Chapter 73
He rubbed his eyes several times, trying to reject the conviction that was rising from the depths of his heart.
But when his vision cleared, the figure was still there—standing upright, slightly bowing in front of the table, her hair falling to cover part of the face that used to rest against his shoulder.
Miara.
His only daughter.
Shaqar's world instantly cracked from within.
The stomach that had just demanded food now felt twisted from the inside, and the hand that was supposed to hold a spoon began to tremble.
He looked at his daughter with eyes full of pain, but also disbelief.
Miara looked different—more mature, colder, yet still carrying that gentle aura that once filled their home with a faint glow in the dark of night.
But beneath the changes, Shaqar knew well the gaze that had never changed.
HATRED.
Hatred born not from dislike, but from a love that broke and never healed.
He knew that in Miara's eyes, he was a failed father, a coward who chose faith and soldiers over holding his wife for the last time.
Time suddenly stopped for Shaqar, as if all the murmurs in the eatery were drowned by a thick fog, leaving only the throb of his own heartbeat echoing inside his chest.
Hard and irregular.
Amid the chatter of customers shouting their orders, mixed with the stench of fish and the scent of boiled blood and roasted maggots, Shaqar stood frozen, paralyzed in a world that kept turning.
Miara—the little girl who once hugged him on her first day of walking—now stood far from him with a grown face, yet her eyes still burned with the same fury he once left behind at home.
For a brief moment, Shaqar wanted to believe, to convince himself that all of this was merely an illusion created by hunger—that the figure before him was just a mirage born from a heart that had never fully forgiven itself.
And in the longest pause between his stifled breaths, Shaqar tried to make sense of Miara's presence in this place.
Not in the kitchen of their old home, not on the dusty road to the market, but here—in a tavern serving meals for worshippers of darkness—a place where an ordinary woman should never come so lightly.
He recognized that gentle posture, even from behind her small back, and the faint smile that appeared when her companion glanced around.
But what struck Shaqar's chest the most was the fact—the cruel truth—that Miara was still alive, walking, and standing in the same place as him without the slightest awareness of how shattered the man before her had become inside.
Memories of the past flooded him like a broken dam.
Shaqar saw himself again—when he chose not to return home, deciding instead to remain at the Xirkushkartum outpost while his beloved wife slowly lost her final breath in bed.
He remembered Miara's tear-stained face, turning blue from crying upon hearing the news, and how all that love turned cold, hardened into a grudge that now lived in her every movement.
If time could be rewound, perhaps Shaqar would trade, would throw away all his titles and honor just to hear—once more—the gentle voice of Miara calling him father.
But the world knows no such thing as if, and now before him stood the embodiment of every choice he had ever made.
Among the stench of rotten meat and the sound of cockroaches scurrying across the table, Shaqar swallowed hard.
He wanted to call out, to speak, but his tongue felt dry, burned again and again by shame and loss.
And so he could only stand there, gazing at Miara from afar like a wanderer who found his home again—across an uncrossable chasm.
"Sixty years old, yet my soul trembles like a child caught in guilt.Should I go to her now?Confess all my sins, bow my head, and beg for forgiveness, accepting whatever her response may be?Even if she rejects me, even if her eyes still radiate hatred—at least I'll have tried, and could say: forgive your useless father.But what if I disturb the peace she's found?Look at her—Miara is laughing freely, chatting without the burden of a dark past.My sudden presence might erase that smile, turning her joy into gloom.And is there anything more cruel than a father who destroys his own child's happiness?"
Unease came suddenly, creeping like a cold mist that slowly crawled—seeping into Shaqar's veins, making every breath feel tight and painful.
He stood among the crowd but felt trapped in an airless space, forced to choose between two equally thorned paths.
In his most tangled thoughts, he imagined himself kneeling before Miara—confessing every mistake, pouring out all the regret he had locked in his chest, and letting time decide whether he deserved forgiveness.
He knew that forgiveness might never come—but on the other hand, even just saying "I'm sorry" aloud might allow his soul to breathe again.
Yet when his eyes caught Miara's smiling face—a smile so sincere, so warm, so foreign to him now—fear rose like a wave, crashing down on every ounce of courage left in Shaqar's heart.
He lowered his gaze.
His eyes traced the muddy floor of the tavern—stained with soup and raw blood—as if the answer lay buried there.
His heart argued with itself.
"Does a father who abandoned his family still have the right to stand in the midst of his child's laughter? Will his presence be redemption—or a new curse that steals peace from that now-happy face?"
Shaqar didn't know.
All he knew was how his heart trembled every time Miara's eyes flicked slightly in his direction, as though the Praised One Himself were playing with the last remnants of his courage.
He wanted to move, but his legs refused.
He wanted to speak, but his voice sank into the black hole called guilt.
And amid his confusion, Shaqar began to understand—that true repentance was not the desire to beg forgiveness, but the courage to bear one's wounds without reopening another's.
Perhaps, he thought bitterly, the best way to love Miara now was to never appear again—to let her continue her life, free from the shadow of a past that still clung to him.
Yet even that thought felt cruel, for within every vein of Shaqar flowed an undeniable longing—to simply call his daughter's name once more.
And so he stood there, beneath the dim light of the oil lamp swaying on the tavern ceiling, surrounded by the stench of meat and the hollow laughter of strangers.
"I must do something.Either approach her and beg forgiveness, or stay silent to protect her smile.For my child's sake, should I—"
"Well, Captain! Fancy seeing you here. Hungry too, huh?"
"Ah, Apathy.He has no idea of the turmoil within me, nor does he realize that Miara is here—standing with her neighbor, smiling so brightly.If only he knew…"
"...."
"Come on, Captain. We'd better queue up before the food runs out. The line's getting longer."
That light tap on his shoulder struck him like a jolt from a forgotten world.
To be continued…