood there, his hands still stained with his wife's blood, his eyes wide with a madness that resembled insanity. His mouth opened as if trying to find words… but nothing came out. No voice, no defense, no denial.

Then… the door was thrown open violently.

"M-Mother?!"

Talia Vanheim, in her early twenties, stood at the entrance, her short red hair and gray eyes filled with terror. Her breath was unsteady, her face pale with horror.

She stepped forward hesitantly, her eyes taking in the scene... the lifeless body of her mother on the floor, the blood, Dion trembling, and finally… her father.

She stopped… as if refusing to believe what she was seeing.

Talia, her voice trembling, barely escaping her lips: "Wh... What is happening here?!!"

Dion turned to her, his eyes lost, as if searching for an escape from an endless nightmare. Then he whispered... his voice barely audible, as though merely speaking the words would shatter something deep inside him... something that could never be repaired.

Dion, his voice quivering: "I... I think my father... did it."

Blatir swayed like a man trapped in a trance, mumbling fragmented, incoherent words... desperate, broken syllables, as if trying in vain to hold onto a world crumbling before him.

Blatir, whispering to himself, shaking: "No... No... No, that's not what I meant... No!… I didn't!!..."

But his eyes weren't seeing them. They weren't even registering the room around him. They were locked onto Sabrina... frozen, as if nailed in place. Something unseen was pulling his soul away, not with a blade, but with time itself, slowly, mercilessly, with each passing second, as though his very existence was slipping through his fingers, never to return.

And at this moment, The last candle in the room… its flame flickered for a moment, as if resisting its inevitable fate, then went out.