Sea of Glass ✔️

Chapter 38 - Pedigree

He would be lying if he said that abandoning the Duke to a certain death at the hands of the Demons didn't make him feel guilty. It was strange having empathy for someone who held him in such low regard. A snob might argue that it was the natural order of things to have the peasant look up to the aristocrat. And he would punch them in the face for saying so, but a classist remark like that failed to describe his inner turmoil.

Ingrid had died at the hands of a Demon, one who claimed to love her no less. He left the Duke to suffer a similar if not worse fate. At least Ingrid had a proper burial. The Duke was more likely to be trussed and roasted over a spit, awaiting the hungry stomachs of an army of savage Demons.

He tried not to picture it. He dreamt of a dark hole instead, a shallow shelter against the biting cold. In darkness, he could pretend there was no guilt. After all, Richard Artois was never really his father. They shared no blood or goodwill. He made him heir out of desperation. If he had it his way, Haydn would be dead, his blood for the blood of his sons.

But the Mortal Realm wasn't shaped by grieving aristocratic fathers. No, the hands that pushed the forces of fate were immortal. Mankind was at the mercy of the Pantheon for hundreds of years and they would continue to cower for hundreds more.

And yet, even with Odi's divine presence behind his power, he felt helpless. He couldn't save Ingrid or the Duke from their violent ends. But he should have never expected to be a hero, given what his God was an embodiment of.

Anhel and Odi were two sides of the coin of Chaos. Odi was destruction and Anhel was creation. They were the Original Traitor and the First Lover, respectively. One was the beacon of the North and the other was the light of the South. Pulled by the strings of fate, they were eternal lovers and fighters, repeating the same stories under the slow march of time.

It was inevitable that Haydn be made of ruination and treachery. Again and again, those who lingered by his side for too long perished. So, it was vital to him that Evelyn didn't suffer the same fate.

He watched her sleep peacefully, face shrouded by shadows. The twin suns had yet to rise over the horizon, so the room was colored in a comfortable gray. He heard little noise beyond the servants bustling outside the door to prepare for the day.

It was peaceful, an idyllic portrait of the life he always wanted to live. But it seemed wrong to him. Not because it was undeserved so much as it was unnatural. As illogical as it was, a strange force pulsed in his hands to destroy it all.

He remembered what it was like in the palace with her before the quest. He had been her pet, a plaything that just so happened to be her soulmate. The aristocrats at the palace barely tolerated him, amused by his exotic pale skin and rough ways. He didn't want to return to that, forever beneath her.

They were meant to stand as equals, the mortal reflections of their Gods in Otherworld. They were both chosen to be conduits of Chaos. No hierarchy should exist between them.

He reached for her hand, tracing the crescent moon that branded them both. He reminded himself that she loved him and might be the only person alive who cared for him without expecting anything in return. She was pure in that way, holier than any priest he ever met.

It was everyone else that posed a problem. They were the ones trying to shove him into a place where they could say he was less than her. But what did they know of their bond? Most would never feel a love that could hold a candle to theirs. Who else had pure, unfiltered Chaos pumping through their veins?

She stirred in her sleep, unconsciously pulling him closer. He reveled in her warmth, resting his cheek against her chest. How many years had he gone without human touch before meeting her? If he died in her arms that morning, he would have left the world as a happy man.