ShadowBound: The Need For Power-Chapter 403: It Is Over (2)

Tharion’s blade quivered—not from frailty, but from the storm boiling within him, begging to erupt. His lips parted, a breathless whisper forming, yet no words made it past the lump wedged in his throat. All around them, the camp stood frozen, caught in a collective silence so tense it could’ve cracked the sky itself.

Even Valemir, the ever-cold tactician, now bore the faintest flicker of disbelief in his typically unshakable gaze.

"...Her child?" Tharion finally croaked, the flame on his blade dimming like a dying star. "You lie. She had no child."

Galen’s voice came cold as obsidian. "Really, old man? Of all the things I am—and I’ll admit I’m a lot—do you really think ’liar’ makes the list?"

Without glancing away, Galen extended a finger toward Liam’s tent. "That boy in there... he’s Serah’s son. Your daughter’s son."

The words detonated like a thunderclap through the camp.

Magnus blinked hard. "Hold the hell up. What?"

Mystica’s eyes blew wide. "Liam... Serah’s...?"

Even Lucy’s face betrayed genuine shock. "Are serious?"

Galen nodded, gaze never wavering. "Serah gave birth to Liam five months before her execution."

Tharion didn’t move. The world around him might as well have stopped spinning. The blaze on his blade withered into smoke. His grip slackened.

"No... no, that’s... that can’t be..." he breathed, brokenly.

"But it is," Galen said, firm as stone. "You wanna play the redemption game? Let your grandson live. Though frankly, I don’t care what decision you make—because either way, you’re not going near that kid."

The blow struck harder than any blade. Tharion staggered backward, like Galen’s words had cleaved through flesh and bone. His sword slipped from his grasp, clinking dully against the stone floor as its final sparks died out.

Valemir stepped forward slowly, his usual calculation replaced by grim clarity.

"Serah bore a child... and you hid this from us?"

"She made me promise not to tell," Galen said plainly. "You think I’d break a vow made to my sister?" He turned toward Valemir, eyes burning. "She was right to make me swear it. She knew exactly what you’d do if you ever found out. She knew her own father would rather spill the blood of his own kin than deal with the shame of loving someone ’tainted’ by darkness."

Tharion collapsed to his knees, cloak pooling like fallen honor behind him. His eyes stared ahead, glassy and empty.

"All my decisions... even executing my own daughter..." he rasped. "All of it... wasted. If I had known... if I had known she had a child..."

"You’d have killed them both, wouldn’t you?" Galen’s voice dropped, but the weight of his tone was like iron. "You’d have doubled down on your ’honor.’ You’d have carved your legacy out of blood. Don’t even think about pulling something stupid. Because I swear on Serah’s grave—if you do, Mother will mourn you. And you—" he turned sharply to Valemir "—you’d better keep those twisted gears in your skull from turning. Because if you try anything, I promise you—killing you will be easier than breathing."

A hush followed, sharp as a dagger’s edge.

"The Crescent Kingdom can keep spinning its little fairytales about dark mages being monsters," Galen continued, voice heavy with contempt. "But don’t let those lies blind you into thinking you can threaten my nephew. Because if you do... your kingdom will burn with you."

He turned his back on them, for the last time.

"Open your eyes to reality... the same way Sheila did."

Those words struck Valemir like a punch to the soul. His lips tightened, fists curling at his sides. For the first time, he saw his own daughter clearly... not as a failure, but as a rebel who dared love the thing he hated. His gaze lowered, and he said nothing.

Galen continued walking, and as he passed, he felt the weight of three pairs of eyes on him—Lucy’s, Mystica’s, and Magnus’s—each burning with a hundred questions.

"I’ll explain everything once we get back to Tempest," he muttered. "So stop looking at me like I’m a damn ghost."

"You better," Magnus snapped, falling in step. "You had a sister and didn’t say a word?"

Mystica followed close behind. "You know that’s like, wildly rude considering we’re your best friends, right?"

"Not the time or place for either of your whiny fits," Galen grumbled as they reached Liam’s tent.

The flap closed behind them, the air inside heavy with unspoken truths.

Queen Lucy lingered just outside, her eyes drifting back to Tharion—still kneeling, broken—and then to Valemir, whose gaze simmered with the heat of wounded pride.

She let out a slow breath, her voice quiet but cutting.

"If I were you, I’d believe Galen. Because I know him well enough to say... he always means exactly what he says."

And with that, she turned her back and walked away.

Tharion remained on his knees, fingers twitching against the blood-crusted stone where his sword had once fallen. The wind swept through like mourning wraiths, brushing the edges of his battered armor, as if pleading for him to rise again. But his will... was dust and hollowed. Carved out by a truth far crueler than any blade forged by man or magic.

He had slain his daughter.

Not in a blaze of blind fury, nor in the haze of madness. But with full clarity and judgment. With the weight of law clutched like a shield over his crumbling heart.

Serah had died not at the hands of a father... but beneath the hammer of a king. And now, that same law stretched its claws toward her son.

His grandson.

"Tharion," came King Valemir’s voice at last, tight and drawn like a bowstring on the verge of snapping. "Say something."

But the King of Solara did not answer.

His jaw clenched as his throat bobbed. His eyes, once like fire and gold, now shimmered with a glassy wetness—not from rage, but from the sorrow he could no longer swallow.

Valemir’s hands curled into trembling fists. "You let her die. And now you want to let him live? Is this your idea of redemption?"

Still, no words. Only the soft creak of armor and the thud of boot on stone as Tharion slowly pushed himself to his feet. His gaze no longer roared. It was stripped bare. Empty of title. Void of legacy. There was absolutely nothing.

He turned toward the palace of Solara without a word.

"Tharion!" Valemir barked, incredulous. "You’re walking away? Just like that? What happened to the decree we both signed, huh?!"

Tharion halted mid-step, his shadow spilling long across the infirmary’s war-torn floor. Slowly, he turned. His face was a mirror of ruin, eyes hollow and glistening.

"What do you want from me?" he rasped, voice cracked and broken. "You want me to walk into that tent and kill the only thing left of Serah? Her son? Please, Valemir... my thoughts are not mine right now. I can’t think like a king. I can’t think like a man. Do what you will... but leave me out of it."

And with that, Tharion turned again—shoulders sagging like broken pillars—and pushed through the silent infirmary. Through knights, medics, and warriors frozen by what they’d just heard. And then he was gone, slipping into the direction of his shattered palace.

Valemir stood frozen, stunned. The words echoed in his head like distant war drums.

A part of him—deep, aching—was relieved. His daughter, Sheila, was alive and safe. Liam, or whatever had been puppeting that boy’s body, had brought her back whole.

But even so... the boy was a dark mage.

A being tied to the very force the Crescent Kingdom was built to cleanse. He couldn’t accept that. Couldn’t forgive it. Because the foundations of Amthar’s north had been carved from sacred vows and blood oaths—vows that said darkness had no place in their lands.

And Valemir... was the king of the Crescent Kingdom.

He couldn’t afford mercy. Not for Liam. Not without betraying everything his crown stood for. But with Galen alive—stronger than ever—that desire to kill Liam would remain... a fantasy. He couldn’t endanger his people and family for personal vendetta.

Still, that didn’t mean he’d given up. No. It only meant he’d have to be... smarter.

His jaw tightened as he watched Tharion’s silhouette disappear into the golden light of the palace gates.

"Fine," he muttered under his breath, turning on his heel. "I’ll do what I must. Since your loyalty’s nothing but air now."

He walked toward Sheila’s tent, slipping inside with a soldier’s precision, the flap closing behind him with a quiet finality.

Silence reigned.

All around the camp, the remnants of three kingdoms stood still—mages, knights, scouts, and healers. Processing and digesting everything they had heard.

The name "Serah" meant little to most... but those who knew "Serah Magna" felt their blood chill. That she had a child—one touched by the dark? That shook something old, sacred and forbidden.

From the Crescent Kingdom, looks of revulsion broke out across faces—whispers heavy with disgust. Soldiers murmured behind hands. Mages looked to the sky as if waiting for divine judgment.

Even among the Solara ranks, once proud and unified, the doubt was spreading. Some knights shifted uncomfortably. A few stared in silent judgment toward the tent where the young dark mage lay.

But those of the Tempest Kingdom... they remained aloof. Detached. They had their own wounds to tend. Blood of their own to clean. To them, this wasn’t their kingdom’s shame. It was a family affair, and their queen—Queen Lucy Rature—would deal with it as only a Tempest monarch could.

She always had.

And so, under a rising silver moon, casting its mournful glow upon the ruined capital of Ilis, the night draped itself like a shroud across the battlefield.

A day had ended.

A day unlike any other in the chronicles of Amthar. A war born from the jaws of nowhere, dragging Gaia demons and hybrids into the heart of the continent. A war that should have been beneath the strength of three mighty kingdoms... and yet had nearly reduced a region to nothing but dust and screams.

Sylvathar’s assault—wild, brutal, and calculated—had very nearly wiped an entire bastion off the map.

But the people of Amthar... were not so easily broken.

With warriors who stood even when blood drowned their boots—heroes who fought not for titles but for those who couldn’t lift blades—Amthar survived.

And not just survived.

They had won.

The Gaia demons, that cursed lineage of nature twisted beyond reason... were no more. They were now extinct and erased. Sent back to the abyss from which they crawled.

But the wounds they left behind... the secrets they unearthed... and the boy lying in that tent?

Those were wars yet to come.