Chapter 12: A Broken Body, An Unyielding Mind

The sun hung low over the western mountains of the frontier lands, pouring a battered crimson glow across the dust-covered sky.3 Hours, 00 Minutes.Tair stood near the shadow of the eastern stables, watching the procession. His right leg dragged heavily, every step now sending a hollow, nauseating throb down his spine. His right arm hung uselessly at his side, and his fingers looked gray and cold.[ASTRA // NEURAL STRAIN WARNING: 86%]Current Cycle: 2Chrono-Anchor Stability: 71%Active Restrictions:• Structural Motor Skill Loss (Right Arm/Leg)• Vocal Cord Damage (Mute)• Nosebleed and Micro-Neural DegradationHe wiped another thin line of blood running beneath his nose with his left arm. His body was collapsing, accelerating toward the lethal threshold. The Chrono-Anchor was an unyielding master: in exchange for breaking the rules of time, it demanded absolute biological degradation.And yet, when Tair looked at his reflection in the stagnant water trough, there was not a trace of desperation in his eyes. Two hollow sentinels of cold, calculating intelligence stared back.His body was broken.His mind was absolute."Tair."A low, calm voice called from behind the hay bales.It was Orren. The old servant stepped into the dim stable carrying two heavy iron lanterns and a leather satchel."I tried to get you removed from the feast duty," Orren muttered, his worn face lined with deep concern. "I told Commander Kael that you were too sick to walk, but he insisted that every unranked recruit had to be inside the hall when the third cup was poured. Veyran Kharvayn's direct order."Tair neither nodded nor shook his head. He looked at Orren's hands. The old man was holding the keys to the rear supply carts—the escape route Orren had tried to arrange for Tair that morning.Orren genuinely believed he was helping. He did not know that Varis's men had already sabotaged the rear carts so that no one could escape when the fire began.Tair reached out with his functioning left hand and gently grasped Orren's wrist.He nodded once, then pointed toward the signal beacon far beyond the main walls—the northern ridge.Orren furrowed his brow in confusion."The northern ridge? Tair, what are you talking about? The feast is in the main keep."Tair reached into his tunic, pulled out a small folded piece of parchment, and pressed it firmly into Orren's palm. Using charcoal, Tair had drawn a crude single diagram: the layout of the eastern secondary gate, marked with a time—Sunset—and an arrow pointing toward the outer hills.Beneath the diagram, Tair had written three rough, trembling words:DON'T DRINK. RUN.Orren stared at the parchment, his eyes widening as he read the words.This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it."Tair... what is this? What does this mean?"Tair did not explain. He couldn't. Instead, he gripped Orren's forearm with his left hand, applying a surprisingly iron-like pressure. He forced the old servant to meet his gaze.In Tair's dark, hollow eyes, Orren saw no madness, no childish fear. He saw the cold, terrifying certainty of a commander who had already walked through the ashes left behind by war.Orren swallowed with difficulty, the paper trembling between his fingers."The wine..." the old man whispered, a sudden, freezing realization appearing on his face. "Veyran Kharvayn... he isn't honoring you..."Tair released Orren's arm, stepped back, and turned toward the Great Feast Hall. He dragged his dead leg across the stone and refused to look back.He had given Orren a choice and a chance.That was the limit of mercy a cripple could offer.He reached the heavy oak doors of the Great Hall.Inside, all forty unranked recruits were already seated at long wooden tables. The air smelled of pomegranate-glazed mutton, warm bread, and spiced wine. On the raised platform, three long head tables had been arranged for Veyran Kharvayn, the Great Heir, Commander Kael, and the senior officers of the inner guard.Servants poured dark red wine from large iron-banded barrels into tin goblets.Tair stepped across the threshold, slipping into a dark corner beside the structural pillars supporting the eastern wall.He looked toward the head table.Veyran Kharvayn sat in the central chair, wearing a robe woven with silver thread, his golden aura faintly shimmering like that of a generous god. The Great Heir sat to his right, a confident, predatory grin playing across his lips as he watched the young recruits raise their cups.In the corner of the room, near the rear service hatch, Beyran stood. The young noble's son was pale, sweating excessively, refusing to touch his own goblet, his hand gripping the brass ring on his finger.1 Hour, 00 Minutes.Veyran Kharvayn rose to his feet, raising his golden goblet high into the air."Brave sons of Kharvayn!" Veyran Kharvayn's deep, resonant voice echoed through the enormous hall, instantly silencing the crowd. "Tonight, we honor your sweat and your blood. Tonight, we drink to the eternal might of the Kharvayn bloodline!"The recruits raised their tin cups together and cheered.Tair remained in the shadow of the pillar, his left hand slipping beneath his tunic to grasp the iron striker and the fuse wire connected to the barrels of naphtha below.He looked at Veyran Kharvayn's golden cup.Drink, Tair thought, a silent, breathless whistle escaping from his ruined throat as his lips curled into a cold, terrifying smile.Drink to the ashes.