Anthesis of Sadness
Chapter 77: Diary (6)

Chapter 77: Diary (6)

Then came the meal. Sumptuous.

A feast worthy of another world, far from anything I had ever known.

The flavors... they defied words.

Unknown spices burst on my tongue, awakening sensations I had never felt.

Each bite was a discovery, each texture a riddle: melting, crispy, vibrant between my teeth.

Even the drink — a clear liquid, shimmering under the dim light — had a taste I couldn’t define.

Sweet and bitter, soft and strong at once, like a whispered promise then torn away.

It was unreal. As if this meal had come from a dream where the memories of hunger, fear, and misery had never existed.

Each sip, each swallowed fragment pushed me deeper into this new reality I did not yet dare to call mine.

And he, sitting not far away, a glass between his fingers, drank slowly, savoring each sip with rare patience.

His gaze, usually so piercing, had become softer, as if veiled by a gentle fatigue or momentary surrender.

His voice, usually measured, restrained, was more relaxed, more fluid, almost warm.

He was like a winter suddenly letting through a ray of sunlight — rare, fleeting, all the more precious for never lasting long.

That night, he spoke more than usual.

Usually, he kept his words as one keeps weapons: stored, weighed, drawn with caution.

Memories, fragments of thoughts he usually kept buried.

He let go. A little.

Not out of weakness, but like someone who, for once, allowed his inner armor to crack just enough to let a little light through.

It was a rare privilege, almost fragile, and I received it in silence, aware that those moments were more precious than any treasure.

And then he said it.

In a simple voice, without detour, without artifice.

A calm tone, almost steady, as if stating a forgotten truth.

He didn’t try to make his words more beautiful, nor hide them beneath promises or metaphors.

He spoke straight, raw, with that disarming sincerity that belonged to him.

And in that suspended moment, between the flickering glow of lanterns and the spiced scent of the still-warm meal, his words resonated in me more deeply than anything I had heard until then.

"I see you as my daughter."

It wasn’t a declaration. It was a transmission. As if, with a single breath, he had placed the weight of his world on my shoulders, without violence, without fear.

The shock passed through me from end to end, brutal, implacable, like an invisible blade slicing my breath.

I remained frozen. Unable to move, unable even to think.

His words still hung in the air, heavy, vibrant, as if they had left a physical imprint between us.

My heart, for a moment, seemed to forget to beat.

My whole body was suspended, caught in that fragile instant when you feel that something has changed forever.

I looked at him, unable to respond, not knowing whether I should flee or surrender to the truth he had just laid, so simply, so cruelly perhaps, in my hands.

So that was it.

That warmth I had felt inside for so long, that soft and silent strength that had grown without my noticing...

It wasn’t just loyalty.

Nor simply admiration, or gratitude for all he had given me.

It was something older, deeper, vaster.

It was... a family.

A word I had never been able to claim, a word I had always thought belonged to others, to the lucky ones, to those born loved without needing to earn it.

He didn’t see my scars as flaws, but as proof. Marks of a journey. And he made them worthy.

And yet, in that suspended moment, I understood: that invisible bond between us, that certainty that it would remain even if everything collapsed... that was it.

What I had always searched for without even knowing its name.

Me, the wanderer.

Me, forged by pain, sculpted by hunger, built stone by stone with the only weapon I had ever possessed: survival.

Me, who had grown up with nothing but claws, with no one to call, no friendly face to offer a hand.

Me, fed by hostile silences and indifferent stares, in a world that had only given me its fangs, its venom, its naked cruelty.

I had been born in solitude, walked in shadow, convinced that this would be my only path.

And yet... that night, facing him, facing his simple words, a breach opened inside me.

A world I had never dared to dream of was finally taking shape.

And there, in that room with its rich and silent walls, bathed in a soft light that seemed to suspend time...

For the first time, I cried.

But they weren’t tears of fear, nor of pain, nor of crushing loneliness like so many times before.

No.

This time, I cried from joy.

A pure, raw, unexpected joy, that burst from something so deep within me I thought for a moment I might drown in it.

Each tear was a release, a fragment of the past torn away, an invisible weight lifted from my shoulders.

I let those tears flow without shame, without restraint, because finally, for the first time in my life, they had meaning.

Because finally, I was no longer alone.

Because now I had... a father.

A family.

A home, embodied not in walls or land, but in a single being.

Someone who had reached out without expecting anything in return, who had seen in me more than a weapon, more than a survivor.

Someone who had built, day after day, gesture after gesture, that silent shelter I had never dared to hope for.

He had become that fixed star in a sky I thought would forever remain empty.

What no blood, no forced oath could have created, he had patiently woven: a belonging. A shared existence.

And in realizing that, I felt a new strength rise in me, quiet and indestructible.

I was finally home.

And then... everything followed.

Too fast, almost brutally.

As if the world, until then held in a fragile balance, had suddenly decided it could no longer wait.

As if life, cruel and magnificent, had rushed at us with the force of a freed torrent.

Events surged forth, sweeping away the hard-earned peace, brushing aside that brief parenthesis I had not yet had time to fully understand.

Each day brought its trial, each decision its weight.

And I, swept into this frenzied race, fought to stay upright, to stay by his side, refusing to lose what we had built, even though deep down I knew nothing would ever be simple again.

A visit to the Lord of Zagnaroth.

A name whispered softly in legends, as if speaking it alone might draw his gaze.

An entity whose mere presence made the earth tremble and the mountains groan, an ancient breath whose shadow had crossed the ages without ever fading.

He was not simply a lord.

He was a raw force, a colossal remnant of a time when even gods had to kneel.

His name weighed on the world like an invisible crown of fire, and approaching him, even from afar, was like defying the very order of existence.

I wasn’t prepared.

How could I have been?

No tale, no warning would have been enough to capture what he was.

He had promised him armor.

Not a simple war outfit, no.

A unique artifact, forged in the unfathomable fires of the Void, steeped in the millennial memories of the world, beaten to the rhythm of a forge forgotten even by the gods.

A treasure for which countless warriors would have given their lives.

And that day... Anthony made his choice.

He had decided to give it to me.

Me. Again me.

And I stood there, frozen, unable to speak, unable even to breathe under the weight of that gesture.

There was no condition, no expectation in his eyes.

Only that quiet certainty, that silent faith he placed in me, again and again.

He truly gave me everything.

And faced with that, no gratitude was enough.

No word could carry the force of what I felt.

A mythical armor.

A masterpiece forged from materials that even the most powerful nobles couldn’t afford, even by sacrificing entire fortunes.

A protection whispered in ancient songs, promised to forgotten heroes or champions of legendary ages.

And he... he handed it to me without hesitation, with a simple gesture, almost obvious, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

As if I deserved it.

Not because I was perfect.

Not because I was born under a lucky star.

But because in his eyes, I had passed every trial, I had walked on the ashes of my past, and I had become worthy.

At that precise moment, the armor was not just protection: it was the silent recognition of everything I had become.

It was his way of saying: I believe in who you will be, even if you don’t see it yet.

And everything that, perhaps, I could still become.

And it was only the beginning.

He opened the doors of knowledge to me, without restraint, without limits.

He brought in masters, scholars, and warriors from all horizons, shaped by traditions I never could have reached on my own.

He wove around me a web of knowledge and power, as one builds a sanctuary for a fragile flame they refuse to let die.

He was building a path for me I wouldn’t even have dared to dream, and he granted all my requests, whether timid or bold.

He offered me freedom, independence, self-mastery, freeing me from the invisible chains the world had placed upon me.

But beyond knowledge and weapons, he gave me something else... things I had never dared ask for.

Silent gifts: a book slipped beside my bed, a rare flower placed without a word, a garment chosen with care for my comfort.

He never said why. He never explained anything. But in every detail, I read what he didn’t know how to say: that he cared for me more than he ever had for anyone.

Tender, discreet gestures, but more powerful than any armor.

Gentle attentions, patiently offered, as if, behind the training, behind the challenges, he was reminding me that I was much more than a project, much more than a student: I was someone precious.

To him.

Not a student. Not a project. Not a mission. But a daughter. His daughter. Not by blood, but by everything he had chosen to give me.

And now, with every step, I carried within me what he had given: an ancient strength, made of silence, of patience, and of a love so discreet it shone brighter than any promise.