Chapter 78
Apathy lowered his head slightly, staring at the reflection of himself on the surface of the table.
The lines on his face appeared deeper under the dim light, resembling the reliefs of an ancient stone that carried tales of a thousand years behind its silence.
His lips moved slightly, yet no sound came out.
Only a faint tremor revealed that the next words were still being considered, still weighed between certainty and doubt.
Shaqar could clearly see how Apathy was struggling—not to find the right words, but to decide whether the world was ready to hear them.
That was where their difference lay—Shaqar had long learned to make peace with silence, while Apathy seemed torn between the desire to speak and the fear of the consequences of releasing a truth too heavy to bear.
The air between them thickened, like the stillness before a storm that presses the chest and forces the heart to beat slower.
Shaqar swallowed, his gaze shifting to the lantern that was now dimming, then back to the face before him.
In that silence, he realized something simple yet earth-shaking—not all sentences needed to be spoken to carry weight.
The unfinished word "like this" had already shaken his inner self, reopening wounds long kept in quiet care.
He did not know whether what would be said next was truth, warning, or a confession too late to matter—but his soul was ready to accept it in whatever form it came.
"Shaqar, does the shadow of sin still cling tightly within your mind to this very second?You surely know which sin I speak of—the one committed against your own family.
Do not avoid it, and answer me, or at least let your face speak.
When you looked at Miara from afar earlier, did you not feel the weight?
Did you not recall how you left her, allowing your beloved wife to lie cold, stubbornly abandoning your home for the ambition of Xirkushkartum?
Tell me, Shaqar—does the voice of that sin still echo in your head, or have you buried it beneath all your rationalizations?"
Wussshhh!
"Why don't you dare to come closer? Is it because you still see yourself as a failed father?Are you afraid that every apology you utter will be rejected by the heart you've wounded?
Or could it be, Shaqar... that you've already given up on the hope of mending everything?"
Huffffhh!
"How much longer will you remain silent, letting Miara grow without clarity, understanding, or the presence of her father?
The shadow of that sin still haunts you, doesn't it?
I can see it in the way you avert your gaze.
You can lead nineteen men, but when it comes to approaching one little girl—your own daughter—you falter.
So tell me, Shaqar, how long will you keep hiding within the shadows of your mistakes?How long?"
The question came without warning, gliding from Apathy's lips like an arrow long held in its bow.
His voice remained calm, nearly emotionless, yet carried a sharpness that pierced through the fragile defenses of Shaqar's soul.
For a moment, there was no response but silence.
The lantern above the table swayed slowly, casting the reflection of Shaqar's face that now looked far older than his years.
Behind his frozen gaze, something stirred—a long-buried fear clawing its way up from the depths of memory.
Apathy's question was no ordinary inquiry; it was a blade peeling back old wounds, wounds still raw despite being buried for years beneath the masks of leadership and valor.
Apathy watched him intently.
Not out of anger, but with a sorrowful curiosity.
He had seen how Shaqar's eyes froze when they met Miara's, how his sturdy body lost all strength before the very presence that was meant to be embraced—not avoided.
There was something in Shaqar's silence heavier than guilt itself, a kind of sin that refused forgiveness.
And so, Apathy continued, his tone deeper, as though measuring how tightly the shadows of the past still bound his captain.
He understood—Shaqar was not a man easily shaken, yet neither was he free from regret.
Within him, Apathy could sense a complex struggle between the will to atone and the fear of failing again.
Shaqar did not answer. He did not even try.
His eyes remained fixed upon the lantern, as though searching for something within its small flickering light—perhaps Miara's face, perhaps fragments of time long lost.
He knew well why he dared not approach, why his steps halted mere dozens of meters from his daughter.
Because every step closer meant retracing the path he himself had burned.
To him, Miara was not just a daughter, but the embodiment of everything that could never be repaired, of love he had failed to guard.
And now, before Apathy who awaited his reply, he could only bow his head, suppressing the storm that rose from the ashes of memory.
"My condition is stable, Apathy.My troubles are not yours to bear.This body still functions, still able to face the sky with a straight back.So don't assume I'm standing on the edge—I'm not in danger.But about what you mentioned... does the memory of my sin toward my family still torment me?Honestly, I no longer know what to do.More precisely, I can't seem to find the right words.And it's all because of two things."
The sky above the old city trembled in silence, as if listening to the unspoken tremor between two souls who knew each other well, yet were now separated by an invisible wall.
Beneath the softly swaying lanterns, Shaqar sat with a stiff back, trying to rebuild calmness from the fragments of shattered emotion.
He said he was fine, that he wasn't in trouble—but even his voice sounded like an empty echo from a cave untouched by light.
Within, he knew the small lie wasn't meant for Apathy, but for himself.
For in every beat of his heart, another pulse crept from the past—reminding him of the day he wasn't there when his world collapsed, when his wife's body was laid down without the touch of the hands that once promised to protect her till death.
There, in that absence, Shaqar's suffering was rooted.
Not in the loss itself, but in the way he lost.
He had chosen loyalty to duty—to the flag and the title he called devotion—and without realizing it, had traded love for a sanctified sense of busyness.
He had ignored every invitation from home, brushed aside every small hope his wife sent through short messages or faint glances by the doorway.
And when death came, he heard the news from a distance too far for regret to reach.
Behind his stiff smile, there was a dusty world—built from unsent letters and prayers uttered too late.
Miara grew up amid that dust, carrying an anger that never truly faded, refusing to understand anything about her father other than that he loved his work more than her.
Yet a deeper suffering did not end with regret alone.
Two things continued to bind Shaqar like knots that could not be untied.
"I miss Miara.
I want to sit and talk with her, to speak honestly, to say the apology buried for so long, to explain every misunderstanding that arose after her mother—my wife—left us.
I wish to look into her eyes, to tell her that my distance was never because I didn't love her, but because I was lost, endlessly wandering in the sea of duty, responsibility, and ambition I once believed was noble.
My deepest desire is to cleanse the stains, to prove that amidst all this turmoil, my love as a father still lives.
But the greatest obstacle is the wall I built myself.
Without realizing it, I have thrown away, cast aside the dignity that once came from the safety of a family."
To be continued…