The wind howled over the cliffside, and for a moment, everything seemed frozen.
Celeste's hand stretched out desperately from the rear of the cart, rain streaking down her face, her voice cracking with hope—"A little more, please…"
But Garrik didn't look at her.
His eyes were locked on the grimoire—thick, ancient, embedded with a glimmering diamond that reflected the storm in fractured, beautiful patterns. He reached past her. Past the human hand outstretched for help.
His fingers gripped the book.
And in the next second—He jumped.
The moment his boots left the wood of the cart's front platform, everything collapsed.
The balance was gone. The weight shifted instantly. The back of the cart lurched.
Wood snapped. The wheels groaned. The horses whinnied in panic, hooves skidding before their legs gave out. They went over first, their cries silenced by the sheer depth of the cliff below.
"CELESTE!" Padrin's scream ripped through the rain.
The cart tumbled over the edge. Crates spilled into the void. One of the guards, trying to hold the wheel from behind, was pulled with it. Another lost his grip on the rope and vanished over the ledge.
Padrin's feet left the mud for a half-step. He reached.
But it was too late.
He saw her face for a split second—eyes wide, hair whipping in the wind, mouth parting to call for him—
And then she was gone.
Swallowed by the rain and the storm and the cliff.
There was no scream. No echo.
Just the sound of crashing wood as the cart shattered against the rocks below.
Padrin dropped to his knees.
The mud soaked through his trousers. His hands trembled. His breath came in sharp, uneven gasps. Rain streaked down his face, mingling with tears that wouldn't stop falling.
"Celeste…" he whispered. His voice broke. He couldn't breathe.
All the years. All the hours spent side by side. The laughter. The studies. The training. The dreams of growing up together, of becoming something together, of protecting each other—
All of it was ripped from him.
Destroyed in a second.
Behind him, a few remaining guards stared down the cliff in stunned horror.
"Wait—what about the girl?" one of them asked. "Weren't you supposed to pull her up?"
Garrik didn't answer right away.
He was still holding the grimoire aloft, a mad grin stretched across his rain-slick face, his eyes bright with triumph.
"Yes!" he shouted over the wind. "Yes! I made it! I saved it!"
He looked at the book like it was a divine treasure, a sacred relic he'd pulled from the jaws of destruction.
The guards stared at him in disbelief.
One stepped forward, fists clenched. "What the hell are you talking about? That was a real person! She was alive, she was screaming for help! And you left her?!"
Garrik turned to them, finally acknowledging their presence. His grin didn't falter.
"Oh, her?" he said with a dismissive gesture. "She's not important. What matters is this—" he lifted the grimoire again, "—this gift. The First Prince will understand the sacrifice. He'll reward it."
"Sacrifice?" the guard snapped. "You chose to let her fall!"
"She was a servant's child," Garrik said coldly. "Not even a noble. If the book had fallen into a stream or gotten lost among the rocks, it might never have been found. You think that would have been better?"
The guard stepped forward. "You think a stupid book is worth more than a human life?"
"She wasn't even noble," Garrik said, turning fully toward him now, rain running down his smug face.
The guard's knuckles whitened. "She was going to be!" he shouted. "She was meant to be one of you. Her family worked for it for long."
"But she wasn't yet," Garrik interrupted, his tone hardening. "She was just baggage."
The guard stared at him with disgust. "You'll answer for this."
Garrik chuckled and took a step closer, lowering the book slightly.
"By who? You?" he sneered. "Three of you are left. Two of you will say nothing. And your word? A soldier's word means nothing compared to a noble's. You think they'll take your side?"
"You're a monster."
"I'm a patriot," Garrik barked. "I'm loyal to the prince. You? You're just a dog with too much conscience.
But bbeforethe guard could speak again—before he could even blink, Garrik's breath hitched.
A sharp gasp escaped his lips. His body went rigid. He looked down slowly.
A blade protruded through his chest, wet with rain—and blood.
His fingers loosened. The grimoire slipped from his grasp and hit the mud with a dull thump.
He turned his head slowly, mouth parting in confusion.
Behind him was Padrin. His face was soaked with tears, but there was no weakness in his eyes. No more grgrief. Only hatred.
His hands gripped the hilt of the blade that now rested in Garrik's back, his arms steady, his breath ragged with fury.
Padrin's scream tore through the storm. "AHHHH!!!"
He tore the blade from Garrik's back in one vicious motion, blood spraying in arcs across the mud and his clothes. Garrik's knees collapsed, but Padrin didn't let him fall completely. He grabbed the man by the shoulder and stabbed again.
"You bastard!"
Again.
"You could've saved her!"
Again.
"She trusted you!!"
He screamed as if each word was being ripped from the deepest pit in his soul. His face twisted in rage and grief. His voice cracked as he kept stabbing, his arms trembling not from fatigue, but from fury he couldn't contain.
Blood soaked his hands, slick and warm in the cold rain.
Even the guard who had shouted at Garrik before—even he—stumbled back, stunned by what he was seeing.
"Shit!" he breathed. "Padrin—Stop!"
He rushed forward with the other two guards at his side. Mud splashed under their boots as they sprinted through the downpour.
"Grab him!" the lead one yelled. "He's lost it!"
Padrin barely registered them. He was still swinging—wild, uncontrolled. His sword buried in Garrik's spine again and again, even though the man had stopped moving after the third blow.
Even though the life had already drained from his face.
Two arms wrapped around Padrin from behind, pulling him away from the bloody mess.
"Let go of me!!" he screamed, struggling. "I'll kill him—I'LL KILL HIM!!"
"Stop!" the guard shouted, holding him tight. "He's dead, Padrin! He's already dead!"
Padrin fought. Clawed. Kicked. But the guard held firm.
"You could've saved her, you piece of shit!" Padrin shouted toward the lifeless corpse. "You didn't even try!"
His voice cracked. The fire in it crumbled into something hollow, something broken.
"You just watched…"
Two other guards crouched near Garrik's body, one checking the limp wrist for a pulse. The other lifted the edge of his soaked coat.
They exchanged a glance.
"Dead…" one of them said grimly, shaking his head.
"Too many wounds," the other muttered. "One might've killed him. All of them made sure."
The guard holding Padrin glanced down, his jaw clenched.
"We've got a real problem now," he said.
The other two nodded, their expressions heavy.
"What do we do with him?" one of them asked, gesturing toward Padrin, who had gone limp in the man's arms. His eyes were wide and empty now. The rage had drained. All that remained was ruin.
The guard sighed. "We have to report what happened. There's no other way."
Padrin didn't respond. Not even a twitch.
The man continued, "I wouldn't want to lie. And even if we could, they'd inspect Garrik's body. Once they saw stab wounds, they'd know."
"They'd hang us," the other guard said.
"Yeah. All of us."
He looked down at Padrin, then back to his comrades. "We'll tell them the truth. Garrik sacrificed the girl. The boy snapped. And he killed him."
The guards were silent for a moment.
The one holding Padrin added, quieter now, "He's still underage. That gives us some time."
"Two years," said the other. "That's the law."
The third looked away. "Yeah… two years."
They all knew what that meant.
They weren't safe, only spared—for now.
Padrin finally spoke, but his voice was hollow. Dull. A broken whisper between breaths. "Just kill me…"
The guard holding him froze.
"There's no reason for me to live," Padrin muttered. "She's gone. I couldn't save her. Nothing matters anymore…"
The guard looked at him, his brow furrowed—not with anger, but pity.
"No," he said. "You're still young. The law won't execute someone until they turn twenty."
He adjusted his grip slightly. "We'll… figure something out. In two years. We have time. Maybe someone will speak for you. Maybe someone will care."
Padrin didn't answer.
The man's voice softened.
"Look… I'm not justifying what you did. But Garrik—he made this fate for himself. If he had just had an ounce of remorse… maybe you wouldn't have broken."
The rain didn't stop.
The storm raged on, but it felt like it had grown quieter somehow.
"Still," the guard said, straightening. "We have to lock you up. I'm sorry."
Padrin's voice returned, distant. Cold. Bitter.
"After that… I didn't see a reason to live."
The prison cell was damp and suffocating.
Water dripped from the ceiling, the walls slick with moss and rot. It was small—barely enough room for a bed, a bucket, and a body. The stone was rough and cold. The iron bars rusted and worn.
Padrin sat against the far wall, his arms wrapped around his knees. His clothes were ragged now, stained with mud and dried blood.
His eyes stared at nothing.
The footsteps echoed before the door opened. A guard stood there, dressed in dull grey armor. He didn't smile. Didn't frown.
"You're lucky," the man said dryly. "If you were twenty, you'd have been executed the same day."
He slammed the cell shut. The iron rang like a funeral bell.
"But now? You get to enjoy two years of isolation… and hunger."
He turned and walked away.
Padrin didn't even move.
He whispered her name, almost inaudible. "Celeste…"
Then he lowered his head into his arms.
The tears came slowly at first. Then heavier.
"Why didn't I jump down…?" he whispered.
"Why didn't I go with you?"
He shook.
"What was all that killing for…?"
"It didn't bring you back…"
He pressed his forehead to his knees.
"Ahh… Celeste…"