Bram guided his creaking ox-cart down the dirt road. Yesterday's rain had turned the path to slush. The oxen were groaning with each step. The wheels sank a bit into the muddy earth. The oxen pulled hard. Thankfully it didn't get stuck. But the journey wasn't smooth.
"Damn rain," Bram hissed. "Always chooses the wrong time to pour down.'
The atmosphere was cold. Bram gave the oxen a light touch with his whip. They started to pull harder. He was just beginning to think of the warmth of his home. Freshly baked bread, a dry hearth, and a good sleep. That's when he spotted them. Two shapes lay crumpled at the roadside. Bram rubbed his eyelids and opened them wide, staring towards them. He wasn't seeing things. It was two human beings.
Bram brought the cart to a halt. He cautiously stepped down and approached the two figures. One was a boy, no older than ten. He was curled in on himself, shivering. The other was taller, a teenager. He lay protectively beside the younger one—with one of his arms slung over the boy. Both were soaked in rain, their clothes covered in mud. The bits of leaves and broken twigs that clung to their clothes and hair indicated that they had travelled through the forest.
Bran knelt before the younger one and checked his temperature. His skin felt like fire.
"This one has a high fever," Bran muttered. He then checked on the older one. He looked fine except for some bruises. Then something caught his eyes.
The hilt of a dagger was peeking out of the older boy's belt. He pulled it out. His eyes widened when he saw a crescent moon symbol on it.
"The Brightmoon family's crest!" He exclaimed. "They're from the house of Brightmoon? Then why in the world are they lying here like nobodies?"
A thousand questions were raised in Bram's mind. His gaze shifted between the two unconscious boys and in the direction of the Brightmoon estate.
"Should I take them to the estate?" He wondered. As soon as that thought arose, he decided against it. "No...no...they seem to have fled the estate. I'd be a fool to drag them back there."
He then heard a groaning sound. It came from the little boy who was still shivering.
Bram sighed.
"Let's worry about the rest later." He bent down and lifted the younger boy carefully into his arms. "First, let's get you two somewhere safe."
***
The first man to bring the news to the capital was a wandering merchant. He was soaked, and his breathing was ragged as he ran into the smoky tavern near the old market.
"They're dead!" He shouted loudly as soon as he entered. All the faces drinking wine, playing cards, or flirting with women turned toward him in unison. "The Brightmoon family...they are dead, all of them. It was a massacre."
There was a stunned silence. Then the tavern erupted. Chairs scraped, and some were toppled over. The wine glasses were left half drunk on the table, and games were abandoned. Within minutes, the merchants who brought the news were surrounded and barraged with questions.
"What do you mean, all of them?"
"Even Lord Regulus?"
"Are there any survivors?"
The merchant was trembling as he answered their questions. But the questions didn't end; the event was too shocking.
By noon, the city was humming with the story of the Brightmoon family's tragic end. Taverns, guard posts, market stalls, salons, slum dwellings—the death of the House of Brightmoon spread like wildfire.
"The Brightmoons are gone! Completely wiped out," A boy carrying baskets shouted in the city marketplace.
"Shocking, but not unexpected," a baker said as he was kneading dough. "They made too many enemies."
"Maybe, but it's obvious who did this." A customer said as he paid the nearby street vendor two bronze coins. "Only the Evernight family is capable of something like this."
"Damn, what are they thinking?" A nearby city guard muttered. "They think they're above the law now?"
"If they have a cultivator, certainly," the baker said again with a chuckle. "Who's going to stop them?"
The guard didn't answer. He looked towards the distance with a sigh and carried on with his patrol.
***
Within the cold stone walls of Skyreach Manor, the news had already arrived. Lord Thorne Skyreach read the letter expressionless. His steward stood nearby, waiting for instructions. A beautiful girl in her mid-teens stood next to Thorne, cloaked in blue, her eyes unreadable. This was his daughter—Selene Skyreach.
"So..." Thorne put the message down with a heavy sigh. "The House of Brightmoon has fallen."
"What should we do, Father?" Selene asked, feeling conflicted. She would have been married into the Brightmoon family—to Cerdic—only if things had turned out differently.
"Nothing," Thorne said indifferently. "We didn't stand by them when they were in need of aid. We will offer no mourning now that they're dead."
Silence followed. Steward gave a respectful nod and withdrew. Thorne threw the letter into the hearth and walked off. Only Selene had a look of guilt, but she shook it off. They had betrayed one of their closest allies, yes. But their own family's survival came first. Nothing else mattered.
***
The situation was different in the Rosetide manor. Lord Theodore Rosetide, Seraphina's father, sat near the burning hearth, holding onto the letter that brought the news of his daughter's death, alongside all other members of the Brightmoon family. His two sons, wife, and two brothers stood nearby. Seraphina's mother's quiet sobs were heartbreaking. Theodore's eldest son, Arthur, clenched his fists so hard that the nails dug into his flesh.
The crackle of the sound was the only sound for a long time. Then Arthur spoke, struggling to contain his grief.
"Father, are we going to do nothing?"
"What else can we do?" One of Arthur's uncles said, his voice hollow. "Can we go up against a cultivation sect?"
Arthur's fists trembled at his sides.
"We should have done something," he muttered. "We should have...we should have at least stood by them."
Theodore raised his head to look at his eldest son. His eyes flickered with emotion. But he was the family head. He couldn't let his emotions get the better of him.
"This discussion ends here," Theodore muttered as he stood up. "We are guilty. But we had no choice. We still have no choice."
Theodore threw the letter into the fire. It burned away in the flames rapidly.
"We can't go up against the Evernight family," Theodore said with a deep, heavy exhale. "My daughter... I hope she forgives me."
Arthur said nothing. He stood still, fists still clenched, blood dripping down his palms.
***
Deep within the royal palace, King Halsten of Ironvale sat on an ornate throne in an empty hall. He looked calm and had his gaze turned towards the distant door, seemingly expecting someone.
A few moments later, footsteps were heard. Prince Darius took steady steps forward as he approached his father. Once he arrived before the throne, he bowed down deeply with his right hand clasped near his chest.
"Greetings, your majesty."
Halsten looked at his son with indifference.
"It's done then?" He asked in a deep voice.
Darius nodded. "Almost, Father. The Brightmoon family is no more. But..."
"But what?"
"There's a complication," Darius admitted. "Darius' two sons were not among the dead. I questioned the assassins. They said Cerdic Brightmoon escaped the mansion with his younger brother."
Halsten's eyes narrowed. "Then find them," he said firmly. "I have ruled long enough to know this—leave no embers beneath the ash, lest it reignite the flames."
"Understood, father," Darius said. "And the Evernights?"
"Let them celebrate their victory," Halsten said coldly. "For now. When they are still useful."
Darius nodded. He bowed deeply to his father and then walked out of the hall.