Allen1996
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Chapter 19: Candidus
🕑 Added 2024-10-20 00:29:48 +0000 UTCThe cabin had grown unbearably hot, as if the air itself had been set aflame. Boros stood motionless, beads of sweat clinging to his brow. It wasn’t the temperature alone—it was the presence. The thing in front of him that had once been Viserys Targaryen. He cursed himself silently, feeling the weight of his own arrogance. ‘Hubris,’ he thought bitterly. ‘It had to be hubris.’ He had been so confident—so certain of his own power, his own knowledge. And why shouldn’t he have been? He was a sorcerer of over a century’s worth of experience, a master of his craft, a manipulator of men and magic alike and with the resurgence of magic better and stronger than he had ever been. He should have still known better.
But magic… magic was a dangerous thing. And men who dabbled in dangerous things often met dangerous ends. He of all people should have remembered that.
Boros had spent decades mastering the intricacies of his spells and charms, amassing relics that could turn kings into beggars with a mere flick of his wrist. He had bent lesser minds to his will and crushed his enemies with subtlety and precision. In all those years, he had never doubted his ability to control a situation. Especially not one involving a boy like Viserys—arrogant, yes, but nothing more than a bitter exile clinging to dreams of a lost throne. The Beggar King, they rightfully called him.
But now, standing in the sweltering heat of this cramped cabin, Boros realized how wrong he had been. Viserys Targaryen was no beggar, no lizard pretending to be a dragon. He was… something else. And in his arrogance, Boros had underestimated him.
He had thought his spells would work easily, that the resurgence of magic in the world would strengthen his hand, make it simpler to bend the Targaryen's will to his desires. Blood of a king, blood of a pure Valyrian, blood of a Targaryen. The old bloodlines had always responded well to sorcery—an advantage Boros had counted on. He had expected Viserys’ mind to be pliable, weak even, susceptible to the charms and incantations that Boros had used to subdue greater men than him. And yet…
The moment Viserys had grown angry, it was as if something had awakened in him. His eyes, once merely the cold violet of Valyria, had flared with a molten light, glowing from within as if lit by the fires of the dragonlords themselves. His face had twisted, not with madness alone, but with something ancient and terrible—something beyond the frailty of mortal men. His features had sharpened, contorted, until he looked less human and more… draconic. It was as if a demon in the shape of a man had stood before Boros, the heat radiating from him almost scalding.
‘Of course,’ Boros thought with a bitter smile. ‘Of course, magic would stir in the blood of the last true scions of Valyria.’ He should have seen it from the beginning. How could he have been so blind?
The Targaryens were closer to gods than men—children of fire, both dragon and human. That had always been said of their line, whispered in the old tales of Valyria’s glory. He had always dismissed it as myth, embellishment at worst and exaggerations at best. Yet now, seeing Viserys transformed, the truth of it became undeniable. Magic coursed through the blood of the Targaryens in ways no other family could match. And in a world where magic had returned, stronger and more vibrant than ever, how could Viserys not have been affected?
“I should have known,” Boros scolded himself, his breath catching in his throat as the memories of the encounter flooded his mind. The way the air had crackled with heat, the way the shadows seemed to writhe in fear at Viserys’ outburst. “I should have realized the danger from the very start.”
And yet, despite everything, Boros had remained standing. Alive. That fact alone was a testament to his own power—or perhaps, his cunning. His amulet had been his salvation. Without it, he was certain he would have been butchered on the spot, cut down by a boy who had never wielded magic in his life. But it was not skill that had saved him. It had been caution and preparation.
Boros’s hand drifted to his neck, finding the place where his amulet had once hung. Now, there was nothing but a charred remnant of what it had been—a twisted, melted mockery of the powerful artifact it once was. That amulet had taken Boros half a decade to craft, using rare reagents gathered from the furthest corners of the world. It had been powered by his magic for over a decade, and yet, it had been destroyed in mere moments by the raw fury of a boy who had likely never even touched true sorcery.
A boy. The thought tasted like ash in Boros’s mouth. A boy had undone what had taken him years to build. ‘How can I compete with that?’ he wondered, his hand still shaking as he traced the outline of the ruined trinket. Without the amulet, he would have been nothing more than a corpse on the floor, his servants butchered alongside him. It had taken all his strength, all his mastery, to even hold Viserys at bay long enough to escape with his life.
Slowly, Boros moved to a hidden compartment in the cabin, retrieving a bottle of Arbor wine. He did not bother with a cup. He uncorked the bottle and took a deep, desperate swig, feeling the wine burn down his throat. It helped dull the tremors in his hands, if only a little.
His thoughts drifted back to Daenerys, the little sister who had once been his sole focus. She had seemed the interesting one—the only one with potential. But now? Now, it seemed that the blood of the dragon ran strong in them both. He had underestimated them. That much was clear. And in this game of power, such underestimations could prove fatal.
Boros took another swig, his hand trembling less now. He had thought himself clever, thought he would be dealing with a lizard—a frail, desperate creature that clung to the title of "king" with no real claim. But now, it was apparent that Viserys was something far more dangerous. He was not a lizard, not a beggar king.
He was a dragon.
And Boros had survived. Barely. His lips twisted into a smile, a dark, almost manic grin. There was fear in his chest, yes, but there was also exhilaration—a thrill he hadn’t felt in years. He had been playing with fire, and he had been burned. But he had not been consumed.
He chuckled softly to himself, his fingers tracing the rim of the wine bottle. "A dragon," he whispered, the words tasting of both terror and awe.
For better or worse, Boros thought with a shaking hand and a smile on his lips, he had made the right choice. And gods help him, he was excited to see where it would lead.
The world had changed, and with it, the rules of power. And Boros would be ready to play the game anew, no matter the cost.
He had thought that the only thing he would have to truly worry about after leaving Norvos would be Maegis even older than him and the boy king of Astapor with bear if not god like magic.
If he had known about Viserys’ condition, he would not have proposed to the boy to come with him. Well, there were no points in crying about a broken manticore egg. The odds were unknown, even more than before. It was thus a good thing that he was a gambler and that he had never lost no matter how many times he had bet his life.
*scene*
Varys had never felt as exhausted as he did now. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples with slender fingers, the flicker of candlelight casting shadows across his pale face. His chambers, tucked away within the labyrinthine corridors of the Red Keep, felt suffocating. The weight of the past weeks pressed down on him like an anvil. He had weathered countless storms in his life, each one threatening to break him, but this... this was something different.
He glanced around the room, the dim glow of the candles doing little to dispel the creeping dread that had settled over him. For the first time in years, perhaps for the first time since he'd risen to prominence, he felt vulnerable.
It hadn't always been this way. Once, he had been nothing more than a simple thief, a boy scurrying through the back alleys of Myr, lifting purses from nobles who wouldn't notice a few missing coins. That life seemed so distant now, so foreign, like a faint dream he could barely recall. The journey from those streets to the Small Council had been long and treacherous, littered with betrayals and sacrifices. But Varys had survived. No, more than that—he had thrived.
Varys, the Spider. Varys, the master of whispers. Varys, the disgraced and mutilated scion of the Blackfyre line. He had made himself indispensable in the courts of Westeros. He had manufactured alliances, spun webs of deception that stretched from King's Landing to the Free Cities and beyond. All of it, every manipulation, every whispered secret, had been with one goal in mind: the restoration of House Blackfyre. Not a stag, not a lion, not the red dragon of Daeron’s line should sit on the Iron Throne. That seat belonged to the black dragon, to his blood.
Daemon Blackfyre should have ruled Westeros. His descendants, not Daeron's, were the rightful heirs to the throne. The injustice of it burned in Varys' heart, a fire that had fueled him for years, for decades. He had spent his life ensuring that, one day, a Blackfyre would sit on the Iron Throne. He had been so close. Everything had been going according to plan.
He had worked tirelessly, creating cracks in the Baratheon dynasty. Robert’s arrogance and neglect of the realm had been easy to exploit. He had carefully crafted circumstances, stirring unrest, pushing the right people into the right places, ensuring that the dynasty would collapse under its own weight. The cracks had grown wider, and soon, the whole structure would fall. And when it did, young Griff—his nephew, the boy who was the last true descendant of Daemon Blackfyre—would claim what was rightfully his.
This was what was supposed to happen but then, everything had changed.
It had started as whispers, rumors of a slave in Essos who had risen from the dead. A boy with sorcery in his hands, power beyond anything the world had seen in centuries. Aegor, they called him. Varys had dismissed the rumors at first. The world was full of lies, of stories exaggerated by distance and time. But the whispers grew louder, more insistent. The boy was real, they said, and he was no ordinary slave. He had toppled the Good Masters of Astapor, slaughtered them all in a single night.
Varys had been inclined to celebrate at first. Slavers, after all, were scum. Their downfall was not something to mourn. But it wasn't the act of rebellion that had unsettled him. It was the manner of it. Sorcery. Magic.
Varys could still remember the day he had been mutilated, his manhood offered up to some dark ritual by a sorcerer in Myr. He could still hear the voice that had spoken from the flames, the language he hadn’t understood but had known instinctively was wrong, twisted. He had vowed that day never to trust magic again. It was a force of chaos, a corrupting power that demanded a price—one often far too steep to bear.
And now this boy, this Aegor, wielded magic as if it were his birthright.
Varys’s gut told him that no matter how benevolent the boy might seem, no matter how much good he appeared to do for the downtrodden, he was dangerous. Inherently dangerous. Something that needed to be dealt with. And so, Varys had acted. He had manipulated Robert Baratheon, played on the king's hatred for the Targaryens, whispered lies about Aegor’s true lineage. He had suggested that the boy was not some nameless slave but a Targaryen, a threat to the throne. He had stoked Robert's rage, ensured that a bounty was placed on the boy's head—a bounty large enough to make kingdoms tremble.
It had been a perfect plan. Aegor would be hunted, killed by those eager to claim the king’s reward, and Varys’s carefully laid plans would proceed as intended. But the boy had survived. Worst, it seemed that He had thrived.
Aegor had done the impossible. He had eradicated the Dothraki, the very scourge of Essos, an army numbering in the hundreds of thousands. Aegor had faced them with a mere handful of soldiers—former slaves, no less—and wiped them from the earth. The Dothraki Sea, once a barren desert, was now a green paradise, a living testament to the boy’s power. The sky of Essos had trembled, his contacts had told him, and the land had been reshaped by Aegor’s hand. The very thought of it chilled Varys to his core.
More than that, the boy had become unstoppable. The rumors of Aegor’s power were spreading faster than wildfire. And now, to make matters worse, someone had somehow uncovered the truth about Cersei Lannister and her brother Jaime. A letter had been sent to the lords and ladies of the realm, exposing their incest for all to see. Varys had known, of course. He had known for years, but it had been too early to act on that knowledge. He had been waiting for the right moment, a moment that had now been taken from him.
Varys scowled, his usually composed features contorting with frustration. His carefully crafted plans were in disarray. The letter had thrown the realm into chaos. The Baratheon dynasty was crumbling, just as he had intended, but not in the way he had planned. If Robert had only found the letter and not caught the queen and her brother in the act, there might have been time to salvage the situation. But no—Robert had burst into their chambers and seen them together, confirming the worst of the rumors.
Even then, Varys had managed to stir the situation in the direction he needed. The queen and her brother had been caught, their treachery laid bare for all to see. But instead of attempting to control the chaos, Varys had chosen to embrace it, to fan the flames. He had written a second letter, mirroring the style of the first, accusing Cersei’s children of being bastards born of incest. He had sent it to every lord and lady of the realm, ensuring that Robert Baratheon’s fury would only grow.
The first letter had proven true, and now no one would doubt the authenticity of the second. The whole realm would know that Robert Baratheon, the man who had overthrown the Targaryens, had been cuckolded by his queen, a Targaryen bastard. It was the ultimate humiliation. The Baratheon dynasty would crumble under the weight of its own disgrace.
Varys allowed himself a moment of satisfaction, a brief glimmer of pride in his handiwork. The game of thrones was changing, the world shifting faster than even he had anticipated. But he would adapt. He had always adapted.
Magic. Sorcery. Maegi. Creatures out of nightmare. It was all returning to the world, just as it had when the dragons had roared across the sky. But Varys would not let that stop him. He would see his plans through to the end. Aegor—no matter how powerful—would not prevent the restoration of the Blackfyres. His family, the blood of his sister, would reclaim what was rightfully theirs. The Iron Throne.
Nothing would stand in his way.
As Varys sat in the stillness of his chambers, a sudden flicker caught his attention. The flames of the candles around him shifted, the familiar warm glow turning dark, twisting into black fire. Varys froze, his breath catching in his throat as the shadows seemed to pulse and dance around him, the air growing thick with something unseen, something malevolent.
The fire whispered, a sound that sent a chill down his spine, reminding him of the voice he had heard so many years ago, the voice that had come from the flames as his manhood had been burned. That voice, that terrible voice that had haunted him ever since.
And now, it was back.
The black fire burned brighter, casting long, jagged shadows across the walls of his chamber. Varys felt his heart race, his breath shallow as the flames seemed to speak, not in words, but in something older, something darker.
He was not alone.
The game had changed, and Varys knew, in that moment, that the price of playing it had just become far more dangerous.
*scene*
Narak stumbled into the dark, damp quarters, his legs heavy from the day’s labor, his body bruised and aching. The stench of sweat and rot clung to the air, but it was the sobs—the quiet, muffled sobs—that made him freeze in place. His heart clenched, dread tightening his chest.
“Khevon?” Narak’s voice was low, hoarse from the shouting of the overseers, from the sun that had scorched his throat.
In the dim light, he saw his younger brother huddled in the corner, knees drawn up to his chest, trembling. Khevon's thin, gaunt frame seemed smaller than usual, more fragile. His back was bare, and even in the shadows, Narak could see the angry, raw lines of the lashes streaking across his skin. Blood oozed slowly from the open wounds, staining the dirt floor beneath him.
"Khevon..." Narak's breath caught in his throat, a mix of fury and helplessness building inside him. He rushed to his brother’s side, kneeling, his hands shaking as he reached out to touch the lashes, but stopping just short. “What did they do to you?”
Khevon sniffled, trying to stifle his sobs. His voice was small, broken. “Master Lirath...he...he said I wasn’t working fast enough.”
Narak’s hands clenched into fists, nails biting into his palms.
Lirath.
The name burned in his mind like a curse. A cruel man who took pleasure in breaking spirits, in inflicting pain where there was no reason for it. He had whipped Khevon because he could, because in this place, their lives were worth less than the dirt beneath their feet.
Enough was enough.
For years, Narak had endured. He had endured the back-breaking labor, the endless humiliation, the beatings, the starvation, all of it. But this...this was different. Khevon was all he had left in the world. Their parents had been sold off to another city years ago, and they had no idea whether they were alive or dead. They had only each other now, and Narak had promised himself he would protect his brother no matter what.
But how could he protect him when they were caged like animals, slaves to the whims of monsters?
Narak knelt in front of Khevon, cupping his brother’s face in his hands, forcing the boy to meet his gaze. “We’re leaving,” he said, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him.
Khevon’s eyes widened, fear flashing across his tear-streaked face. “But—”
“We’re leaving tonight,” Narak repeated, his grip tightening. “We’re going to Astapor.”
“Astapor?” Khevon whispered, confusion mingling with the fear. “Why?”
Narak glanced over his shoulder, listening for any signs of movement outside the quarters, but the slaves around them were too exhausted to pay attention, and the overseers wouldn’t be back until morning. He turned back to Khevon, his voice lowering to a whisper. “You’ve heard the stories. The god in the shape of a boy, the one who freed all the slaves in Astapor. The one who turned the Dothraki Sea into a paradise. He...he can help us. He’ll protect us.”
Khevon’s brow furrowed, doubt creeping into his expression. “But...what if the stories aren’t true?”
“They are,” Narak insisted, his voice harder now. He had to believe they were true. He had to because he knew with complete certainty that he would lose his brother one day to the cruelty of the slave masters of Meereen.
“The sky shook, Khevon. You saw it. Everyone saw it. That wasn’t just a storm. That was him, Aegor. He’s real. He’s freeing slaves. We can be free too.”
In truth, Narak was trying to convince himself as much as his brother, trying to quench the fear in his heart for courage.
Khevon looked down, biting his lip, still trembling. Narak could see the fear in his brother’s eyes, the hesitation. But he couldn’t blame him. They had lived their whole lives in chains, beaten into submission, told they were nothing, told there was no escape. The idea of freedom was terrifying because it was so far beyond anything they had ever known.
But Narak wasn’t afraid anymore. Not of the overseers, not of the masters, not of death or at least his. The only thing he feared now was watching Khevon break, watching the light in his brother’s eyes fade away.
“We’ll be free,” Narak whispered, his voice softening, filled with a fierce, desperate hope. “I swear it. But we have to go tonight. We’ll never get another chance.” and I'm not sure I would still be brave enough if we don't do it tonight he didn't say.
Khevon hesitated for a moment longer, then slowly nodded, wiping the tears from his cheeks. “Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”
Narak stood, his limbs aching as he moved quickly around the quarters, gathering what little they had. Rags, a small waterskin half-filled with stale water, and a piece of bread—stale and hard, but it would have to do. It wasn’t much, but they had never had much to begin with.
They slipped out of the quarters under the cover of night, the air thick with the scent of sweat, blood, and despair. The streets of Meereen were quiet, save for the distant clanking of chains and the occasional muffled sobs from the other slave quarters. The masters slept in their palaces, unconcerned with the lives of those beneath them.
Narak kept a firm grip on Khevon’s hand, leading him through the narrow alleyways, sticking to the shadows. His heart pounded in his chest, every sound setting his nerves on edge. They had to be careful. One wrong move, one stray noise, and they’d be caught.
And if they were caught...
No. Narak pushed the thought aside. They wouldn’t be caught. They couldn’t be.
As they neared the city walls, Narak felt a flicker of hope. They were so close now. Just a little farther, and they’d be free. They could make it. They could—
“Stop right there!”
The shout rang out through the night, freezing Narak in place. His heart dropped into his stomach as he turned to see a group of guards emerging from the shadows, their torches casting flickering light across their cruel faces.
“Run!” Narak shouted, pushing Khevon ahead of him.
They bolted, feet pounding against the dirt, breath coming in ragged gasps as they sprinted toward the gates. The guards were on them in an instant, arrows flying through the air. Narak felt the first one hit his back, a sharp, searing white pain tearing through his flesh. He gritted his teeth, refusing to slow down, refusing to let go of Khevon’s hand. He picked up his brother in his arms to use himself as a shield.
Another arrow struck him, then another, but still, he kept running. Agony burned in each and everyone of his breath, each step felt harder. Maybe he would have stopped like his body screamed him to do so if Khevon’s sobs weren’t echoeing in his ears. He couldn’t stop. He had to get his brother out of Meereen. He had to get him to safety.
They reached the gates, the heavy wooden doors looming before them. Narak shoved Khevon forward, desperation driving him, blood pouring from the wounds in his back. He could feel his strength fading, his vision blurring, but he kept moving. One more step. Just one more step.
With a final burst of energy, Narak shoved the gate open and stumbled through, collapsing onto the ground just outside the city walls in a discreet cave, near a stream he knew they would not be found in no matter how much the soldiers searched for them. Finally, he allowed His body to give out, the weight of his injuries too much to bear. He gasped for breath, blood pooling beneath him, his vision swimming in and out of focus.
Khevon was at his side in an instant, his small hands pressing against the wounds, trying desperately to stop the bleeding. “Narak, no, please, no!” Khevon’s voice was thick with panic, his eyes wide and filled with tears. “You can’t die! You can’t! I...I can’t do this without you!”
Narak tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace, his body wracked with pain. “You’ll...be free,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “That’s...what matters.”
Khevon shook his head, his tears falling onto Narak’s face. “No! I don’t care about being free! Not if you’re not with me! You’re my brother! You’re...you’re everything!”
Narak’s heart ached, a deep, sorrowful pain that had nothing to do with the arrows lodged in his back. He had fought so hard, sacrificed so much to get Khevon out of Meereen. But now...now he wasn’t going to make it. He wasn’t going to see his brother grow up, wasn’t going to be there to protect him.
The truth was that Narak was scared, was that he wanted to live, that he wanted to see this Astapor he had heard about where everyone was free and happy, where a god erased cruelty. He feared what would become of him after death.
He didn't say this though because he knew it would only make his brother sadder and the role of older siblings was ensuring with their best that nothing would be able to hurt your younger siblings, no one would be able to make them cry.
“I’m sorry,” Narak whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. “I...I’m so sorry.” Sorry I would not be here he wanted to say. Sorry that you would be alone he wanted to apologize. Sorry that I'm letting you alone in this cruel world at only seven (7) name
Days.
Khevon sobbed, his hands shaking as he tried to press harder against the wounds, as if he could somehow keep his brother’s life from slipping away. “No, no, no, you can’t leave me! Please, Narak, please!”
Narak closed his eyes, the world around him fading into a blur of pain and sorrow. He could feel the darkness creeping in, pulling him under, but there was a strange warmth too. A light. Golden and soft, like the first rays of the morning sun. He could see it even through his closed eyes, feel it wrapping around him like a comforting embrace.
“Go,” Narak whispered, his voice barely a breath. “Go...be free.”
Khevon clutched at him, his sobs growing louder, more desperate. “I don’t want to be free without you! What’s the point of living without you?” Khevon’s voice cracked, his sobs wracking his small frame, trembling as he pressed his hands harder against Narak’s wounds, futilely trying to stem the flow of blood.
Narak’s chest heaved, every breath a struggle, a painful reminder that his body was breaking down, giving out piece by piece. The world around him began to fade, and he could feel himself slipping away, but still, he fought to stay just a little longer. Not for himself—he had no strength left for that—but for Khevon.
His brother was everything. His reason for living. His reason for enduring. And now, his reason for dying.
“Khevon…” Narak rasped, blood bubbling up in his throat. He wanted to say so much, wanted to tell him everything, but the words were tangled in the pain, slipping through his grasp. His fingers twitched, weakly reaching for his brother’s hand.
Khevon grasped his hand tightly, holding it against his tear-streaked face, shaking his head in denial. “Don’t leave me! You’re all I have, Narak! You promised! You promised we’d be free together!”
“I know…” Narak whispered, his voice faltering as the darkness pressed in from all sides. “I’m sorry, Khevon. I tried. I wanted… I wanted us to be free.”
“You did!” Khevon cried, his tears falling onto Narak’s dirt-streaked face, mixing with the blood and grime. “You got us out! We’re out! We’re free! Don’t go now… please…”
Narak’s vision was fading, but through the blur, he could still see his brother’s face—desperate, pleading, so full of pain and love that it tore Narak apart. He wished he could hold on. He wished he could fight the inevitable. But the pain was too great, the pull of death too strong.
“I...I’ll always be with you,” Narak said, forcing the words out past the lump in his throat. His voice was no more than a whisper now, barely audible. “You… you’ll be free, Khevon. That’s all that matters.”
Khevon shook his head violently, his sobs growing more frantic, more desperate. “I don’t want to be free without you! You’re my everything! What’s the point of freedom if you’re not here with me?”
Narak’s heart shattered at those words, but his body was too weak, too broken to respond. All he could do was stare up at his brother, his vision growing darker with every passing second. He could feel the cold creeping in, feel the life draining from him, but still, there was that warmth—that golden light wrapping around him, calling to him.
It was peaceful. Comforting. Like home.
“Khevon…” Narak’s voice cracked, his breath growing shallow, his body trembling with the effort of staying alive. “You...were my everything too. I...I’m sorry.”
Khevon let out a broken sob, clutching Narak’s hand to his chest as if he could somehow hold him there, keep him from slipping away. But Narak could feel the pull now, the finality of it. The golden light was growing brighter, warmer, and despite the pain, despite the sorrow, a part of him couldn’t help but think that everything would be alright.
He could see it now, even with his eyes closed. That light. That warmth.
““Aegor…”
Khevon’s breath hitched in his throat at the sound of it. The name carried weight, an undeniable sense of hope that had filled their dreams since childhood, but now, in this moment, it felt like something more. It felt like an answer.
The golden light seemed to pulse, growing brighter, warmer, like the dawn of a new day. Narak’s hand trembled in Khevon’s grasp, but his eyes were shut, and his breathing was shallow, slow. The world was slipping away from him, yet somehow, he wasn’t afraid. Not anymore.
"Thank you…" Narak breathed, his voice faint and fragile, like a whisper carried on the wind. "Thank you for being...the best brother…"
Khevon’s heart shattered at the words, his chest aching with a grief so profound it threatened to consume him. He pressed his forehead against Narak’s, his tears mingling with the dirt and blood on his brother’s face. “No…no, please don’t leave me…” His voice broke, barely more than a sob. “You can’t leave me…”
Narak’s breaths were slowing, his body growing still, but there was a strange serenity in the air, a quiet stillness that hung between them like a promise. Khevon felt it, the warmth of the light growing stronger, almost suffocating in its intensity. He could see the golden glow even with his eyes closed, even through the tears that blurred his vision.
“Of course…” Narak whispered, his voice so faint that Khevon had to strain to hear it. “You...were my everything.”
And with those final words, Narak’s hand went limp in Khevon’s grasp. His chest stilled. His breath ceased. He was gone.
Khevon let out a wail, a sound torn from the very depths of his soul, his heart breaking into a thousand jagged pieces. He held his brother’s lifeless body close, rocking back and forth, unable to process the reality that had just crushed him.
Narak was gone.
He had nothing left. No family. No hope. No reason to go on.
But just as the weight of despair threatened to crush him entirely, Khevon saw it—a flicker of light out of the corner of his eye. A faint, golden glow, shimmering in the darkness like a candle flickering in the wind.
He blinked, his breath catching in his throat as he looked toward the light, which was growing brighter, warmer, until it was no longer just a flicker but a radiant beacon, cutting through the darkness like the dawn breaking across a cold, endless night.
Khevon’s heart raced, his eyes wide in disbelief. The light shimmered in the air, shifting, morphing, until it took the shape of a figure, bathed in gold and silver, radiant as the sun itself. It was no longer just light. It was a presence. A being.
He could barely speak, his voice trembling with a mixture of awe and fear. “Who...who are you?”
The figure stepped forward, the light around it expanding in waves, enveloping the space around them. The air felt alive, thrumming with an energy Khevon had never felt before—an energy that seemed to seep into his bones, filling him with warmth, with hope.
The figure smiled softly, its features becoming clearer as it moved closer. A young man, with hair like silver moonlight and eyes like twin suns. His very presence seemed to radiate peace, as if the world itself bowed in reverence to his will.
“I am someone who was believed in,” the figure said, his voice soft yet powerful, echoing in the quiet night. “Someone who is, as your brother was, a child of man.”
Khevon’s breath caught in his throat as the name slipped from his lips, unbidden but right, like a long-forgotten truth finally coming to light. “Aegor… you… you’re real?”
The figure—Aegor—nodded, his smile gentle, as though the question itself held no meaning. “I am.”
Khevon’s gaze darted to Narak’s body, his brother’s lifeless form lying still and cold in his arms. The grief welled up in him again, sharp and painful, but it was muted now by the overwhelming presence of the golden light, by the presence of Aegor.
“I wish he could see you,” Khevon whispered, his voice thick with sorrow. “I wish he could see how right he was…”
Aegor knelt before Khevon, his eyes soft and full of understanding. “He doesn’t need to see me,” he said gently. “Because everything will be alright. I promise you.”
“How?” Khevon’s voice cracked, the weight of his grief still heavy on his shoulders. “How could it be alright? He’s gone… he’s… he’s dead…”
Aegor’s eyes gleamed with something deeper, something ancient and unshakable. “It is not the end,” he said, his voice taking on a quality that was almost beyond human, resonating with something far greater than mere words. “For death is not his final note.”
Khevon stared at him, his mind reeling, his heart torn between hope and disbelief. “What are you saying?”
Aegor’s gaze softened even further, and when he spoke, it was as though the very air around them bent to his will, as though the stars themselves were listening. “I do not believe in sad endings,” he said, his voice calm but commanding.
Then, with a quiet authority that sent a shiver down Khevon’s spine, Aegor rose to his feet and stretched out his hand over Narak’s lifeless body.
“Rise, Narak,” Aegor said, his voice ringing with the force of a divine command, a power that could not be denied.
For a moment, nothing happened. The world stood still, the air thick with tension, as if even time itself held its breath.
Then, under Khevon’s disbelieving gaze, Narak’s chest heaved.
His eyes fluttered open.
He gasped, his breath sharp and sudden, as though he had been pulled from the very depths of the grave.
Khevon’s heart nearly stopped, his breath catching in his throat as he stared at his brother, who had just moments ago been dead in his arms.
“Narak…?” Khevon whispered, his voice trembling with disbelief, his eyes wide with shock.
Narak blinked, his hand slowly lifting to touch his chest, his breath still labored, but he was alive. He was *alive*.
Khevon let out a sob, tears streaming down his face as he threw his arms around his brother, holding him tightly, as if he could never let him go again. “Narak! You’re alive! You’re...you’re alive!”
Narak, still dazed, looked up at the figure bathed in golden light—at Aegor. His voice was weak, but filled with awe. “How...?”
Aegor smiled, the light around him dimming slightly, becoming softer, warmer. “Because,” he said quietly, “I do not let those who believe in me fall into darkness. Not today.”
Khevon wept against his brother’s shoulder, his heart overflowing with a gratitude so immense it felt like it would break him. And as he wept, he whispered the name that had brought them salvation, the name that would be etched into their souls forever.
“Aegor...”
Comments
Matteo Paun
Beautiful chapter I have a question will you continue with the Harry Potter story too or something that you will continue later ?
rockus4
Bro that was beautiful that chapter. And if he is in the process of setting up aura would it be possible to setup a faith based magic to because he has people that truly believe in him would they be able to channel some part of the collective faith.
allen 1996
Thank you for always commenting and I'm glad you liked the chapter
Rachel N
Oh THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU FOR THE CHAPTER!! Loved every P.O.V and so happy the brothers at the end were saved by Aegor!
