The rain did not fall anymore.
It wept from the heavens, soaking the earth in endless despair.
The fields were barren.
The wells ran dry.
The air stank of rot and hopelessness.
Inside the crumbling home, Don lay fevered and broken.
Amelia coughed herself raw, her ribs visible beneath her pale skin.
And Livia... sweet Livia... was gone.
They buried her without a coffin, beneath the crooked tree where they had once dreamed of planting a vineyard.
Lucien stood over her grave, fists clenched, teeth grinding. His prayers had been answered by silence. His screams had been devoured by the void.
And in that void...
Veltrazhar-The God of Death whispered.
"The seed of ruin..."
"Lies within your blood."
"Pluck it out."
"Save the rest."
That night, the storm howled against the battered walls.
Lucien sat alone with Froy—the boy who should never have been born.
The boy who smiled up at him, radiant and pure, as if the world had never broken.
Lucien's hands shook as he lifted the knife.
Tears blurred his vision, falling hot and fast onto the blade.
He knelt beside the child.
He could hear his own heartbeat, ragged and frantic, louder than the storm.
"Forgive me," he choked out, voice cracking.
"Forgive me, Mother... Father... Amelia..."
"And you... Froy..."
"I'm sorry..."
He drove the knife down—
sobbing so violently that he could barely see.
But the blade never touched Froy.
With a crack like thunder, the knife shattered mid-air—
splintering into a thousand silver fragments.
Lucien gasped, falling backward, staring at his bleeding hands.
His mind broke.
He screamed—a raw, animal sound—
and crawled away from the boy as if he were a serpent of flame.
Froy only tilted his head, confused.
His wide sapphire eyes gleamed in the candlelight, reflecting Lucien's shattered soul.
Outside, Sethvyr watched through the rain-smeared window.
A smile tugged at something that could barely be called a mouth.
The move had been perfect.
The piece had been placed.
The game would go on.