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Zorba had not anticipated the sight of Louis plummeting from the Opera rooftop, crimson lifeblood staining the floorboards below as death brushed close.
Hidden in the shadows, Zorba had observed the entire scene, his presence cloaked, concealed for as long as possible—whether the bystanders were ally or enemy mattered not.
Since the incident at the Grand Cathedral, this veil of secrecy had become his only companion, each moment part of the intricate machinery driving Louis’s grand designs.
However, blending in among the Sanctists repulsed him, he was privy to their scorn and hypocrisy, their venom thinly veiled by piety.
Within the garden they cherished so zealously, a venomous viper lay in wait, ready to end their lives in one swift strike.
And yet, the viper in question was not himself.
It was no wonder Louis sought to cleanse this infestation, to snuff out their Sanctifex and lay waste to the hollow lives they clung to. The plan had been clear, once they’d rendezvous in Altabury, Louis's grand design would unfold, striking first at the head of the vile beast they called a leader.
Zorba knew well the treachery of these new so-called ‘allies’, who dared curry favor with Louis even as they plotted with deceit. Their ruse, a counterfeit lance, was nothing he had not anticipated.
Through the sharpened senses granted by his forced transformation, he perceived the weapon’s hollow nature—devoid of magla’s flow, a pitiful, empty shell.
The intention was to rid of the pests first, however...
Neither he nor Louis could have foreseen this outcome.
Upon seeing Louis’s unconscious form fall from the roof, Zorba felt his composure slip, but he forced himself to remain calm; any outward display of distress would unravel his disguise.
He believed, despite the shock, that Louis was indomitable—that no injury would prove fatal.
And indeed—he was correct. Once the disbelief ebbed, he recognized that Louis’s injuries, though real, posed no mortal threat. The plan would have to shift, if only temporarily, to accommodate this unexpected turn.
It required no more than declaring Louis dead to quell suspicions—such a spectacle of blood pooling beneath his body, staining his elegant garments a morbid crimson, left little room for doubt among the onlookers. The sight was all that was required; it demanded belief. In the ensuing commotion, not a soul dared to question his account, unquestioningly accepting his word.
Fools, all of them.
A foolish yet convenient gamble that served his purpose perfectly.
“Dispose of his body at once. Ensure not even ash remains.” a voice commanded with venomous disdain, eager to erase every trace of Louis from the earth.
Zorba listened, seething, his teeth grinding beneath a mask of compliance as he “obeyed,” each acquiescence a veil over his true intent. Though, none the wiser, it was a grim blessing that the task fell to him, a gift veiled in misfortune.
Fortuitously, the duty of “disposing” of Louis’s body was left to him, with instructions to incinerate him within a forsaken church in Altabury—a place the Sanctists had repurposed for their foul machinations. He knew the way well enough, and if not, it would have taken little effort to extract directions from some hapless soul.
For now, however, there would be no interference, no intruding eyes, no soul would disturb him.
He cradled Louis’s form, his hands possessive, fierce, as though guarding a treasure mistaken for refuse. To others, he held but a corpse; to Zorba, even this bloodied, broken body held more worth than the lives of every Sanctist he had crushed under his heel on his way to the chapel.
In the abandoned chapel, a golden altar stood before him—a temporary shrine to lay Louis upon, away from the desecration of the outside world. The two of them, alone.
The gleaming of stained glass, radiant yet corrupted, cast an unholy radiance around them, an ironic mockery of holy grandeur, veiling the rot festering beneath the surface—a decay of hatred, prejudice, hypocrisy, all cloaked in hollow whispered prayers.
Here, in this hollow sanctuary of polished crystal and gilded rot—Only Louis alone was worthy of veneration.
The rest, their hymns and creeds, were mere fodder for disdain.
Zorba laid Louis down, the stillness deepening as if the world outside had shrunk to a muted pulse. The wound was cruel but not mortal; it wept crimson still, a dark testament to a near undoing.
He worked with a deft hand, urgency tempered by the ritualistic need to care, to bind, to reclaim. His mind refused anything beyond this sanctified act—saving him, holding him, cherishing the fragile lines between devotion and madness.
Louis was not in imminent peril, yet his wounds ran deep. Inaction would spell his demise if left untended, but Zorba would not allow that fate.
His lord would live; he had staked his very existence on it.
He would never allow death to claim Louis—certainly not now, not when he could linger in this stolen intimacy, admiring a beauty he had only ever worshipped from afar.
Death was a thief he’d never allow to come between them.
For now, even as time slid away like grains of sand through his fingers, he indulged in an uncharacteristic moment of selfishness.
Rarely had he been granted the privilege of proximity, and here, within his grasp, was Louis—so close, so vulnerable.
Though drained and pale from blood loss, there was a haunting elegance to Louis in this state, a testament to his strength, an allure sharpened as he teetered on the edge of mortality.
With a hesitant reverence, Zorba reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from Louis’s face, allowing himself the indulgence of admiration he seldom permitted. His mind urged him to cast away every trace of selfish desire, to remember his oath of absolute service. And yet, here, in this sanctified stillness, he found his free will stirring against his conscious mind. A part of him dared to disobey, savoring the beauty that lay before him, ensnared by a sliver of longing yearning to reclaim something he’d long surrendered.
Steeling himself, he forced his hand to resume its purpose, setting aside his inner turmoil to begin the delicate work of stitching flesh.
Stitching together torn flesh was no foreign ordeal for him, though he had never imagined himself in the role of healer. Normally, he was the one delivering pain, not alleviating it. Yet, for Louis, he would learn patience, skill, delicacy—even if his own unrefined hands betrayed him.
The damage beneath Louis’s armor was worse than it first appeared—his chest bore a wound so deep that the faint pulsing of his heart was visible, a macabre vision of raw vitality hanging by a thread. Fate’s mercy had spared him from a fatal blow, mere inches separating his life from oblivion.
It was no coincidence, this miracle felt like providence—Louis’s resilience, his supremacy, was absolute. Compared to Louis, even those who dared to wound him were nothing but insects to be crushed.
That pulse—a silent, defiant rhythm, steadfast despite the brutality endured—entranced Zorba. The sight of the organ that sustained his lord’s life, faintly discernible through the wound, was achingly…intimate.
A fragile, forbidden visceral sight into the essence of life itself.
He shouldered this duty with a curious blend of reverence and desire, the act of healing Louis stirring sensations he could scarcely admit, even to himself.
Each shallow rise and fall of Louis’s chest, even marred by injury, sent a subtle jolt through Zorba. His own pulse quickening as he worked, caught in the intoxicating cadence of life itself. A strange, magnetic thrill surged within him, compelling yet impossible to embrace.
The silence was heavy, each sound amplifying the stillness of the chapel, tempting him to abandon restraint. Though inflicting harm came naturally to him, the thought of causing pain to Louis was unthinkable. Zorba’s hand softened as it stitched Louis’s flesh, each movement laden with care. For his lord, he’d forsake brutality, trade it for tenderness—even if it was alien to him.
This temptation to linger—to revel in this silence broken only by Louis’s breaths, seductive whispers in the stillness, gnawed at his composure. But he wrenched his focus back to his duty, though the task felt strangely delicate, a word he would never have associated with himself.
The magla-thread he wove through Louis’s flesh glowed faintly, an ethereal lifeline, as if spun from the very fabric of fate itself, binding Louis’s life to this world with each delicate stitch. Zorba dared to believe it might prolong his lord’s fate, giving back what the world seemed so ready to take.
As his hand pressed deeper, feeling warm blood slick his fingers, he was struck by an exhilaration he knew he should not savor. The metallic scent filled his senses, intoxicating, almost enthralling. He forced himself to remain steady, yet his focus wavered, the line between duty and devotion blurring with each breath.
Glancing at his lord’s face, his gaze fell upon a faint trail of blood trickling from Louis’s parted lips—a crimson line, delicate yet striking. Perhaps it was the aftermath of pain, or the result of Zorba’s ministrations. The sight stirred something feral within him, a primal urge to lean closer, to let himself be drawn in by that alluring crimson trace.
His focus was faltering in this hypnotic, seductive invitation—pulling him closer to a boundary he dared not cross.
Though Louis lay motionless, his unconscious form untouched by awareness, Zorba’s heart thrilled to witness the slow rise and fall of his chest, the faint warmth of life still gracing his lord’s veins.
Blood seeped sluggishly from the grievous wound, his blood painting his porcelain skin in shades of crimson. The sight of his marred flesh—torn, bruised, and laid bare—was, to Zorba, hauntingly beautiful.
What others might find disfigured and grotesque only captivated him further, an allure made sharper by the touch of death.
Since his transformation, Zorba felt desires he had long buried surge to the surface, raw and unfiltered. Perhaps it was a consequence of having conquered anxiety as his body was forcefully corroded in Melancholia—yet, he survived through it all.
If surviving his inner torments had yielded such clarity, then perhaps it was his destiny to embrace these darker inclinations, lending him the boldness to indulge.
He craved not only to gaze upon Louis but to sense and savor every fiber of his being—his every sinew, the crimson tide coursing through his veins. Louis’s heart’s thunderous beat was a symphony that drowned the world in silence— it was a hymn, a melody only he was privileged to hear.
Would Louis allow such a thing, if he were awake? Permit him this sacrilegious indulgence? It was impossible to know; Louis never deigned to answer such questions, and any answer would be an enigma, leaving him to decipher it himself.
Bound to his lord’s will, Zorba had been a servant without autonomy. Zorba knew he ought to await orders, to still his yearning. But how could he deny the maddening pull to hold Louis close, here in this rare, clandestine moment?
His reverence slid into something blasphemous, uncontrollable. Blood pooled between his bitten lips as he fought the rising tide of desire, but even his own pain was inadequate to banish it.
“Lord Louis... forgive me”
The words fell from his lips, prayer-like, as he yielded to the fierce ache within, voice breaking under the weight of his transgression.
He told himself he didn’t deserve even to be in his lord’s presence, yet here he was, blessed and cursed by proximity. Protecting Louis’s life was never a command; it was simply his own compulsion, an unspoken oath.
Slowly, reverently, he pressed his hand into the hollow of Louis’s chest, slipping his fingers past broken flesh to cradle the precious, untouched heart that pulsed beneath. The rhythm seeped into him, an intimate connection that bound them more deeply than any vow. With each faint grasp, his own heart pounded in harmony, an echo of his lord’s pulse.
With each delicate squeeze, Zorba’s gaze drifted to the faint trail of blood on Louis's lips, rich and dark against his pallor, a beautiful crimson that painted him divine.
Forbidden thoughts swelled within, urging him forward, telling him he had been blessed to touch his god in this fragile, mortal form.
He would never dare risk his lord’s life, never dream of harm; he handled that fragile organ as if it were the most precious relic, cradling it gently. Only the gentlest pressure, enough to deepen the flow of crimson from Louis’s lips, was permitted. Zorba watched, entranced, as those lips stained a deeper red, a divine image that etched itself into his memory.
How he longed to abandon all restraint, yet he knew his place.
A shaky exhale escaped his lips, a sound too close to a groan for his comfort.
He would give his life to this man without a second thought, would stand at death’s door for him, just to prove his devotion. This was not love as mortals knew it—it was faith, pure and consuming.
The sensation was maddening, and yet, he was so painfully aware of his insignificance in the face of this holy union.
In this sacred moment, Zorba felt that perhaps the divine had indeed smiled upon him.
He held no faith in the God worshipped by the Sanctists, no—never.
However, the Sanctists, for all their hypocrisy, understood one thing—Devotion.
To give everything and expect nothing, to burn in the fire of loyalty without regard for the pain.
Through their sins, he had learned this
This fervent loyalty of his was like a flame, consuming him from within, yet he embraced it, finding solace in the very fire that threatened to consume him.
Though he had never concerned himself with the tangled threads of his fractured lineage—bearing only half of Mustari blood—there remained one vestige of their belief that resonated within him.
They revered devotion, pledging fealty to gods unseen, content to serve without question or reward. It dawned on him now that he, too, despite his incomplete faith and heritage, had a god to worship—not an ethereal deity but a flesh-and-blood divinity
Louis was not a man he could approach as mere mortals do, he was not someone to know in the ways of common men. No—Louis was his God.
Even if Louis would never cast a single gaze his way, never return a word of praise or understanding, Zorba’s loyalty would endure, unshaken. He existed solely to serve, even if it meant his own end.
And as though blessed by his God, he drank from Louis’s essence, binding himself to his lord in ways mere words could never convey. His restraint shattered as he descended, their lips colliding in a kiss both reverent and defiled, marked by the forbidden tang that clung to his tongue.
It was a gentle act in form alone—its true nature seethed with an unspeakable craving, a sacrilegious hunger gnawing at the edge of madness.
The blood that seeped from Louis’s lips was more intoxicating than any wine, richer than any earthly pleasure. The taste was heady, an iron sweetness that clouded his senses. Louis’s tongue lay still, unresponsive, but Zorba did not need reciprocation.
Zorba felt his resolve weaken, giving in to temptation as he leaned forward, sealing his lips against Louis’s. Here, entwined in shadows, he gave himself to his god completely, heedless of consequence.
The kiss ended, leaving him breathless, each heartbeat a drumbeat in his ears, pulsing with sinful ecstasy. The sensation of his fingers, slick and crimson where they pressed against Louis’s chest, reminded him of his sworn purpose—a sacred duty now twisted into a grotesque worship.
His eyes flickered upward to meet Louis's, seeking some glimmer of acknowledgment, some hint of judgment or salvation, but his eyes remained clouded as if he were untouched by the transgression. The silence between them roared louder than the blood pounding in his veins.
A shiver, cold and sharp, traced its path down his spine, entwining itself with dread. If Louis had felt the weight of Zorba’s transgression, what fate awaited him? Exile from the sanctuary of his god's presence? Or something far worse, an obliteration of the devotion that had become his reason for breathing, seen as a traitor? The thought coiled in his gut like a viper, both torment and allure.
The thick, metallic taste, the rusted scent—each sensation drew him deeper into rapture. He should step back, force himself into the frigid distance of duty. Yet the void that loomed at the mere thought of withdrawal was more harrowing than damnation itself.
With a trembling defiance, he leaned in once more, letting his lips ghost over Louis’s skin, a touch so insubstantial it was less a kiss and more a whispered prayer. The spark that coursed through him was electric, an agony he longed to bask in.
Against his fingertips, Louis’s heartbeat was strong, relentless, each beat a benediction that allowed Zorba to pretend, for a fleeting moment, that this dark devotion might sustain him. Here, pressed so close, he could abandon the burdens of duty and drown in the twisted solace of serving his living god.
The transformation Louis had bestowed upon him—a metamorphosis others might call grotesque or vile—was, to Zorba, an exalted blessing. He viewed it as beauty made flesh, a mark of privilege.
His other hand, twisted yet reverent, entwined itself with lifeless fingers, as if his most fervent, unspoken wish were to merge with his lord, body and soul, a wish concealed deep within his subconscious.
But he knew that such unity was a fantasy; obedience was all he was granted, and obedience was all he required.
Still, as he gazed upon Louis, a pang of regret surfaced, subtle yet insistent—a mournful realization that he could no longer touch his lord as he longed to.
His lord’s stillness was a cruel reminder of his own insignificance, yet he dared to draw close, drawn like a moth to the deadly flame.
The shame gnawed at him—a disgraceful, filthy compulsion unworthy of Louis’s grace, staining him with a baseness he despised but could not deny.
How fitting, he thought bitterly. Filthy and disgraced—that was his true nature. And if he soiled his god with his own unworthy hands, wasn’t that exactly what he deserved?
He could not restrain the swell of sensation that gripped him now, an arousal that throbbed, unwelcome and insistent, a reminder of the taint within his blood—the impure lineage that marked him unworthy.
He had believed himself stripped of earthly desire, reduced to a vessel of worship, but here he was, trembling with shame and longing. Beneath his clothes, he felt himself harden painfully, each pulse amplifying his shame, aching in a way that left him breathless.
Though his conscience roared in protest, he could feel himself weakening, his body betraying his sacred vows. Satisfaction through such lowly indulgence would bring no honor.
Even if his other hand were untouched by this transformation, he would find no solace in appeasing himself in such a debased manner. No, the satisfaction he sought was not of the flesh alone.
However, despite himself, a whimper escaped his lips, low and debauched, echoing off the chapel walls.
He knew his indulgence had to end. The nights in Altabury may seem endless, but Louis had a destiny to fulfill, a world to reshape, and Zorba had his own role to play in bringing that vision to life. He could not afford to let his desires control him, even if his need for Louis surged like a living flame, burning his resolve.
But could he truly stop now, with such fire raging within him? His duty was to heal Louis, to restore his lord to fulfill the destiny awaiting him. And yet, he needed Louis in a way that made his chest ache, a longing so profound it threatened to burst his heart. To ease this agony, to quell this insatiable yearning—perhaps that, too, was part of his task.
Could he justify this yearning, this transgression, as necessary for the completion of his task? Would such reasoning be a betrayal of Louis’s trust?
No…If Louis had entrusted him with his life, then this was not treachery—this was fidelity, exalted and profane.
Slowly, Zorba climbed onto the altar, aligning himself with Louis until they lay face to face, body against body, a sacred intimacy he had never dared dream of. He would never defile his lord, never overstep those boundaries. But to lie here, feeling Louis’s form beneath him, was a benediction of its own. The faint warmth of Louis’s skin pressed against him, igniting every nerve within, an union that only his desperation could rationalize.
Zorba would never touch him, never dare to act upon his basest desires... but maybe, just this once, he could allow himself the smallest indulgence. Perhaps this fleeting nearness would be enough to quiet the roaring hunger within him.
He moved subtly, allowing friction to fuel his desire, though his intentions twisted and turned in the darkness of his need.
His eyes fell shut as he surrendered, his hips moving with a rhythm born of desperation, grinding against the figure beneath him. Each fleeting friction sent a searing jolt through his veins, a mixture of ecstasy and dread that tangled into an unholy rapture.
It was wrong—irredeemably, grotesquely wrong.
He was meant to serve Louis, not defile him in this shameful dance. Yet, the shreds of self-control unraveled, lost to the sensory siege.
The scent of Louis’s bloodied skin, the muted gasps, and the echo of his own labored breaths ricocheted from the cold, unfeeling stone walls.
Every drive forward pushed him closer to a precipice he dared not acknowledge, a feral need gnawing at him, clawing up from within his chest until groans broke free, primal and raw.
He was no better than a beast, a filthy, depraved creature that dared to touch his god. The realization should have disgusted him, and yet, he could not deny the perverse thrill that coursed through him, the illicit satisfaction that mounted with each movement.
He was treading dangerous waters, his lust threatening to drown him, and yet, he could not bring himself to stop.
It was blasphemous—and yet, he could not resist.
Zorba was no god, no holy being, no noble or saint. He was no more than a man, a mortal, a sinner—and this was what men did.
Shame scorched his insides, pooling thick and damp at the source of his need. His body strained against its confines, throbbing, aching for absolution.
But he would not touch himself, could not allow that disgrace. Instead, he let the grind against Louis suffice, the rasp of fabric, the fevered heat where their bodies met—a debasement in every sense, a confession of sin in flesh.
Despite the feverish pull of desire, he reminded himself that his purpose was to tend to Louis’s wounds. That duty came before any indulgence. He had already allowed himself far more time than he should have, a reckless liberty he struggled to restrain.
The chapel was steeped in the silence of old prayers, broken only by his ragged breathing, the muffled rustle of movement, the blasphemous litany of a man losing himself. He was unworthy of such nearness, of this stolen sacrament—unfit to press flesh to the sanctity that was his lord.
But even as he recited these bitter truths, his hand, traitorous and unrepentant, slid up the curve of Louis’s chest, mapping the sacred territory with trembling reverence, caught between worship and desecration.
His hands returned to the gaping cavity in Louis’s chest, weaving thin threads of magla with meticulous care, fingers tracing the delicate ridges of tissue and bone. The squelch of torn flesh filled his ears, a twisted symphony of intimacy and pain.
Even the mere sensation of Louis’s warmth—his blood slick against Zorba's fingers—was enough to arouse him, an ecstasy far more intoxicating than the friction between their bodies. His body pressed flush against his lord’s, his member brushing along Louis’s own form, each shift of his weight heightening his longing.
In his fervor, he found himself gripping the edges of the wound more firmly, tugging at the flesh with a carelessness that bordered on hunger. The cavity widened under his touch, revealing more of Louis’s ribcage, the stark whiteness of bone gleaming through the blood-streaked opening. Zorba’s breath hitched, his gaze locked on this sacred revelation. He reminded himself that he could mend it all, heal every inch that he had greedily claimed —but the sight alone was a blessing, a privilege reserved for him alone.
Desire coiled tighter within him, mingling with a twisted sense of awe. He leaned down, his lips hovering just above the wound, his fingers trembling as he worked. The scent of iron filled his lungs, more potent than any incense. He allowed himself a single, silent moment to savor it, to take in the scent of life, the proof of Louis’s resilience, etched into his flesh.
As he pulled back, he forced himself to focus once more on his task, his hand weaving the magla threads with renewed precision. His gaze drifted to Louis’s face, serene in unconsciousness, untouched by the dark reverie that consumed him.
This, he knew, would be the only touch of closeness he would ever be granted, the one stolen moment he could never speak of, yet would carry with him forever.
He found his gaze drawn to Louis’s lips once again, stained a faint crimson from the blood he had lost. Despite having tasted Louis’s blood only once, it was as if years of repressed yearning were now clawing their way out, demanding more. The metallic taste lingered on his lips, sweet and hot.
But he needed more—to immerse himself in the illusion of possessing Louis, to claim what would forever be beyond his reach. His hand continued its work, deftly closing the wound, while his lips found their way to Louis’s once more, drowning in his lord’s forbidden essence.
Eyes closed, he let the faint warmth of Louis’s blood slide down his throat, savoring each indulgent drop.
His whispered murmur filled the sanctuary, a voice wrought with heat and reverence.
“Aah... Haa... Lord Louis...”
The sound echoed through the empty chapel, resonating in the hollow silence, an impassioned cry only he would hear.
With a final pull, he closed the wound, the thread fusing with Louis’s flesh in a seal of salvation. As the last thread snapped into place, Zorba's own body convulsed, overcome by an unbidden ecstasy, a white spark clouding his vision, leaving him trembling amid the blood-streaked aftermath of his work.
As the darkness of night deepened, Zorba knelt beside Louis, waiting with reverent patience for the healing to take effect, for his god to rise once more. And until that moment, he remained, pressing himself close, soothed only by the rhythm of Louis’s heartbeat echoing in the silence of this unholy night, a fleeting solace in the stillness before dawn.
By the break of dawn, the first rays of light streamed through the stained glass, casting a spectral glow across the altar. Louis stirred, faint traces of awareness crossing his face. Zorba had not left his side, waiting to welcome his lord back to the waking world.
When Louis’s eyes finally opened, they held a glimmer of surprise. His mind sharpened quickly, returning to the events that had led him here. A grave wound, the weight of the sky pressing as he fell, the world slipping away from him—he had believed himself at death's edge, if only for a moment. The end had felt ominously final, but this death had proved fleeting, not his destined end.
It was not his own strength alone that had brought him back, that much was clear. This feat was beyond mere resilience—it was an act of intervention, one which few among his followers would have risked.
“Lord Louis,” Zorba’s voice broke the silence, reverent yet resolute. “It appears you yet still live.”
"Yes…" Louis responded, his tone distant, assessing.
It required no confirmation, the dawn's light filtering through the shattered windows made clear what had transpired—Zorba had intervened, against all odds, preserving his life even without command.
Time was fleeting, and with dawn’s early light came the urgency to resume their plan. Despite Louis’s near failure—a misstep that clawed at his pride with bitter contempt—the threads of his ambitions could still be salvaged, twisted though they had become in the night’s chaos.
“Did you fulfill your duty?” Louis asked, his tone steady, though a glint of cold calculation flickered in his eyes. “Did you switch the counterfeit lance from Forden’s possession?”
Zorba hesitated, his gaze dropping in quiet shame. “…My apologies, milord. I… prioritized your survival.” His voice was low, yet resolute, betraying a hint of the inner turmoil he fought to restrain. In his mind, Louis’s life eclipsed every objective, even one of monumental importance.
Louis’s gaze darkened, his expression as opaque as stone as he studied Zorba.
“Zorba,” he spoke softly, his voice carrying an edge of accusation veiled with intrigue. “You did something to my body, didn’t you?”
The question struck Zorba like a blow, and he faltered, the blood draining from his face. Hadn’t Louis been unconscious? How could he know? His mind reeled, and he stammered,
“N-No, I only… did what was necessary…”
A faint flush betrayed his unease, shame coloring his face despite his attempt at composure.
“So you did,” Louis remarked, his tone unreadable, his expression a mask of impenetrable calm. He scrutinized Zorba, as though searching for answers buried beneath his silence. “Does your loyalty waver, Zorba?”
Without warning, Louis seized Zorba’s hand, guiding it toward his neck, pressing it against the vulnerable hollow of his throat in a daring gesture that spoke of challenge and trust alike.
"You could have ended me at any moment… left me to die while Forden basked in false triumph." His words carried a bitter chill, a resentment for his own recklessness. "Saving my life was not an order. Yet, you chose to defy that silence."
Zorba’s pulse thundered, caught in the tangled web of Louis’s silent commendation and veiled accusations. It was a rare, nearly imperceptible acknowledgment, one that Louis would never voice fully.
His near-fatal misstep had left a faint scar on Louis’s pride, and though he would never utter the word ‘failure,’ the sting of it remained, embedded in his gaze.
Louis’s trust had always been tenuous, given sparingly and often rescinded. He had learned that loyalty could wane, allies could falter—hadn't he seen it with the songstress, and would he see it again with the brothers? He questioned whether trust held value at all, yet here was Zorba, proving its worth with unswerving devotion. For once, the fragile thread of trust he had extended had not frayed.
“…Will you betray me someday, Zorba?” Louis murmured, his hand tightening over Zorba’s, guiding it against his throat as if daring him to sever the bond between them.
“The thought has never crossed my mind, not once,” Zorba replied, his voice steady, conviction etched into every syllable.
Louis allowed himself a faint, humorless chuckle, as though amused by the absurdity of trust yet aware that Zorba’s words rang true. He knew the exaggerated vow was, perhaps, the most honest truth Zorba could speak.
Trust, he mused, might yet have its place.
“I jest,” Louis said, his voice a murmur, his tone unreadable as he released Zorba’s hand. "This is what it is, isn't it?"
He lowered his gaze to his chest, where a crystalline formation now glimmered, a dark obsidian heart encased in golden plating—a relic of Zorba’s efforts to sustain him. The twisted magla crystal embedded itself in his flesh, pulsating faintly, its presence a testament to his vassal’s intervention. He traced its surface, a mirthless smile flickering across his lips.
“It appears I still have a beating heart, after all.”
Without further delay, Louis rose. The morning beckoned them, and there was no room for hesitation. Too many loose threads remained to be tied, each a step toward the day’s reckoning.
“You will still infiltrate the lance’s resting place,” he commanded, his tone resolute. “Our plan remains unaltered.”
“Naturally, milord,” Zorba replied, bowing low, his devotion unwavering.
“Then let us proceed,” Louis said, invigorated by his survival, feeling an almost exhilarated determination. Fate’s cruelty had spared him, not Forden. He would grant his enemies the vision of the ghost they had failed to destroy—a spirit resurrected to claim what was rightfully his. Saint’s Day would become his own rebirth, a celebration that would haunt those who dared to stand against him.
“Moreover, Zorba…” Louis began, his steps slowing as he turned, his gaze intent, unreadable. He approached Zorba deliberately, pausing just before him, as though there remained some unspoken thought yet to be revealed.
“What is it, Lord Louis?” Zorba asked, curiosity and faint apprehension lacing his voice. He could not discern what Louis intended, nor what silent observation lay hidden within his gaze.
Then, without warning, Louis leaned closer, his lips near Zorba’s ear, his voice dropping to a murmur—a quiet, almost tantalizing whisper,
“There’s still blood on your lips.”
With that, Louis straightened, turning away with calm indifference, his stride unbroken, leaving Zorba standing stunned in his wake, rooted in disbelief. Louis did not look back, nor did he pause, moving onward toward his next destination as though nothing had been spoken at all.
Wh-what…?
Zorba remained frozen, his hand lifting instinctively to his lips, his fingers brushing against the faint, lingering smear of blood that had clung there. A flush of embarrassment crossed his face as he wiped it away, yet a shiver of realization followed, unsettling him to the core.
Still?
The word echoed ominously in his mind. Louis’s remark hinted at a deeper awareness, a silent knowledge wrapped in layers of ambiguity.
If Louis had said still, it could only mean…
No—it couldn’t be. Surely, it was impossible.
What exactly did he know? How much had he perceived, and how much had he chosen to leave unspoken? Zorba’s thoughts spiraled, questions without answers swirling in his mind. His lord’s words were a cipher— a riddle left deliberately unsolved, an enigma that taunted him.
As he followed, the weight of that knowledge settled within him—a puzzle that would remain forever shrouded, a truth best left untouched.
And perhaps—it was better that way.