Chapter 161: Thread of Fate

Chapter 161: Thread of Fate [Cassius’s POV—Years Ago, Southern Front, The Day It All Began] [When Irethene attacked Elorian’s southern border] It all began the day I left for the southern front—the day I turned my back on Lavinia. The day I unknowingly walked into the hands of gods... and monsters. Towards the War. I stood before the command tent, the early morning sun breaking over the war-scarred hills. The banners above our camp barely stirred. Even the wind, it seemed, held its breath. "Everything is ready?" I asked, eyes narrowed on the path beyond. Ravick straightened at my side, his voice clipped and steady. "Yes, Your Majesty. Our infiltration agents have entered Irethene’s borders. By nightfall, we’ll know what’s shifting behind their walls." Regis, leaning at the wall with that same arrogant smirk he wore even in the face of death, added, "Our spies say something’s off. Too quiet. Something’s brewing in Irethene... and it isn’t just steel and soldiers." I nodded, voice low. "What of their army?" "Numerous," Ravick said. "But mostly fledglings. Still in training." I paused, cold suspicion threading through my thoughts. "Sending untrained soldiers to the front lines? That’s not just foolish—that’s desperation." Regis scoffed, already turning away. "Or sheer stupidity. Seems their new emperor has more pride than brains. But perhaps that’s good news for us." "Where are you going?" "To check on the injured. We’ve lost too many veterans already." He disappeared into the healer’s wing without another word. I watched him go, then turned to Ravick. "You summoned the priests?" "They’ve arrived," Ravick said. "Already tending to our wounded." "Good," I muttered. "Let’s go. I want to see how they’re handling the injured." We made our way toward the medical tents—bleached white cloths soaked red, groans of pain slipping through like whispers of death. The priests moved silently, hands glowing with the power of old gods, muttering blessings in a dozen tongues. All wore white. Except one. My gaze locked on a lone figure robed in deep sapphire blue. He stood unmoving, hands clasped before him as if in prayer—but his presence felt... wrong. Too still. Too silent. As if he wasn’t healing wounds—but listening. I leaned toward Ravick, voice low. "That man. In blue. Is he a high priest?" Regis followed my gaze and muttered, "Possibly. The temples sent their own—he may be from one of the outer sects." But I wasn’t convinced. "No insignia. No staff. No crest," I whispered. "He doesn’t look like a priest to me. He looks like trouble." I was about to approach when Ravick suddenly spoke up. "Your Majesty, a letter has arrived." I turned sharply. "A letter?" He nodded. "From the princess. And some... gifts." My thoughts scattered. Lavinia. For a breath, the war faded—the blood, the bodies, the blades—and all I could see was her. My daughter. Too far away. Too young to understand why her father had left. I took the small bundle from Ravick’s hand. A box, neatly wrapped but poorly sealed, stuffed with something brittle and crumbling—cookies. Burnt, sad little things that were supposed to smile... but had frowns of ash instead. I chuckled under my breath. "She tried to make happy ones..." I murmured, fingers brushing the soot-flaked edges. "They’re terrible. But they’re hers." And then the letter. Messy. Words crooked. Ink blotted. The handwriting of a child who tried too hard. I miss you, Papa. Don’t forget me. I read it again. Then again. My chest tightened. "...Her handwriting is a mess," I whispered. "And still... beautiful." And that was when I heard it. A voice. But felt like not one from this world. "I see..." I turned sharply. The priest in blue stood behind me now—closer than he had been, eyes veiled in shadow beneath his hood. "...You’re finally changing her fate." I froze. The letter is still in my hand. "...but that’s not enough, Cassius." I scowled—who is he? And why does he act informally? My voice dropped, cold and sharp. "Who the hell are you?" But he didn’t answer my question. Instead, he tilted his head—like he was listening to a sound only he could hear. And then, slowly, deeply— "It’s time to remember." His voice was low, almost a whisper—but it cut like steel. "Don’t forget... You’re the one who begged me to bring her back. You chose this." I stood still, every word lodging itself deep in my chest. "You must protect her—before her fate is stolen again." And then—He vanished. Gone. Like fog swallowed by wind. No trace. No sound. No scent. Only the cookies in my hand and a fire rising in my chest. "Was that a madman?" I hissed under my breath. At the time, I thought he was mad. A delusional mystic playing at prophecy. I laughed it off. I told myself he was just another war-weary priest spouting riddles. But that night... That night, the dreams began. Dreams that clawed at my skull like fire behind my eyes. I saw Lavinia. Alone. Crying. Forgotten. Her hands reaching for a father who never came. Her smile faded as darkness consumed her. Then— Blood. A fall. A scream. A silence. And again. Over and over. Her death. Like a broken record on the wheel of time. Until I remembered. Every. Damn. Thing. My past life. My failure. My cowardice. And hers—her pain. Her abandonment. Her last breath... And I knew, with terrifying certainty, I was reborn to change my daughter’s fate, which I begged for. On my knees. Bloodied. Broken. A king no longer, just a father. A father who thought he was shielding his daughter from this venomous court... from the throne that rotted everything it touched... from people whose smiles were poison, whose words bled lies. So I kept her away. I left her out in the light while I bathed in shadows. I told myself... this was love. I told myself... If she lived far from the crown, from the filth, she’d be free. She’d be safe. If I wasn’t near her, the darkness that clung to me wouldn’t reach her. So I gave her Osric. A man with titles and lands, and a heart I thought would never betray her. A man who’d never dare harm a single hair on her head. I made him her fiancé. I built her a golden cage and called it freedom. Called it protection. But the truth? I wasn’t protecting her. I was neglecting her. I was breaking her. Because when she stood before that gathering—eyes hollow, hands trembling, her smile carved in pain—and drank that poison Caelum handed her, I knew. I knew everything I believed... every decision I made... every deal, every silence, every distance... It killed her. It wasn’t fate. It wasn’t the throne. It was me. And in that moment, when she collapsed to the ground like a withered petal—my daughter, my blood—I was no longer a king. I was a monster. I was a failure. And I raged. I burned every lie that wrapped itself around her name. I turned my sword on every smiling traitor, every whispering noble, and every hand that ever dared to point at her with disgust. I painted the empire red—for her. And when I had no more left to destroy, I turned the blade to my own throat. Because what was left for a man who slaughtered kingdoms... but couldn’t save his child? But before the steel could kiss my skin... "Your Majesty!" Ravick burst through the night, panting, with blood on his armor and desperation in his voice. "I—I found a way. A way to bring the princess back." A miracle. A curse. A second chance carved from the jaws of death itself. And now... Now I breathe for one reason alone. To never let that life repeat. To make sure no poison touches her lips. To make sure no hands pull her away from me. To make sure this time—I don’t fail. Not until my last breath. Not until I burn the world itself. When I stepped into that forgotten temple, carrying her lifeless body, everything went silent. The world had ended the moment she did. A man stood within the circle of flickering candles, his eyes glowing with something unearthly. The moment he saw her in my arms, something in him shifted. He stepped forward, gaze fixed on her pale face. His hand reached out, trembling slightly, before gently resting over hers. "I’ve been waiting," he murmured. "I’ve finally found her—the Master of Rakshar." "Rakshar?" I rasped, my voice hollow, dead like my soul. "What the hell is that?" "The divine beast. The Fate Beast," he said, eyes never leaving her. "She was never meant to die like this. Someone tried to steal her fate. But now... now, Rakshar will return to its master. And with it, fate itself will be rewritten." "I don’t care what she is. I don’t care what it means," I growled, clutching her tighter. "Bring her back. Take my life, my soul—anything. Just bring her back." He let out a low chuckle. "This is no resurrection, Majesty. This is fate—correcting what was stolen. In her next life, perhaps you’ll finally protect it." He began to chant, the air thick with something ancient, sacred, and terrifying. But before the ritual consumed us, I said, voice barely above a whisper, "I will. Just make sure she doesn’t remember this life... any of this pain." The man looked up at me, smiling with an eerie calm. "I will. She won’t remember a thing. But you will." And just like that, the winds shifted. The candle flames danced wildly. The sky cried out. And fate—once stolen—started to turn again.