Threads Of Fate (Being Revamped)

The Shrouded Past

Edward's stomach churned. With every low, deliberate word Zenith read out, he felt the sour roll of bile at the back of his throat. Her voice was quiet — subdued not from shame, but from the need to keep prying tavern ears from catching a single word. Yet even spoken under breath, the Duke's words seemed to echo, their vile intent pressing like a weight on Edward's chest.

The guilt crept in again. That old, familiar, poisonous thing. It slithered, coiling around his ribs, tightening with each description Zenith recited. He leaned back slowly, trying to put distance between himself and the open diary, though it was useless. The stench of the Duke's mind clung to every letter.

He tore his gaze away, fixing it on some indeterminate point over Zenith's shoulder. But out of the corner of his eye, he caught it — the flicker of her glance, the keen awareness she always seemed to have of him. She'd seen his reaction.

"Should I stop, Eddie?" Zenith's question was soft, but it had the weight of a stone dropped into a still pond. Both Anthony and Anya's eyes darted to him in unison, waiting for his answer.

Edward pressed his lips together, not trusting himself to speak immediately. The thought of enduring one more foul memory set to ink made his muscles tense, but the idea of burying his head in the sand was worse. Finally, he inclined his head in a small, resigned nod.

"Please... continue."

Her gaze lingered, searching his face as if reading the truth behind his words. "Are you sure?"

He met her eyes steadily, though the faint tremor in his jaw betrayed him. "I'm sure."

And he was — in the way a man is sure that standing in the rain will leave him drenched. He knew exactly how much this could strip at him... and at Anya.

His glance slid toward his sister, gauging her state. At first, she looked almost unnervingly calm, her chin lifted slightly, her lips pressed into that stubborn little line that meant she refused to appear shaken. But as his eyes dipped lower, he caught something — the slight, unconscious twitched movement at the small of her back. Anthony's hand was there, discreet but steady, fingertips tracing small, slow circles meant to ground her. She didn't lean into him... but she didn't move away either.

Edward felt the faintest, reluctant smile tug inside his mind. He'd spent years stepping between his sister and the world's harm. If Anthony's presence made her feel unbreakable for the moment — fine. Let her borrow that from him.

As for himself... there was no such comfort.

In his mind's eye, he could almost feel the gaze of his late father, sharp and heavy as though carved from marble, bearing down on him from whatever judgment-place lay beyond this life. That silent, unwavering disappointment radiated stronger with each depraved line Zenith recited — each reminder of how Edward had failed to shield her from the vile shadow now preserved on parchment.

And yet... he knew he deserved to feel it.

If enduring this filth was part of his punishment, then he would not flinch from it.

"Go ahead," he told Zenith, voice level now, as though saying it with clarity could make it truth. "I'll be fine."

He drew in a breath and turned to Anya, whose blue eyes were waiting for his. "What about you? Are you sure you want to continue?"

She nodded without hesitation. There was a steel there that he both admired and feared for her.

"Alright," Zenith said. She looked to Anya one last time as though granting her an out, then lowered her gaze to the diary. Pages rustled under her fingers, the faint crackle of parchment sounding almost too loud in their little corner.