Melody of the Sun

Chapter 4

Sparkling crystals drifted and clung to tightly shut windows of the estate, the chilled breeze refusing to release its grip this season. Each thick layer of pale snow muffled the wind's cry, reducing the world beyond to a nauseating sense of isolation. A pale hand rested against his face, brushing his temple and lips, as if to shield him from the weight of his thoughts. Just then, diagonally, a scarlet-stained shirt rose and fell.

At dawn, he burned with the same heaviness.

He thought he heard the wind when a hoarse, ragged breath squeaked through, then fell deadly silent. He squinted, following the rhythm of the motionless form he had discarded right after it passed out—it's feet dangling at the edge, hands scattered as if in desperate worship of the air, shadows cloaking its shame from sight.

The last time blood had tasted so twisted on his tongue—a thought that made him shift in his seat—was when he emerged from the grave, begging and heaving, dirt-filled nails crawling at the earth as his skin tore and peeled to his elbows. He had hunched at the feet of the towering master, trembling over the rodent tossed before him. How he had wailed and latched onto it, ripping and tangling his fangs in its flesh with reckless haste, while their slender yet formidable form watched on.

He would burrow into the earth itself, claw to its very core if it meant to be fed, unhinge his jaw, turn himself inside out to sate that gnawing, endless hunger his undead self demanded. Oh, those endless months of despair! The unyielding rage and helplessness too much to bear!

Was this the universe's reckoning? Some perverse punishment for his past life as magistrate, where he had wielded authority as he saw it. For simply doing what they all did? Survive.

Lost in memory, he sank deeper into the armchair, one recollection staining his mind above all others. She—the young Chessentan girl, teetering on the edge of adulthood. He remembered her sturdy arms cradling a bouquet of tools, a stance both humble and unyielding. Gathering her dark tresses with quiet resolve, she bared her neck, each movement deliberate, a display of resilience laced with innocence. The sunlight had never looked so purposeful as it played over her, so delicately, filling the air with an intangible ache.

Her confidence, admiringly draped over her shoulders, crowned her. And she was, once again, Arden of Meritus.

Meritus. A name etched in darkness, a scar upon his trust in mortals. How influential, intelligent and progressive they were in their prime! Warriors and generals who forged their way into aristocracy with cunning and blood. Their power endured through banking, an empire spanning scattered islands with an iron grip. Even as rogue by heart, he admired those who defied convention, who kept old rituals alive, who believed in vengeance, blood and strength. Anyone could wield a weapon, but true cunning—true power—was a rare gift, a fierce loyalty tempered into an unbreakable bond.

He needed that.

Yet it was his own master who orchestrated his ruin. Cazador, whose very name sent a chill through his spine, even in death, had left him ensnared, surrounded by allies bound by a twisted loyalty as if under a curse. Despite breaking free from his master's chains, despite savouring the taste of freedom, a strength without restraint, Astarion had failed. Again.

In desperation or perhaps fear, only one path emerged. And that very month, he ascended, he disappeared from sight, vanishing from history.

But she lingered.

A hundred winters had passed since the ascended's return to the thriving harbour. The local fascination with The May's mysterious disappearance had faded into history, leaving behind only the hum of daily life. The harbour, once teeming with worshippers hoping for a miracle from the blue Sea of Swords' depths, now pulsed with the lively scents of spices and fresh produce.