Chapter 141 Blood on the stone
DARIAN
The car jolts to a stop, and I don’t wait for the driver to open the door. My boots hit the stone driveway with a sharp echo, adrenaline pushing me forward, my heart hammering in my chest. I don’t even glance back at Iris. She calls my name, soft and urgent, but I can’t stop. I won’t. Not now. Not when every second counts.
“Darian, wait!” Her voice trails behind me, panic threaded in every syllable. But I keep moving. I can’t explain. I can’t slow down. Every fiber of me is screaming to get to him.
I tear across the courtyard, my breath comes out in jagged clouds, my legs pounding up the stone stairs, two at a time. Each step is fueled by a mixture of fear, fury, and helplessness, and I barely register the servants and guards who step aside in our path.
“Darian!” she calls again, closer now, but I don’t stop. I know she wants an explanation. She deserves one, but I don’t have the luxury of words. Not yet.
The hallways stretch endlessly before me. My vision is tunneled, every sound muted except for my boots hitting the polished floors, the pulse in my ears, the faint echo of a cough I’ve carried in my mind for days, growing steadily worse. My father. My heart tightens.
I reach the top floor and charge down the final corridor. There’s light spilling from under the door, and the sound of voices And the smell sound of blood. That raw, metallic undertone that makes the stomach turn and the chest ache.
I burst into the room.
He’s there, my father, the head of our family, my anchor, yet he looks smaller than I’ve ever seen him. Fragile, almost human. Two healers are crouched at his side, hands moving quickly over his chest and arms. Servants hover, anxious and pale, eyes darting to me as I enter. My brothers are there too, standing stiffly, faces drawn, but they do nothing. My father coughs violently, and blood drips from his lips. My chest tightens, a pang of helpless rage slicing through me.
“Father,” I say, voice low, but it trembles despite my best effort. My legs carry me forward before my brain can protest. I kneel beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder.
He lifts his head slightly, and his eyes find mine. There’s a flicker of recognition, a small, wobbly smile.
“Darian…” My father’s voice croaks as he catches sight of me at the doorway. He tries to push himself up, and I see the effort it costs him. Every cough brings a fresh trickle of blood to his lips, and my chest clenches painfully.
I step forward instinctively, but my father lifts a trembling hand. “Don’t… don’t come closer… it’s… nothing…” he wheezes.
“Father, sit. Rest.” My voice is sharper than I intend, harsh against the soft chaos of the room. “We can talk later. You need to hold still.”
I need to speak with you, now.
The healers step back slightly at my command, their hands still hovering as if uncertain whether to obey or flee. One of them, an older man with graying hair and steady hands, meets my gaze.
“What’s happening?” I demanded
“My lord… he’s been poisoned. Slowly. The symptoms are progressing faster than we anticipated…”
I grip the edge of the ornate desk beside me, knuckles whitening. “Poisoned? Slowly? How? And why wasn’t this caught sooner?” My voice rises, sharp and deadly. “Who…who did this?”
The healer swallows hard. “We… we cannot say for certain, my lord. But it appears the poison was administered discreetly over time. The effects… they are advanced, and…” His voice trails off, the meaning hanging like a knife between us.
I close my eyes briefly, trying to force the rage, the grief, and the disbelief into something I can control. When I open them again, my glare pins the healer in place. “If you fail to save him…” I let the threat hang, the room itself trembling with the weight behind it, “…you will answer to me. Every ounce of your skill, every spell, every remedy, you will use it. And if you cannot… you will not leave this room alive.”
The healer’s jaw tightens, and I can see the fear in his eyes. Good. Let them feel it. Let them understand the stakes.
I glance down at my father. He’s looking at me with an expression that is a mixture of pain, pride, and something softer, fleetingly, maybe regret. “Darian… the prophecy… you must…” His voice trails into a cough, and more blood drips onto the floor. My chest clenches. I grit my teeth, anger coiling tight around my heart.
I push him gently back into his chair, ignoring the sharp protest in his weak protest. “No more talking now. Rest. That’s an order.”
A sudden noise at the door draws my attention. I turn, and there she is, iris. Her hand pushes against the guards stationed at the door, trying to enter, her eyes wide with panic and worry. The sight of her makes my chest ache and my heart clench in equal measure.
The guards hesitate, unsure, and I should tell them to let her through. She’s not a stranger. But I don’t. My father needs me, not distraction. Not guilt. I force my gaze back to the healers, ignoring the desperate whispers of my heart that scream at me to go to her.
“I… I need you to try everything,” I tell them, voice low but deadly. “I don’t care what it takes. He does not die. If he dies, you die. Every last one of you. Understood?”
They nod, swallowing hard. Fear sharpens their focus. They leave the room at my command, muttering under their breath but obeying. I turn back to my father, kneeling beside him. “I need you to breathe. In… and out. Focus on that. That’s all for now. The rest… later.”
His eyes meet mine, haunted, and he coughs again. Blood seeps through the corners of his lips. “Darian… the family… the…” His voice fades into another shuddering cough. I press a hand to his back, steadying him. “Later,” I whisper, almost to myself. “We’ll talk later.”
The weight of the room hits me fully once the healers step outside. The smell of iron, the sharp tang of blood, the suffocating sense of helplessness and it presses down on me like a physical weight. I stand slowly, trying to contain the rage boiling beneath my skin.
I need to move. I need to think.
I leave the room with the taste of blood and iron still clinging to my tongue, and I head toward the bar room.
The door swings open before I even knock, and the scent of aged rum fills the air. I pour a glass, dark liquid catching the dim light of the room. I don’t sip yet; I just stare at it, my mind spinning.
A lot has happened. Too much. In the past few days, so much has changed. The prophecy, my own near-death, something I didn’t tell her yet, and now my father. Every plan, every certainty I had, has been thrown into chaos.
I finally take a long, slow drink. The burn of the rum slides down my throat, setting my chest on fire in the best possible way. I pace a little, glass in hand, letting the darkness of the bar room wrap around me, shielding me from the rest of the world.
How long I stay there, I don’t know. Minutes, maybe hours. Time is irrelevant.
When I finally return to my bedroom, I expect it to be empty. I expect the quiet. I expect Iris to be asleep, wrapped in soft blankets, safe. My heart tightens at the thought of her vulnerability, and I pause at the doorway.
And then I see her.
She isn’t asleep.
She’s sitting in the dim light, just there, waiting. Watching. Her eyes lift to meet mine as I step into the room, and in that instant… everything stops.
I freeze, mid-step, glass still in hand. Our gazes lock. There’s fear there, yes, but also trust. Confusion. Love. All swirling together in her expression.
I should speak. I should tell her everything, explain, apologize for leaving her behind. I should do a hundred things all at once. But I can’t. Not yet.
All I can do is stand there, the room thick with silence, our eyes speaking the words our mouths cannot yet form.
And I realize that I have no idea how I’m going to fix any of this.
The moment stretches, fragile as glass.