The Sinful Young Master

The estate's ancient halls echoed with Jolthar's footsteps as he made his way through the winding corridors.

The meeting with the patriarch had left him with a bitter taste, and the weight of the conversation still lingered in his mind. He didn't need to stay here any longer—there was nothing for him within these walls except memories he would rather forget.

And the fact that they now showed him affection made him hate them more. It would have been better if they acted the same way as before.

As he turned a corner, a figure stepped into his path.

Isorabella stood before him, her light-green robes swaying gently as the faint draft of the corridor brushed past. Her expression was a mixture of concern and hesitation, her usual poise faltering. She blocked his path without a word at first, her lips pressed into a thin line as if debating whether to speak.

Finally, she broke the silence.

"Are you all right, Jolthar?" Her voice was soft but carried a genuine undertone.

Jolthar, not in the mood for another prolonged conversation, answered curtly yet without hostility, "I'm fine."

He started to walk past her, intending to end the interaction as quickly as it began.

But Bella wasn't finished. "Where are you going? Don't you need to rest?" she asked, her gaze dropping to the bandages still wrapped around his hands. The faint traces of blood seeped through, a testament to the wounds that hadn't fully healed.

Concern etched itself deeper into her features.

Jolthar waved a hand dismissively, not slowing his stride. "I'm fine," he repeated, his tone sharper this time, hoping it would dissuade further questions.

But Bella didn't move. She could sense his irritation, could see it in the way his shoulders tensed and his steps quickened. Yet she refused to let it deter her.

"I'm sorry," she said suddenly.

The words stopped Jolthar in his tracks. He turned to her, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. "Why?" he asked, his tone laced with suspicion, as if he expected some hidden motive behind her apology.

Bella's eyes softened, and she clasped her hands together nervously. "You've been having a hard time, and I… I wasn't aware of it. I know I can't undo what's been done, and maybe my words sound hollow, but I mean it when I say I'm sorry. If you ever need someone to talk to, I'm here. You can come to me anytime."

Her voice wavered slightly, and Jolthar could see the sincerity in her eyes. She wasn't just offering empty words; she truly meant what she said.

"I know it may sound hypocritical," she continued, "but I'll try to make amends for everything that's happened to you. I don't know if it will ever be enough, but... I'll try."

Jolthar stood there, silent, his piercing gaze fixed on her. For a moment, she thought he might brush past her without a word, as he so often did with others. But then he nodded, a slight, almost imperceptible dip of his head. "If I want to talk, I'll find you," he said simply, his voice devoid of the anger or resentment that usually accompanied his words.

With that, he turned and continued down the corridor, leaving Bella standing there. She watched him go, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, a mix of relief and sadness in her expression. She knew this small interaction wouldn't erase the years of pain he had endured, but she hoped it might be a step, however small, toward something better.

Bella was different from her brothers, and she was an empathetic person and wanted to help Jolthar. But it seemed like he didn't want it; she could see it in his eyes, the years of hurt and pain. She wasn't offended by his rude behaviour and somewhat understood how the talk must have ended with her father.

Jolthar didn't stop until he reached the stables where his drake was kept.

The massive beast, with scales the colour of midnight and eyes glowing faintly like embers, stirred as he approached. It let out a low growl of recognition, bowing its head slightly as he climbed onto its back. The moment he was settled, the drake got up, and its wings now rested against its flanks, as if they weren't present. The drake moved out of the pits.

As the drake moved slowly through the estate grounds, Jolthar glanced at the debris and ruins of the hall.

Servants and knights paused in their tasks to watch him leave, their faces a mixture of awe and apprehension. Some whispered among themselves; others merely looked on in silence. They all watched him and how he stood against a god. He had now become the talk of the town, and soon his name would spread further.

The drake carried him farther and farther from the estate, the towering walls and sprawling lands shrinking into the distance.

Jolthar didn't look back. For him, this wasn't just leaving the clan—it was a step toward forging his own path, one that would be free of the shadows of his past.

The estate was abuzz with whispers. Jolthar's departure had spread like wildfire, capturing the attention of every member of the Kaezhlar clan.

The recent events surrounding him had elevated his presence from an outcast to the centre of their collective intrigue. His confrontation with Dakrasuer, a god, and his wielding of the Mad Sovereign's sword had left an indelible impression. To many, he was no longer just a disgruntled member of the family; he was someone of immense power, someone whose choices could shape the future of the clan.

In one of the opulent chambers, three figures sat in intense discussion: Maena, Eran, and Elowen. The room, lined with intricate tapestries and adorned with family relics, seemed a stark contrast to the tension in the air.

Elowen was the first to break the silence. She leaned forward, her expression a mix of disbelief and awe. "He fought a god," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Her hands clutched the edge of her chair as if to steady herself.

"A god. And he didn't just survive—he held his ground. Do you have any idea how unimaginable that is? And that sword... The Mad Sovereign's blade? It's legendary for being untamable, yet he wields it as though it were made for him."

Maena, seated across from her, nodded thoughtfully. Unlike Elowen, her reaction was measured, though no less significant. "We've only known him for a short time," Maena began, her voice calm but tinged with curiosity.

"Barely a few weeks, and even then, all we saw were glimpses of his capabilities. What happened during that fight, and the fact that he now possesses the clan's most powerful sword, proves we've barely scratched the surface of what he's capable of."

Eran, who had been silent so far, leaned back in his chair, his expression serious. "He's more than just strong," he said.

"He's unpredictable. That makes him dangerous. And valuable."

Maena looked at him sharply. "Dangerous? Yes. But he's still one of us, Eran. Or have you forgotten that?"

Eran shrugged. "I haven't forgotten. But don't pretend that you don't see what I see. He stood against Dakrasuer, my lady. A god. And he didn't flinch. What does that say about him? About his power? If he chooses to use that strength against the clan—"

"He won't," Maena cut him off, though there was a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. "Not unless we give him a reason to. But I saw something in his eyes, too, Elowen. When the clan was in chaos and everything was falling apart, he showed no emotion. No anger, no fear, no sadness. Nothing. He just stood there, as if he were watching it all happen from a distance, waiting for the moment to act."

Elowen's brows furrowed. "Do you think he's forgotten what this clan did to him? The way he was treated?"

"No," Maena said firmly. "He hasn't forgotten. And he hasn't forgiven. That much is clear. But now he's different. Stronger. More focused. And we can't afford to let him leave. Not now, not after everything that's happened. He's too important."

Elowen tilted her head, her curiosity piqued. "Where do you think he's gone?"

Maena shook her head. "I don't know. But we will find out. We have to. He's become... indispensable. Whether he likes it or not, whether we like it or not, he's tied to the fate of this clan now."

Her gaze turned to Eran, sharp and commanding. "Find him, Eran. Wherever he's gone, whatever he's planning, bring him back. We can't let him slip away."

Eran hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "I'll see to it."

As he stood to leave, the room fell silent again. Maena's words hung in the air, heavy with their implications. Jolthar's departure wasn't just an act of defiance—it was a shift in the balance of power, one that could either strengthen the Kaezhlar clan or lead to its downfall. And Maena, more than anyone else, understood the stakes.

She turned back to Elowen, her expression resolute. "If we don't handle this carefully, Elowen, we'll lose him. And if we lose him... it won't just be the clan that suffers."

Elowen nodded slowly, the weight of Maena's words sinking in. Somewhere out there, Jolthar was carving his own path. And whether he chose to walk alongside the Kaezhlar clan or against it was a question that no one could yet answer.