Bab 9: mother's tears

Kane stepped out onto his grand balcony, the golden rays of the sun filtering through thick clouds of dust stirred by the turmoil below. His dark figure cut a menacing silhouette against the blinding light, his presence looming above like an untouchable deity. From below, the chaotic screams of the women stopped abruptly as though smothered by an invisible hand. The air turned sharp, cold, and deathly quiet.

The women stood frozen in a crude semi-circle, their ragged breaths betraying the pounding of their hearts. Some trembled like leaves caught in a tempest, others shrank into themselves, their shoulders drawn up as if trying to disappear into the earth. Their eyes darted from one corner of the balcony to the other, avoiding Kane's gaze, as if meeting his eyes would strip away whatever fragile hope they clung to.

Kane's voice, deep and edged with indifference, cracked the silence.

"What are you women doing here at this time of day?"

At first, none dared to move. Their lips parted uselessly, the words caught like thorns in their throats. The muscles in their jaws tightened, their faces pale with dread. One woman bit into her trembling lip as if trying to stifle a sob; another wrung her hands together so fiercely her knuckles whitened.

Kane's patience snapped, and his roar thundered from above like a storm breaking.

"Tell me what you're doing here before I cut out your throat!"

At his threat, the women flinched as one—shoulders jerking, knees buckling. The tallest among them stumbled forward, her breathing quick and erratic, chest rising and falling like a hunted animal. She struggled to form words, her mouth opening and closing in quick, panicked gasps. Finally, the fractured sounds broke free, stammering and raw:

"Ourrr... ourrrr kids... our kids have been taken... away from us, my lord."

Her voice quivered, a thin thread stretched to its breaking point. Another woman—shorter, older, her eyes bloodshot and sunken—found the courage to chime in, though her voice came out hoarse and brittle, as if the words had been clawed from her throat:

"They... they were all killed at night... we couldn't see who did it, my lord."

The women's faces twisted into masks of grief, pain, and terror. Their eyes were wide, gleaming wet with unshed tears, yet the fear of Kane kept them frozen. Kane, however, heard only what pleased him. His rage boiled over, a cruel fire lighting his eyes. His voice dropped into a dangerous growl, his words like the lash of a whip.

"I took away your kids from you. Now leave here before I change my mind and take you away from this world!"

For one agonizing moment, the women stood motionless, as though time itself had frozen. Then, all at once, they turned and ran. Their feet slapped against the ground in desperate rhythm, skirts whipping around their legs, dust kicking up behind them as they fled. Some stumbled, clutching each other for support, while others sprinted with reckless abandon, their heads low, as though to escape the weight of Kane's gaze. Their expressions were sheer panic—wide, darting eyes, mouths open in silent cries, faces streaked with dirt and sweat.

The older woman lagged behind, one hand pressed against her heaving chest, her face contorted in despair and exhaustion. Still, none of them looked back. Their movements were erratic, desperate, and animalistic—clinging to life with the last fragments of their strength.

Kane stood above it all, his lips curling into a cruel, satisfied grin. He watched them scatter like frightened crows, the sound of their gasps and sobs filling the void below. Their fear fed him; it thrilled him. He leaned against the balcony railing, the smirk lingering on his face as his sharp eyes traced their retreating figures.

To him, their terror was an offering. Their broken movements, their fragile voices, their hopeless flight—it was his victory. Kane reveled in their horror, drawing it into himself like a dark nectar that strengthened his resolve.

Kane turned his back to the balcony, his dark cloak swirling like a storm cloud behind him. His boots struck the marble floor with a heavy, deliberate rhythm as he prepared to retreat to his chambers. But just as his gaze swept the palace courtyard one last time, something caught his eye—one of the Dark Squad soldiers, standing stiffly at attention, his eyes lingering far too long on a maid.

The soldier's expression was subtle, but unmistakable. His gaze traced the maid's form with a predatory slowness, his lips curling slightly into the faintest smirk, his jaw slack as if his thoughts were too far removed from discipline. The maid, a young woman with an apron stained from her morning chores, moved quickly and nervously, clearly aware of the eyes on her. Her hands fumbled at the edges of her apron as she avoided looking up, her cheeks flushing a deep red.

For Kane, the image burned into his mind like a brand. His blood surged, hot and violent. Without warning, his voice erupted through the palace like the crack of a thousand storms.

"You! Come here right now!"

The soldier snapped to attention as if struck by lightning, his entire body going rigid. The lazy smirk vanished instantly, replaced by wide-eyed panic. His shoulders tensed as though Kane's words alone had thrown a rope around his neck. His mouth opened as if to protest or explain, but he dared not make a sound. Sweat broke out across his brow, beading against the edge of his helmet as his pulse hammered visibly beneath his throat.

Kane's fury was like a force of nature, unpredictable and all-consuming. His dark eyes narrowed into slits as he pointed a commanding finger at the soldier, his voice seething with dangerous authority.

"On your way, call the rest of you. I want to see you all in my chambers before I get there!"

The words rang out, bouncing off the stone walls of the palace and echoing into the stillness that followed. For a moment, no one moved—not the soldier, not the maid, nor the other attendants who watched from the shadows, their faces pale and bloodless.

The soldier's Adam's apple bobbed visibly as he swallowed, his breaths shallow and quick, his chest rising and falling like that of a man who knew his life now dangled by a thread. Though Kane's attention shifted, the weight of his presence lingered like a suffocating shroud. The soldier jolted into motion, stumbling a half-step as his limbs struggled to obey him. His boots struck the marble hurriedly, almost clumsily, as he spun on his heel to leave. His face was flushed with shame and terror, his eyes wide and darting as though searching for an escape that didn't exist.

The maid's reaction was far more subtle. Her shoulders sagged in relief as the soldier moved away, her chest rising with a shaky exhale. She pressed herself further into the wall, her fingers still clenched tightly into the fabric of her apron. Her face remained downcast, her expression a mixture of fear and gratitude—relief that Kane had seen and acted, but fear for what his wrath might bring.

As Kane disappeared into the palace halls, his movements were sharp and determined, his cloak snapping with each step. The air seemed colder in his wake, the very walls of the palace holding their breath. The other soldiers and maids, unseen but watching, exchanged fleeting glances—silent acknowledgments of the power Kane wielded and the terror he could unleash without a moment's hesitation.

The soldier, as he rushed to summon his comrades, felt as though the walls were closing in on him. His mind raced—was Kane's anger only at the glance? Or had he seen deeper into his thoughts, into the unspoken desire he'd foolishly allowed to surface? His footsteps quickened as dread settled in his chest, heavy as iron, knowing that Kane's chambers were no place to escape judgment.