164.
Act 3. The Tomb Has No Name
“A terrible monster lurks inside my son’s body.”
His father spoke in a mournful tone.
Eyes clouded with fear and agony glanced briefly across his face before returning to the elderly priest in liturgical robes.
“You know it well, do you not? The curse that runs through the Shearkan bloodline…”
A heavy disgust seeped into his father’s voice.
“My grandfather possessed the ‘Demon’s Eye.’ He could see through not only the hearts of men, but their very destinies. Everyone revered and feared him for it, but I knew the true nature of that power. It is nothing more than an ominous, wicked force that defies divine providence.”
His father’s glinting eyes turned toward the altar of the prayer room.
Carved into the white marble dais were the heroes who had helped found the Roem Empire, alongside the heathens who had fought against them.
Staring intently at the relief, his father continued as if making a confession.
“In the past, our ancestors sought to conquer nations using that power. Through wicked sorcery, they trampled other races and spilled their blood, offering the essence of life to the spirits of the earth. They believed that land stained with blood would remain our clan’s domain for eternity.”
Pausing, his father lifted his gaze.
The light piercing through the stained glass cast a strange luster over his father’s eyes. He looked like a man possessed.
“Yet the ambitions of our ancestors were ruthlessly crushed before the apostles of God. Considering the sins of the Khan, we rightfully should have become slaves to the victors. Even so, the merciful Creator embraced our sinful race as His people. In return for that grace, the Shearkan family swore to fulfill their duties as loyal subjects of the Empire.”
His father’s gaze settled back on him. He could tell the entire story was meant for his ears, not the priest’s.
After staring at him for a long while with anguished eyes, his father resumed his lament.
“Until now, we have kept that oath, fulfilling our duties as followers of the Imperial Orthodox Church and faithful servants of the Imperial Family. Yet the heretical taint flowing in Shearkan blood has never been truly severed. It surfaced in my grandfather, and now, in my son…”
His father’s thin lips twitched faintly. It was the face of a man desperately suppressing something surging from within.
He wondered what that swallowed feeling truly was.
Was it revulsion? Or was it grief?
After a long silence, as if gathering the turmoil in his chest, his father finally spoke with hard resolve.
“I wish to excise the savage nature this child bears and mold him into a proper heir. To that end, I ask that the Holy See lend its aid.”
The elderly priest, who had listened in silence, spoke with evident hesitation.
“The young master is still so young. Perhaps it would be wiser to wait until he is older before beginning his education, as has been done until now…”
“That is not enough.”
His father cut the priest off sharply.
“Many Easterners still cling to the old ways. Left to grow among them, my son will lose every trace of who he must be as a subject of the Empire. He must be removed from this land at once.”
The priest looked down at him with an inquiring gaze.
He seemed to wonder what it was about this small boy, barely reaching his waist, that filled the ruler of the East with such dread.
The boy wondered, too. What had his father seen in him to become so certain?
As he looked up blankly, his father’s eyes darkened into an abyss.
“I can sense it. Something that once dwelt inside my ancestors dwells within this child as well… If my son grows up according to his nature, this land will be thrown into utter ruin.”
With those words, heavy as a curse, his father’s figure melted grotesquely away like soft tallow.
The brilliant light in the prayer room faded to ash. The world tilted and spun to a piercing ring.
From somewhere came the hollow crash of an iron door slamming shut.
In the next moment, he was locked in a solitary cell so cold it chilled him to the marrow.
He had been thrown here often. It was always for defying the rules of the monastery, for questioning the priests' doctrine.
He did not know why he kept up such pointless defiance. His resistance had brought him nothing but brutal floggings.
His head knew it was wiser to feign obedience. Yet something in his chest refused to bend.
Perhaps the violent presence his father spoke of was what drove him to this torment.
Because of it, he had to endure unending agony. Unless he broke what was inside him, he would never leave this place.
So he fought against himself—against the part of him that would not yield. He waged war on his own urge to resist. He swore that if a monstrous thing truly lurked within him, he would tear it out with his own hands.
That desperate vow unspooled a strange vision before his eyes.
One day, in a frozen pocket of time, he found himself facing a colossal beast. This creature was the root of his suffering.
He stepped toward it to carry out the resolve forged in that dark, cramped cell, hammered into him beneath the lash.
Before he realized it, a pale blade filled his grip. He drove it straight into the chest of the beast towering over him.
The massive, feverish frame thrashed in agony. Over and over, he hacked into the heavy, flailing body until the giant clad in black fur finally crashed down, lifeless.
Yet its six crimson eyes were still watching him. With a trembling hand, he reached out and touched the blood-drenched fur. The frozen heart beat no longer.
Would this finally free him from the pain?
Something warm trickled down his cheek. He touched his face and found it wet with tears.
He could not even understand why he was weeping. Bewildered, he looked back down.
The six-eyed monster was gone. In its place lay a fair-haired boy.
He turned the body over and saw his own face, cold and drained of life. Droplets fell onto the pale skin, yet the sorrow ran dry in an instant, and the vision scattered like smoke.
When he opened his eyes again, he knew that a part of him had died for good.
The smell of blood drifted on the air.
Waking from a shallow sleep, Varkas looked out past the entrance of the tent with dull eyes. The pale morning sun, barely cresting the horizon, threw down a cold light.
He judged the hour by the light, rose, belted on his scabbard, and stepped outside. Orderly rows of military tents and the bustle of an encampment met his view.
Cutting through the stir of soldiers, he made his way toward the perimeter.
Austerely mounted atop the wooden palisade were the severed heads of the traitors he had executed days ago. He looked briefly at the hollow sockets picked bare by birds, then climbed the watch ladder to look out over the captured ground.
The ramparts of Beldis, a key northern stronghold, and the wide plains stretching west lay spread before him.
In a land broken by jagged peaks and steep gorges, Beldis was one of the few open stretches where large armies could meet in open battle.
Most bulk supplies and reinforcements bound for southeastern Balto were forced through this corridor. Holding it meant Balto was effectively cut off.
‘We should be able to force negotiations soon.’
Leaning against the timber rail, he unhooked the canteen at his waist and drank.
Cornered, the lords of the Northern Federation would soon abandon the leaders of the revolt.
They would scramble to settle terms by installing a new figurehead loyal to the crown.
If he could sway the Imperial Family to sign a treaty then, this grinding war of attrition would finally end.
‘Two months at the earliest. Three at most, and I can return to Kalmor.’
He let out a slow breath and pushed back his unkempt hair.
It had been more than two years since the civil war erupted. He had returned to Raedgo Castle whenever a lull permitted, but once the fighting intensified, he could only follow affairs through couriers.
The last time he had laid eyes on her was six months ago.
Even then, he had merely watched her from a distance. Being away from the castle for so long left him deeply uneasy.
Though regular reports on her health reached him through the Head Maid and his men, dry words scratched on parchment could never set his mind at rest.
END