Chapter 18: The Aftermath
— Third Person POV —
He woke with a start.
Not the slow, dreamy kind of waking where the mind floats lazily to the surface, but the jarring kind where every nerve in the body lights up at once. It was as if, in the exact moment his eyes opened, the rest of him followed suit — every muscle, every hair follicle, every raw inch of skin suddenly aware of where it was.
And where he was... was in bed.
Not the creaky cot of a barracks, not the stiff mat of a travel lodge, but a bed. The kind that let your weight sink in, swallowing you like some soft, expensive abyss.
The first thing he noticed was the cold. Not on his skin — no, his body felt like it was boiling under the covers — but on his forehead. A sharp, refreshing patch of chill that made the rest of him feel fever-hot by contrast.
His eyes rolled upward without moving his head. There it was. A folded white towel resting neatly across his brow, faintly damp, clinging with the soft persistence of care.
Why am I so hot?
The thought flickered past sluggishly, like his brain was running through wet sand. Sweat beaded down the sides of his face, gathering along his jaw before dripping into the pillow. The sheets beneath him were damp, almost unpleasantly so, and when he shifted, they clung to his skin like a second layer of discomfort.
His gaze slid sideways.
And there she was.
Miranda sat beside him in a chair, one leg crossed over the other beneath the long fall of her maid’s skirt. Her posture was casual, but her attention was hooked on something in her hands — the book. That cursed, empty, not-so-empty book.
"...Miranda?"
It came out as a hoarse murmur, more breath than voice.
Her head snapped up, eyes sharp in an instant, locking onto his with a mixture of recognition and mild surprise. Then, that trademark smile — calm, a little mocking, the sort of smile people wear when they’ve already decided they’re three steps ahead of you.
"Oh. You’re alive."
The delivery was casual, almost conversational, but there was a slight condescension in it, like she was commenting on a houseplant that had somehow survived a week without watering.
"Ah, yes... seems so," he replied, letting sarcasm coat the words. His throat still felt raw, but he wasn’t about to lie there sounding meek.
She lifted the book by one corner, giving it a lazy shake so the pages fanned open. "This thing is empty," she said, as if accusing him personally. Then her smirk deepened. "Are you planning on making this your diary?"
"...Please put it back."
"Aww, little young lord is shy," she teased, rising from her chair.
She crossed to the bed and set the book down gently beside him, her movements deliberate. Then, without ceremony, she plucked the towel from his forehead and replaced it with a fresh one drawn from a small bucket on the floor. The faint sound of water trickled as she wrung it out, droplets hitting the side of the bucket like tiny chimes.
The new towel hit his skin with a firmer press than before, making him exhale sharply.
"You didn’t tell me," she said after a beat.
He blinked. "Tell you what?"
"About your covenant with the God of Weapons."
That made him tense.
Her tone was unreadable, but her eyes searched his face like they were trying to peel away the expression and get to whatever was hiding beneath.
She leaned in slightly, pressing the towel more firmly, drawing a small groan from his throat. "We keeping secrets now?"
He tried for a smile, though it felt stiff. "Umm... no, actually, it’s—"
—RUMBLE RUMBLE.—
The noise cut him off.
Silence followed.
Then, heat crept up his neck to his ears. His cheeks flushed, unmistakably, betraying him before he could find an excuse.
Miranda’s brows twitched upward. "Was that... was that you?"
"...No."
Another pause, thick enough to smother in.
And then she laughed. Loudly.
Her hand flew to her stomach as she doubled over, eyes squeezed shut, gasping between peals of unrestrained amusement. "HAHAHAHAHA!"
He groaned and looked away.
She laughed so hard tears welled at the corners of her eyes, her voice breaking into a wheeze before she finally managed to breathe again.
"The young lord experiences his first hunger," she declared, tapping his forehead like she was knighting him. "Congratulations... you have become a man."
Before he could retort, she spun on her heel. "Wait here. I’ll bring you food."
The door slammed behind her, the sound still echoing when he sat up.
"This is weird," he thought, rubbing at his face. "What is the relationship between Avin and Miranda? Is it... romantic? My heart was beating faster than usual too... does that mean I have to reciprocate?"
He sighed. "All I know is that she and her mother were the only ones who treated Avin right. Nothing more."
Then, under his breath: "...And moreover, I find her very annoying."
A beat passed.
"Also... WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!"
The memory slammed into him like a hammer — the ’dream,’ the repeated dying, the voice, the figure.
"Was that a dream? A vision? Why was I dying over and over? And Gaia—why do I even recognize her? Why was she in it? What does she want me to remember? Why doesn’t she just say
it? Maybe that would jog my memory, Gaia!"He dropped back onto the mattress, limbs spread. "I’ve died so many times here... I miss my phone..."
His eyes drifted until they caught on the book, sitting innocently nearby.
"And then there’s this thing..."
He picked it up, holding it toward the light.
"Why is it empt—"
He froze.
It wasn’t empty.
Words were there now, stark and deliberate.
O magne magne armorum parens, arma mea divinitate tua imbue.
His eyes widened. In a rush, he sat upright, the sheets falling around his waist.
"Wait... it has something written in it... when?"
Flipping pages, he found nothing else. Just the one line, lodged like a splinter in his mind.
"This... looks familiar..."
His brow furrowed. "And the letters—these are English alphabets?"
He narrowed his eyes and tried to sound it out. "O man... oh mange..."
A deep breath.
"Okay, so not English. But... this is definitely what I said during the spar."
He stared into the book until the sound of the door creaking made him speak without looking up.
"Oh, Miranda. When you looked in this book, did you see something?"
No answer.
"...Miranda?"
-To be continued-