Laban vividly remembered the disarray in front of the house. Bloodstains covered the ground in chaotic patterns. The door had been ripped off its hinges and hurled toward the lakeshore. The eaves were splintered, and the gutters dangled in jagged pieces.
He hadn’t been able to enter immediately. A thick, nauseating stench hung in the air. It wasn’t the natural smell of death or decay—it was far worse, something otherworldly and unnatural. That smell, acrid and unrelenting, had rooted his feet to the ground. Even now, over a decade later, he couldn’t forget it. Sometimes, he wondered if the stench had even been real. Demons, he had heard, didn’t emit a smell. And yet, that day, the air had been tainted with something so vile it still haunted him, creeping into his senses at unexpected moments.
Summoning the last of his courage, Laban approached the doorframe. He gripped the wood tightly, closing his eyes before forcing them open. The scene inside was worse than anything he could have imagined.
The floor was a sea of blood. Everything—furniture, belongings, even the small, handwoven baby blanket—was submerged in it. Splinters of their favorite chair lay scattered, soaked in crimson.
At the time, Laban had not yet realized that demons had been responsible. There were no bodies, and he had clung to a desperate hope that perhaps Iole and their child had survived. That fragile hope had kept him going for days.
When he heard rumors that the bodies had been thrown into the lake, he became a man possessed. For weeks, he scoured the lake’s shores, overturning mud and weeds in search of something, anything. Each moment was a struggle between fear and hope—he prayed his search would yield nothing, but at the same time, dreaded finding the truth.
In his dreams, he often saw the lifeless forms of Iole and their child tangled in reeds or sunken in the murky depths of the lake. Those haunting images blurred the line between his waking hours and his nightmares.
Eventually, his eldest brother, Herodion, had found him wandering the lake’s edge, pale and haggard. Herodion had dragged him home, citing their father’s orders. Back in the house, Laban collapsed into feverish delirium, bedridden for ten days.
When he finally recovered enough to eat, his father visited him. Sitting quietly in the warm glow of the setting sun, his father had spoken solemnly of the need to forgive their enemies. At the time, Laban couldn’t understand. Forgiveness felt impossible.
Now, after years of silence and reflection, Laban understood why his father had said those words. The perpetrator had no reason to leave the bodies behind—they weren’t people to him; they were tools. Flesh and bone that could be used for experiments. What had been Laban’s entire world was to that man nothing more than disposable materials for his research.
Tina had no idea what thoughts weighed on Laban as he gazed at the fireplace. She only saw his tense shoulders and rising chest. Stepping closer, she wrapped her arms around him from behind, feeling the rapid beat of his heart. She pressed a kiss to the back of his neck.
“Rest. Today was unbearably hot,” she whispered.
Tina went to fetch a damp cloth, leaving Laban alone at the table. Across the room, Gene was staring at him, a smile lighting up the boy’s face. Laban couldn’t bring himself to smile back. Instead, Gene’s grin only deepened the ache in his chest. The boy’s face overlapped with the imagined features of his son—his real son, who would have been a fine young man by now if he had lived.
But that boy would never grow up. Worse, he would one day return—resurrected, not to live again, but to suffer. That suffering would be endless, unrelenting.
Unable to endure it any longer, Laban rose and spread his arms. Gene ran into his embrace without hesitation. Laban lifted him, and the boy’s sun-kissed face brushed against his cheek. The warmth of a living being, the steady rhythm of a small, beating heart—it felt like a blade twisting inside him.
Laban carried Gene out to the backyard. The boy leaned fully against his chest, trusting and unguarded. The cats, sensing something amiss, had disappeared. Beneath the shade of the woodpile, Laban set Gene down gently on the ground.
Gene looked up at him, his eyes sparkling, thinking a new game was about to begin.
“Gene,” Laban began, his voice heavy with grief, “I love you more than any child in the world.”
The boy blinked a few times, as if trying to understand the sudden seriousness.
“We’ll see each other again soon. It won’t take long, I promise.”
Laban placed his trembling hands on the nape of Gene’s neck. The boy’s neck was small and delicate, fragile as porcelain. His fingers quivered.
“May the Goddess of the Underworld cradle you in her arms and carry you to her cradle,” Laban murmured.
The Goddess of the Underworld was said to weep for the dead, her hair unbound and her tears unending. She cradled the souls of children like a mother. Perhaps Belias, too, rested in her embrace. Perhaps everyone could find peace there.
Laban tightened his grip. Gene’s face quickly turned blue.
Visions of the fields where he had planned to teach Gene to ride filled his mind—the pride of watching his son grow into a swift and graceful rider, the joy of seeing the boy race toward him with open arms, trusting completely. His vision blurred with tears.
Gene thrashed wildly, clawing at the dirt and scratching at Laban’s arms with his tiny fingernails. Somewhere, faintly, he thought he heard a voice calling, “Father!” It was a sound full of joy, full of trust.
When that voice seemed to call out again, Laban’s hands slackened. Gene’s small body went limp.
Choking back sobs, Laban pressed his trembling fingers to the boy’s neck, searching for a pulse. He found it—a faint, fluttering rhythm. Tears streamed down his face.
What had he been about to do? To the boy who had trusted him completely, who had called him “Father” with such unwavering faith?
Something cold pierced Laban’s back. At first, it was icy, but it quickly burned, spreading through his veins like molten lava.
He tried to turn around but collapsed instead, his head hitting the ground. His hand instinctively reached for the wound, but his fingers refused to obey.
Through blurred vision, he saw Tina. She had dropped to her knees, trembling, her hand still clutching the knife she had used. She tossed it aside and cradled the unconscious Gene in her arms, sobbing.
Against the backdrop of the burning sky, her dark hair billowed in the wind.
Beautiful. Strong.
That was my wife, Laban thought. She was the one who would protect their son to the end.
Darkness crept over his vision. Tina approached, setting Gene down before crawling to Laban on her knees. She wrapped her arms around him, her scent enveloping him. The stench of death seemed to recede.
“I’m sorry…” Laban whispered.
“Don’t die. Please,” Tina begged, her tears falling onto his face.
The poison he had prepared for himself—the one he had chosen carefully to ensure it would act quickly, leaving no time for resistance—was taking hold. His consciousness was fading rapidly.
Tina’s voice grew distant, as if coming from another world.
“Laban! Laban!”
His body stiffened, and his thoughts dissolved into nothingness. With the last of his strength, he formed words his own ears could no longer hear.
“Your dance… is worthy of Anir’s love.”
By the time the fire engulfing the house rose high enough to alert the neighbors, Tina was already far away. Carrying Gene on her back and leading a horse by its reins, she hurried across the fields. The glow of flames illuminated the night behind her, but she didn’t look back. She couldn’t think. She could only walk, stumbling and breathless, driven by instinct.
Before the night ended, they had to leave Piroas.
At any moment, the queen’s pursuers might appear. Now, Tina had to protect her son alone.
Three years ago, she had been a desperate woman in a tattered cloak wandering the capital. Now, she had to be stronger. The safe haven she had believed in had been an illusion. No one could be trusted anymore.
She reached a larger road where fallen sunflowers lay scattered. As she adjusted Gene, the boy let out a soft sound, stirring.
“Are you awake?” she asked.
Gene blinked groggily, still half-asleep. Tina lifted him onto the horse and mounted behind him. After a few steps, Gene mumbled, “Father…”
“Your father… was taken by bad men,” Tina said firmly, though her voice quavered slightly.
As she turned a corner, she glanced back for the last time. The house, now reduced to a faint flicker in the distance, seemed to fade away. It had held everything she had built and cherished for the past three years—Gene’s favorite rocking horse, the wooden cradle, the man who had given his life to protect them.
In the end, Laban had kept his promise. He had saved Tina and Gene, though he couldn’t save himself.
Turning back, Tina urged the horse into a gallop.
Muttering under her breath, she whispered, Queen… Watch what I can do. See what this lowly, unrefined woman is capable of. Just wait.
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