XA
Chapter 9
The fire raged for an entire day, reducing Elvira’s small estate to nothing but ash and charred ruins.
The acrid stench of smoke filled the air, suffocating and overpowering, and the once majestic walls of the palace were now streaked black, their original form almost unrecognizable. The treasures and trinkets inside had been reduced to cinders, and where the bed once stood, a twisted, blackened corpse lay curled unnaturally, as if it had suffered immense agony in its final moments.
At the sight of this, Alistair’s pupils contracted sharply. His heart seemed to tear open, bleeding and hollow, causing him indescribable pain.
Elvira… is she dead?
How could this be? Just last night, she had been well. Just last night, she had promised him she would be with him this evening!
Clenching his fists, blood dripped from his fingers, staining the ground.
“Investigate the fire immediately! Find the culprit, or you will face my wrath!” he shouted at the attendants behind him, veins throbbing in his forehead.
Were it not for the last shred of rationality left, he would have likely drawn his sword in a fit of fury.
The servants trembled in fear. It had been a long time since the king had been this enraged. The last time it was so intense, was when Lady Isabeau had married another. And now…
They quickly rushed off to investigate, not daring to delay for even a moment.
Boom! A deafening thunderclap filled the air, and the sky darkened ominously, as if a torrential rain was on its way.
The scorched remnants of jewelry near the corpse were all gifts Alistair had bestowed upon her. Even the bracelet adorning her wrist was one he had given her.
The fragments of her clothes only served to confirm what he already dreaded. The charred remains could be no one but Elvira.
No matter how much he wanted to deny it, the evidence was undeniable.
Even as a king, no matter how many treasures he possessed or how much power he wielded, there was nothing he could do to bring her back.
A sudden wave of panic and sorrow engulfed him. He pressed his hand to his chest, the pain so sharp it felt as if it were tearing through his very soul.
“Elvira…” Alistair’s voice was hoarse, barely a whisper.
Staring at her burnt remains, he reached out to touch her, but his trembling fingers recoiled before they could make contact. He was afraid–afraid that if he touched her, he would shatter her remains into dust.
The rain began to pour, heavy and relentless, as if nature itself sought to cleanse the scene.
Alistair, unable to contain himself, embraced her body, intending to take it away to shield it from the storm. But the bones were too brittle, too scorched, falling apart as he tried to hold her.
His movements faltered, and in the depths of his eyes, a dark, maddened glint flickered. A bitter, cynical laugh escaped his lips.
“Elvira… I told you. You would never escape me! You think death is your escape? No way! Whether in heaven or hell, I will find you and keep you by my side, tormenting you until the end of time!”
His hands, trembling with fury, gathered her scattered bones, as though he sought to force them back into his own flesh. He wished to bind her to him, forever.
In the cold, crystal–clear coffin, the disfigured remains of Elvira lay, pieced together as best as he could manage, her lifeless body quiet in its final repose.
Alistair stood before her, gazing down, his eyes tracing the contours of her face, as if he could recall the image of her sleeping peacefully. She would never awaken again. Her fiery, defiant gaze would never meet his again.
The pain in his chest was unbearable, far worse than when Isabeau had married another.
In the past, he had merely viewed Elvira as a tool to vent his anger, but when had she begun to matter, so much to him?
Alistair did not know. But at this moment, he longed more than anything for her to return to him, to stand before him alive, even if only for a brief
moment.
But he knew that was impossible. And in that knowledge, despair crushed him, leaving only silent sorrow.
