David S.R
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Chapter 18
🕑 Added 2025-09-08 15:44:25 +0000 UTCOne afternoon, the courtyard rang with the thud of small feet striking packed earth. Ludger twisted and rolled through the air, his movements sharper and more fluid than any five-year-old had the right to manage. To the untrained eye it looked like play—careless somersaults and leaps—but Selene, Cor, and the others recognized the precision hidden in each evasive step.
Harold chuckled, folding his arms across his chest. “Kid’s gonna make half our fighters look bad in a few years.”
Their attention wavered when the distant clatter of hooves reached their ears. The sound cut across the open air—steady, rhythmic, and growing closer. One by one, the companions turned toward the road beyond the training yard.
A carriage rolled into view, gilded wood gleaming in the afternoon sun. Its wheels barely stirred dust as though even the road bent out of respect. The horses were sleek, their manes braided with ribbons that caught the light. But it was the emblem emblazoned on the carriage door that froze the air.
A crimson bull, horns lowered, charging forward.
Arslan’s easy grin faltered. The prideful air that usually clung to him evaporated in an instant, leaving his jaw tight, his shoulders stiff.
Elaine noticed first. “What is it?” she asked, voice sharp.
Arslan didn’t answer immediately. His eyes stayed fixed on that emblem, the red bull glaring back at him with all the weight of memory. The carefree man who often carried himself like the world’s problems were none of his business now stood like stone, lips pressed into a hard line.The only reply was silence, broken only by the steady thunder of hooves drawing closer.
The carriage rolled closer, the emblem of the crimson bull gleaming like fresh blood in the light. Arslan’s face grew stiff, and that alone was enough to set off alarm bells in the minds of his companions.
Selene was the first to move. She cleared her throat and tightened the strap of her gauntlet, eyes fixed firmly in the opposite direction. “Well, training’s over for today. I should… check my equipment.” She turned on her heel before anyone could reply.
Aleia followed suit almost instantly, hopping down from the fence post with exaggerated casualness. “Oh! I just remembered—I left a stew simmering back at the inn. Wouldn’t want it to burn.” She gave a little wave and vanished at a near sprint.
Harold scratched his neck, chuckling nervously. “Yeah, uh, my axe… it needs oiling. Definitely don’t want it rusting. Better go take care of that.” His heavy footsteps faded fast.
Cor, usually the calm and measured one, lingered the longest. He adjusted his robes, offered Arslan a knowing look, then simply said, “This one is yours. I’ve no intention of being collateral.” With that, he turned and walked away, staff tapping rhythmically against the cobblestones.
Within moments, the lively training ground was empty save for Ludger, Elaine, and Arslan. The boy tilted his head curiously, while Elaine stood perfectly still, arms crossed, green eyes sharp as glass.
It was not the look of a worried lover or even a cautious ally. It was colder—hard, demanding, the kind of gaze that cut through excuses before they were spoken.
“Arslan,” she said, her voice steady and without warmth, “you will explain.”
The sound of hooves drew nearer, the crimson bull drawing its shadow across the yard.
And for once, the man who always had a carefree smile found no words at all.
The question hung in the air, but Arslan never had the chance to answer. The carriage slowed to a halt at the edge of the courtyard, and with a heavy clank of metal, the doors swung open.
Two guards stepped out first, their armor polished to a shine that caught the sun. Their movements were precise, practiced, each carrying themselves with the discipline of professionals. At their waists hung swords with hilts decorated in silver and red—flashy weapons meant as much for display as for killing.
Then, the true occupant emerged.
A girl, perhaps a year or two older than Ludger, descended the steps with the poise of someone raised in refinement. Her summer dress, pale blue and trimmed with lace, fluttered lightly in the breeze. Every detail spoke of wealth and status—golden clasps on her shoes, a small brooch shaped like a flower pinned neatly to her chest.
And yet, her face ruined the image.
She carried a scowl that no child her age should wear, sharp and practiced, as though carved into her features through years of stubbornness. But what drew everyone’s attention wasn’t the expression—it was her appearance.
The curve of her chin. The line of her nose. The color of her eyes and hair....
She was the spitting image of Arslan. Softer, more delicate, framed by long hair that cascaded down her shoulders, but undeniably his.
Elaine’s eyes narrowed further, the cloth in her hand trembling as though she might tear it apart. Ludger blinked once, his mind already turning over possibilities.
As for Arslan, his usual bravado had fled entirely. He stood frozen, lips parting but no words forming, like a man caught unarmed before an executioner.
The girl’s gaze swept across the courtyard, cold and unimpressed, before it landed squarely on Arslan.
“So,” she said, her voice carrying the weight of a scolding far beyond her years, “you thought you could run away from me too, didn’t you, Father?”
The courtyard fell silent at the girl’s declaration. Even the horses seemed to sense the tension, snorting uneasily in their harnesses.
Arslan swallowed hard, his voice catching in his throat before he forced it out. “Are you… the daughter of Violette Torvares?”
The girl lifted her chin with unmistakable pride. “I am.”
The color drained from Arslan’s face. He scratched the back of his neck, sweat beading across his brow as his mouth twitched into something between a smile and a grimace. “Then… yes. I suppose you’re probably my daughter.”
The words dropped like stones into a pond. Elaine’s grip on the cloth in her hand tightened until threads snapped. The air around her shifted, heavy and suffocating, as though reality itself recognized the storm inside her.
Her green eyes darkened, her expression sharpening into something that was no longer merely a glare but a weapon in itself. The very ground seemed to hum faintly, and Ludger could almost imagine a spectral figure rising behind her—broad-shouldered, apron-clad, wielding an enormous iron ladle that shimmered like polished steel.
If anyone had dared to name it, it would only be one thing:
[Stand Awakening: Star Widow’s Wrath]
Arslan took a step back, hands raised in nervous defense, though the smile on his face was the desperate sort of grin a man wore when cornered.
“Elaine, listen… I can explain—”
But Elaine didn’t need words. Her aura said everything.
Elaine’s aura burned bright and dangerous for a long moment, enough to make even the armored guards shift uncomfortably under its weight. Then, with deliberate calm, she pressed the torn cloth into Ludger’s hand, turned on her heel, and walked toward the house without a word.
Her silence was worse than any shouted accusation.
Arslan watched her go, shoulders slumping as though someone had drawn the strength out of him. The spectral image of her wrath lingered in his mind, making his palms sweat cold even after she had disappeared through the doorway.
That left him alone to face the girl with Ludger as an spectator.
The child of Violette Torvares stood in the courtyard, framed by sunlight and shadow. Her scowl had softened slightly, though the stubborn set of her chin remained. She looked him over not with awe, but with sharp calculation, as though weighing a man she had heard about but never seen.
“My mother passed away two years ago,” she said. Her voice was steady, practiced, as if she had told herself the words a hundred times already to keep them from breaking. “She was always frail, but the sickness finally took her. She wanted to find you, but Grandfather forbade it. He hated you too much to let her try.”
Arslan exhaled slowly, his expression tightening. He said nothing.
The girl’s fingers curled at her sides, knuckles whitening. “When she was gone, there was nothing left to hold me back. I took my chance. I found a way to come here.”
Her gaze locked on him, sharp and unflinching. “I’ve heard stories about you, Father. About how you fight, how you survived things no one else could. I didn’t come here to ask you to be a father. I came because I want you to be my sword teacher.”
The weight of her words hung between them, heavier than steel.
Behind the window, unseen by the girl, Elaine stood in the shadows. She said nothing, but her green eyes glowed cold, watching, listening.
Ludger watched quietly from the training ground, still holding the cloth Elaine had pressed into his hand. He wasn’t sure what to make of the girl—his supposed half-sister. She was a little older, but the way she carried herself was sharper, colder, than any child should have been. Her words were clear, her will already shaped like steel.
Arslan scratched his cheek, his usual grin nowhere to be found. He looked smaller somehow, caught between shame and relief. “I… I can teach you now and then,” he said finally. His voice carried no hesitation, though his eyes flickered with guilt. “Even if you don’t want me as your father, I want to do at least that much for you.”
The girl gave a short nod, her scowl softening just a fraction. “That’s fine. But if you’re serious, you’ll have to meet my grandfather first.”
The guards shifted as if the matter were settled. She didn’t bow, didn’t linger. Instead, she turned and climbed back into the carriage with the same practiced poise she had shown when she arrived. The door shut firmly, the driver cracked his reins, and soon the sound of hooves thundered again, carrying the emblem of the red bull away from the yard.
Silence settled over the place once more.
Ludger’s eyes lingered on the fading shape of the carriage until it disappeared beyond the bend of the road. A strange thought gnawed at him—he had grown up with only Elaine, yet now there was someone else who bore Arslan’s blood, someone who might force her way into their lives whether they wanted it or not.
He clenched the cloth in his hand. Elaine’s warmth still lingered on it, but her shadowed eyes from earlier were harder to forget.
This was going to complicate everything.
The inside of the house was heavy with silence when Ludger entered. Elaine stood near the table, her hands trembling at her sides, her lips pressed into a thin line. Arslan had followed only moments before, but he didn’t get far.
The sharp crack of Elaine’s hand echoed through the room.
Arslan staggered back, clutching his cheek. A burning red handprint bloomed across his face, a brand of her fury he couldn’t laugh away this time. For once, the ever-carefree man didn’t even try to make light of it. He stood in silence, shoulders bowed, eyes lowered like a guilty child.
Elaine’s breathing came fast at first, chest heaving with every ragged exhale. But slowly, the tension drained from her. Her gaze softened just a fraction as her thoughts caught up with her anger. She knew the truth—she had pieced it together the moment she looked at the girl.
“That child…” Elaine whispered. “She was born before we ever met.”
Her arms folded across her chest as though holding herself together. The fury was still there, simmering, but it was tempered now by reluctant reason.
Ludger watched the exchange from his corner of the room, cloth still clenched in his hand. He said nothing, but his frown deepened.
The girl couldn’t have been younger than seven. That meant she was conceived when Arslan himself had been around fifteen. Ludger’s brows knit tighter. His father hadn’t just lacked restraint—he had also lacked sense. To recklessly entangle himself with the daughter of a noble at that age, and worse, leave behind a child in the process… it was madness.
No wonder the Torvares family hated him, Ludger thought grimly.
Elaine sank into a chair, pressing her hands together tightly. “Even so,” she muttered, “you should have told me.”
Arslan opened his mouth, but no excuse came. The silence that followed was louder than any words he might have offered.
Arslan sat heavily on the bench by the door, rubbing at the red imprint on his cheek as though he could erase more than just the sting. His expression was tight, weary—very different from the careless mask he usually wore.
“I didn’t know,” he muttered finally. “About her, about Violette being pregnant… nothing. They never told me. Her family must have hidden it. To them, I was just some nameless adventurer who dirtied their bloodline. If the old man had his way, he’d have buried the whole truth rather than admit it. I am surprised that he didn’t send some assassins to kill me for this…”
His words carried no defensiveness, only a tired resignation. For once, even his voice seemed stripped of its usual bravado.
Ludger leaned against the wall, studying him with narrowed eyes. Only a few weeks ago, he had begun to lower his guard around Arslan, allowing himself small moments of recognition, almost of trust. But now… now he wasn’t sure the man deserved it.
So his father hadn’t known? That explained part of it. But it didn’t excuse the rest. Ludger couldn’t ignore the truth that the girl existed at all—that she had come into the world because Arslan, at fifteen, hadn’t understood the words restraint or consequences. And worse, that her mother had been the daughter of some noble family.
It wasn’t just a personal mess. It was a political one.
Ludger exhaled slowly, the weight of it all sinking into his mind. He thought, bitterly, that perhaps it was good Arslan would suffer now. He deserved to squirm under Elaine’s cold glare and feel the sting of her wrath. And he deserved Ludger’s silence, too.
For a while, father and son would not stand on the same side.
Together, mother and child would make sure of that.
Elaine’s silence stretched until it felt like the whole house might collapse under it. Finally, she rose from her chair and fixed Arslan with a look that left no room for charm or excuses.
“You’ll go tomorrow,” she said coldly, “and meet with the head of the Torvares family. You’ll face the consequences of your actions, whatever they may be.”
Arslan’s mouth opened, but her gaze alone silenced him.
She continued, her voice steady, sharp as a drawn blade. “I don’t think he’ll order your death on the spot—not when the girl has just lost her mother. But if he does… then that too is yours to bear.”
Arslan’s shoulders sagged. The handprint still burned across his cheek, but the weight in his chest was heavier than any physical sting. For once, he did not laugh, did not grin, did not try to pretend the world was lighter than it was. He only nodded.
Ludger, watching from the corner, could almost feel the balance of power shift. Elaine’s words carried more weight than any sword. It wasn’t just anger; it was judgment, tempered by reason. She had handed Arslan his punishment without raising her voice.
The boy’s brows furrowed. Part of him wondered how his father would face the nobleman who despised him enough to erase both Violette and her child from public view. Another part thought darkly that perhaps it didn’t matter—Arslan had dug his own grave long ago, and tomorrow, the head of the Torvares family might only decide how deep it should be.
Still, Elaine’s final words lingered like a curse in the air:
Deal with it.
