บท 14: Chapter 14: Silence Speaks Louder
Mayer led me through the dimly lit corridors of the mansion, his words a low murmur in the heavy silence. "She's been falling ill lately," he said, his tone laced with concern. "She sleeps a lot these days… almost as if she's wasting away."
I didn't respond. I let his words settle, watching his every movement, listening to the slight quiver in his voice. Mayer was not just a servant; he was the closest thing this body, Eliot Blackthorn, had to a friend. He had tended to Eliot's needs, cared for him, even worried about his sudden disappearance. But something was off, and I could sense it immediately. Mayer wasn't just concerned about Margot's health—he was hiding something, a hesitation in his steps, a reluctance in the way he spoke her name.
The closer we got to Margot's room, the more Mayer's unease bled through. His hands trembled ever so slightly, barely noticeable unless you knew what to look for. The way his breath quickened, his shoulders hunched just a fraction. He knew something. I didn't need words to extract the truth from people; their bodies, their actions, told me everything I needed to know. And Mayer's body was screaming a truth his lips refused to utter.
Finally, we reached the door to her room. Mayer hesitated for just a moment before pushing it open. He glanced at me, searching my eyes for something—perhaps reassurance, or maybe permission. I gave him nothing, just the same blank stare that had greeted him before.
"I'll give you some time," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. I nodded, a small, almost imperceptible movement, and watched as he closed the door behind me.
The room was dark, the curtains drawn, and the air smelled of sickness and decay. Aunt Margot lay there, her chest rising and falling slowly, deeply asleep. I stood at the foot of her bed, staring down at her frail form, my hands hanging loose at my sides.
For a moment, I felt the body tremble—not with fear, not with hesitation, but with something far deeper. Rage. The kind of rage that lingers in your bones, that festers and grows long after the mind has forgotten. This body—Eliot's body—hadn't forgotten. It remembered everything. The betrayal, the fall into the ditch, the way she'd lured him with false promises only to cast him aside like garbage.
Even though Eliot himself was long gone, the echoes of his hatred still reverberated within this flesh. And now, that hatred bled into me. I could feel it crawling beneath my skin, demanding that I act, that I rid the world of her. But I wasn't here just for vengeance. I was here for something far more purposeful.
Ah, vengeance. Another emotion that only serves to distract, clouding judgment, blinding one to the larger picture. It's funny how people talk about revenge as if it were something grand, something that would fill the void in their hearts. In reality, it's hollow, like chasing smoke. I wasn't here because of hate or rage, though Eliot's body might have been. No, I had plans for Margot far beyond her death.
I remembered a question that used to echo through the halls of the empire: How could you kill so easily, so ruthlessly? Disciples, soldiers, even enemies would ask me, their voices tinged with fear or curiosity.
I always gave the same answer: Why does it matter?
It was an honest response, one they never seemed to understand. We humans slaughter millions of animals every day, yet no one questions the morality of it. To them, the life of a cow, a pig, a chicken is inherently lesser than ours. But to me, all life was equal, and in death, no matter what or who we are, we all meet the same end. Does it truly matter if it's a man or a beast that dies by my hand?
Some called me twisted for thinking this way. There's no way the life of an animal could compare to a human's, they'd argue. But that's the arrogance of mankind. In my eyes, we are all bound to death the same way. I only killed because it was simply what my path required. If being a priest could change the world, I would have taken that path. But it couldn't. Strength determines everything. One man's goals will always dominate another's, and that's why power is the only real currency in this world.
I looked down at Margot, the woman who had betrayed Eliot for the sake of power, wealth, status. I couldn't help but smirk. The irony was too delicious. She thought she had won, that she had escaped the consequences of her actions. But fate has a funny way of bringing things full circle.
I moved closer, my steps silent, measured. My hand reached out, trembling not with rage, but with the weight of what was about to happen. I positioned myself by her side, leaning down just enough to feel the warmth of her breath against my skin. With a swift, precise motion, I struck her throat.
Her eyes shot open in shock, a gasp escaping her lips as she clutched at her throat, panic filling her gaze. She tried to scream, but nothing came out—just a silent, desperate struggle. She looked at me, recognition dawning in her eyes.
I stood there, watching her with a calm indifference. I had struck her vocal cords just right, disabling her voice. No one would hear her cries, no one would come rushing to her aid. It was just her and me now.
And this was only the beginning.
The end? That was still far off.
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