Chained Hearts: From Slavery to Sovereignty
Chapter 105: Met again

Chapter 105: Chapter 105: Met again

The old man remained rooted in place, his expression full of exaggerated lamentation as he shook his head dramatically. "Ahh, see? You’re just like him! I can do nothing about it. I’m just an old man, helpless and pitiful, trying to apply medicine to his thigh wound, yet he behaves as if I’m about to steal his innocence! And now you—you’re acting like someone snatched your bride right in front of you. What a tragedy!"

The man’s jaw clenched, and his fingers curled around the armrest of his chair. His ears burned an even deeper shade of red, a stark contrast against his usually calm demeanor. "Master Eamon," he said, his voice tight with restrained frustration, "go and rest. Now."

The sharpness in his tone, coupled with the steely glint in his eyes, made the old man falter for a brief moment. He knew his young lord’s patience had worn dangerously thin, but even so, he could not resist one last remark.

With a heavy sigh, he dramatically wiped an invisible tear from the corner of his eye. "Ahh, how cruel the young have become! Once, he was just a small thing, clinging to my robes, and now he sends this old man away so heartlessly. Fine, fine, I’ll go. But remember, my Lord, if you continue to suppress yourself like this, even the strongest mountain will crumble!"

The man let out an exasperated breath as he watched the old master hurriedly shuffle out of the room, no doubt fearing a harsher scolding if he lingered any longer. But not without leaving one final comment.

"Ah, youth is truly wasted on the young," the old man muttered just loud enough to be heard before disappearing behind the heavy wooden doors.

The room fell into silence, but the turmoil inside the man only intensified. His hand unconsciously tightened around the delicate porcelain cup, his knuckles turning white. The ridiculousness of the old man’s words should have been easy to dismiss, but for some reason, they lingered, wrapping around his mind like a vice.

He let out a slow, measured breath, willing himself to cool down, but it was futile. His imagination, which had been kept in check for centuries, began to run wild. His mind conjured images—unbidden and unwelcome—of a certain golden-haired man with pale blue eyes gazing him at pitifully.

A dangerous glint flashed in his gaze. His grip on the cup tightened further until the delicate ceramic cracked, a jagged line running through its surface. He placed it down carefully, trying to regain his composure, but the heat inside him refused to subside.

"Tch," he clicked his tongue in irritation. "If it were anyone else, they would have been buried seven feet under the ground for speaking such nonsense."

But he could not do the same with that old man. Not only was Master Eamon his father’s most trusted subordinate, but he had also single-handedly raised him after his father passed away.

It had been centuries since he had become an adult, centuries since he had last thought about his childhood, yet Master Eamon never let him forget how much effort had gone into raising him. The memories had blurred over time, lost to the long passage of years, but the old man never missed an opportunity to remind him.

The man sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple as if to push away the lingering warmth on his skin. He couldn’t even be angry at Master Eamon. The man had sacrificed everything for him, had fought tooth and nail to ensure his survival in the demon world after his father’s death.

Even if the old man pestered him to no end, he could only let him be.

He exhaled sharply and reached for the tea once more, only to remember the cup was already damaged. Annoyed, he pushed it aside and ran a hand through his hair. The heat in his veins had not subsided, and his thoughts were still in disarray.

Perhaps it was time to get some fresh air. Staying here would only make things worse.

With that thought in mind, he stood up and made his way toward the balcony, letting the cool night breeze wash over him. But even as the wind caressed his skin, his mind refused to quiet, and the old man’s teasing words echoed in his head once more.

As laughter and cheers filled the air, a servant entered, politely reminding them that it was time for breakfast. The joyful chatter slowly faded as everyone acknowledged the call, rising from their seats and making their way toward the dining room.

Cassian, still adjusting to the surreal luxury around him, turned to keren with curiosity. "What happened while I was unconscious?" he asked, his tone filled with oncern and curiosity.

Keren, rubbing his arm as if recalling the pain, sighed. "All of us were injured. When we opened our eyes, we were already here. None of us remember anything between then and now."

Cassian frowned. "And you just believed some stranger? What if he has ulterior motives? What if he’s our enemy?"

Keren shook his head with a small smile. "That’s not the case. The master of this place is kind and generous. He even knew who we were before we introduced ourselves. He knew we were knights of Morthagar. He even knew about our arrival beforehand."

Cassian’s eyes narrowed slightly. That was unexpected. His mind swirled with questions, but before he could ask more, they entered the dining hall. His breath caught at the sheer grandeur before him.

The dining room was immense, long enough to accommodate at least a hundred people at once. The towering ceiling was adorned with intricate chandeliers, their soft golden glow illuminating the elegantly carved walls. The dining table, stretching almost endlessly, was adorned with an extravagant spread of food, the rich aroma of spices and freshly baked bread making their mouths water.

They all took their seats, and without much thought, Cassian unconsciously settled into the chair at the right hand of the main seat.

Alistair leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, his usual smirk in place as he listened to the Oronik, boasting about taking down a high level mutated beast on his own.

"Oh, please," he scoffed, rolling his eyes. "You screamed like a dying rabbit when that thing lunged at you. If I hadn’t been there to skewer it first, you’d be monster food right now."

The accused knight, Oronik, nearly choked on his drink. "That’s a damn lie! I had it under control," he shot back, slamming his goblet on the table. "You just wanted to steal my kill, admit it!"

Oronik, sitting beside them, sighed dramatically. "Here we go again," he muttered, already reaching for a fresh piece of bread as if preparing for a long argument.

he didn’t even flinch when Oronik suddenly lunged at Alistair, the two of them toppling over their chairs in a tangled mess of limbs and curses.

Cassian watched the scuffle unfold with mild amusement, shaking his head as the two rolled across the floor, grappling for dominance. It was a familiar sight—wherever they went, Oronik and Alistair somehow found a way to end up in a ridiculous brawl. The rest of the knights either ignored them or laughed, placing bets on who would win this time.

"Should we stop them?" one of the younger knight asked.

"No need," Morren replied without looking up. "They’ll tire themselves out in a few minutes."

Sure enough, after a few more moments of grunting and struggling, the two finally separated, panting and glaring at each other as they straightened their clothes. Alistair, always one to get the last word, ruffled oronik’s hair mockingly. "Better luck next time, man"

Oronik shoved him away, grumbling under his breath as he returned to his seat. The hall erupted into laughter once more.

He was about to reach for a goblet when a sound froze him in place.

The rhythmic, measured steps of boots echoed down the hall. A sudden hush fell over the room. Cassian’s heart clenched inexplicably, and to his own frustration, the old man’s words flashed through his mind. A faint blush crept onto his cheeks, and he shook his head, forcing himself to remain calm.

Then he saw him.

A man entered with effortless grace, his every step exuding an air of quiet authority. His tall frame was clad in dark, finely tailored garments that draped over his body like the night itself, accentuating his strong build.

The deep black fabric shimmered subtly under the candlelight, adding to the air of mystery surrounding him. His posture was poised, elegant yet unreadable, and he moved with an almost unnatural smoothness, as though he belonged to a world untouched by mortality.

But the most striking thing about him was the mask. A sleek, dark mask concealed his entire face, leaving only his eyes visible—eyes that swirled with a depth so unfathomable that it stole the very breath from Cassian’s lungs.

Cassian’s body tensed, his hands clenching into fists. Horror flashed through his widened eyes as an overwhelming sensation crashed into him.

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