Lord Balor — The Morning After
The dawn arrived without ceremony.
Lord Balor had not slept. He sat upright at the edge of his chamber bed, hands clasped, eyes fixed on the pale light slipping through the tall windows. The capital stirred beyond the walls—servants moving, guards changing shifts, the city resuming its indifferent rhythm. Life, it seemed, had not paused for what had occurred.
That alone unsettled him.
The previous night replayed itself in fragments he could not dismiss: the sudden scream, the metallic scent of blood, the way the room had frozen—not in shock, but in disbelief. He had been a lord for decades, presided over disputes, executions, and wars by proxy. Yet never had a moment slipped beyond his authority so completely.
Lady Balor had acted.
Not as a wife.
Not as a noble.
But as something raw, furious, and irreversible.
He rose and dressed slowly, methodically, as though order in routine could correct disorder in reality. His household felt different this morning—quieter, restrained. Servants lowered their heads deeper than usual. Guards avoided his gaze. Word had not spread publicly, but silence itself had weight.
He summoned his steward first.
"No visitors," Balor said, voice steady. "No correspondence leaves this house without my seal."
The steward bowed. "And Lady Balor, my lord?"
A pause.
"She is confined to her chambers. No exceptions."
The steward hesitated only a breath. "As you wish."
When the door closed, Balor exhaled slowly. He did not hate his wife. That would have been easier. Hatred simplified things. What he felt instead was something more dangerous—regret mixed with responsibility.
He had failed to control his house.
And now, a blind son of House Andreas lived as proof of it.
The political implications unfolded relentlessly in his mind. House Andreas was old, respected, deeply interwoven with the capital's balance. Lord Andrea was not a weak man, despite appearances. He was cautious, calculating—dangerous in his restraint.
Balor had seen it in his eyes last night.
No shouting.
No threats.
Only silence.
That silence frightened him more than any blade.
He moved to the balcony and looked out over his estate. The sun climbed higher, illuminating banners that now felt heavier than before. Alliances were fragile things—maintained not by affection, but by mutual necessity. The bond between his house and Andrea's had survived wars, succession disputes, and court intrigue.
But this…
This was blood spilled inside a council hall.
Balor clenched the stone railing.
He had offered apology. Compensation. Even land concessions, subtly implied. Andrea had refused them all with a politeness that bordered on insult.
"We will speak again," Andrea had said.
That was all.
Balor turned back inside, pacing.
Lady Balor's actions had solved nothing. Honor was not restored. Scandal was not erased. Instead, a different danger had been born—a living reminder of injustice. Seth Andreas, once dismissed as unremarkable, now carried a narrative far more potent than ambition: victimhood.
And victimhood, Balor knew, fermented resentment.
He stopped before a portrait—his ancestors, painted in rigid dignity.
"What would you have done?" he murmured.
The answer came unbidden: control the damage early.
His course of action formed with reluctant clarity.
First: ensure Lady Balor remained unseen. Her presence would only deepen wounds. Any appearance of justification would fracture negotiations beyond repair.
Second: reassert authority internally. No whispers. No speculation. The incident would be framed as an internal tragedy, not a political maneuver.
Third—and most delicate—maintain proximity to Lord Andrea without provoking him. Distance would suggest avoidance. Pressure would incite retaliation.
A careful balance.
Balor exhaled again, slower this time.
He had not intended to create an enemy.
Yet he suspected one had been born regardless.
Lord Andrea — Stone Beneath the Mask
Lord Andrea stood alone in the east garden, hands clasped behind his back, listening to the sound of water flowing through the marble channels. The morning air was cool, sharp enough to keep thoughts clear.
He had slept little.
Not from grief alone—but from restraint.
The physicians had spoken cautiously. They always did. Words chosen not for truth, but for survivability. Seth would live. That much was certain. Beyond that, everything remained uncertain.
Blindness was not death.
It was worse.
Andrea's jaw tightened imperceptibly.
He had replayed the moment again and again—not the act itself, but the choice he had made after. The moment when he had stood, silent, and allowed the damage to stand unchallenged.
He told himself it had been necessary.
He told himself many things.
A servant approached but stopped at a respectful distance. Andrea did not turn.
"How is he?" Andrea asked.
"Awake, my lord. Quiet. He has not spoken."
Andrea nodded once. The servant withdrew.
Silence reclaimed the garden.
Andrea felt it then—the fracture. Not loud. Not dramatic. A slow, internal cracking, spreading through years of calculation and discipline.
Seth had never been his favorite child. That truth cut sharper than any accusation. He had seen Seth as a complication—intelligent in ways that unsettled, disinterested in power yet surrounded by it. In a house where succession was earned, not inherited, such ambiguity was dangerous.
But he had not deserved this.
Andrea closed his eyes briefly.
Balor had apologized. Formally. Carefully. As one lord to another. Andrea had accepted none of it, because acceptance would have meant closure—and Andrea was not ready for that.
The alliance remained, officially intact. Publicly reaffirmed. That, too, had been necessary. A fracture between their houses would invite vultures. Other lords would sense weakness. The court would feast on it.
So Andrea had done what lords did best.
He had contained the disaster.
But inside, something else had taken root.
Not revenge.
Not yet.
Assessment.
Lady Balor's act had been impulsive, yes—but impulses rarely existed in isolation. They were enabled. Overlooked. Allowed to grow. Balor's failure was not malice—it was complacency.
Andrea could work with that.
He turned and began walking, each step measured.
His sons would be watching him now. Adnos and Dave—both burdened with guilt, fear, and something close to relief. Seth's fall simplified their futures. Andrea knew that truth as well.
That, too, sickened him.
He reached the edge of the garden where the stone path led back into the manor. From here, he could see the upper windows—the wing where Seth had been taken.
Andrea stopped.
He would visit later. Not now. Not yet.
A lord could not afford to be seen reacting emotionally. But a father…
Andrea inhaled deeply.
He had chosen stability over justice.
And that choice would echo.
House Balor would remain allied. For now. The court would see unity. For now. Seth would live. For now.
But Andrea knew something Balor did not.
Crippling a man did not remove him from the board.
Sometimes, it merely changed the game.
Andrea opened his eyes, gaze hardening.
Whatever Seth became after this—whatever shape his future took—it would no longer be predictable. And unpredictability, Andrea knew well, was power of its own kind.
The garden water continued to flow.
Unaware.
Uncaring.
And somewhere within the estate, a blind son lay awake—while two great houses pretended nothing irreversible had occurred.
***The Night Learns His Name***
The medics worked without pause.
Hands stained, sleeves rolled, voices low and strained as they did everything within mortal means to keep Seth conscious, breathing, anchored to life. They pressed cloths, applied salves, whispered measurements and prayers beneath their breath. Painkillers dulled the agony only slightly, never fully touching it. What had been done to him was not a simple wound—it was layered, deliberate, and foreign.
They could feel it.
Something clung to the injury, an unnatural residue embedded deep within the ruined flesh. It resisted ordinary healing as though rejecting it. When the first healers arrived, seasoned and confident, that confidence faltered.
They healed until their hands trembled.
They rested only long enough to regain breath before returning, pouring mana again and again into Seth's shattered eyes. Sweat soaked through robes. Knees buckled. One healer collapsed entirely, drained beyond recovery for the day. Another vomited quietly in a corner before resuming the chant.
Never before had they seen an injury like this.
They could close the wounds—but not erase them.
The foreign burn remained, invisible yet oppressive, like a scar carved into reality itself. They dispelled what they could, peeled away layers of hostile magic, sealed torn flesh and nerves—but the deep cuts stayed. Not bleeding. Not infected. Simply… there.
Present.
By the time the final healer stepped back, dawn had begun to creep across the horizon.
Seth lay still.
Alive.
Morning came bright and merciless.
Sunlight spilled through tall windows, illuminating polished floors and flowering gardens beyond. Birds sang freely, unaware of the stillness weighing down the Andreas estate. The wind moved gently through open corridors, carrying the scent of blooming flowers that felt painfully out of place.
Inside the mansion, the air was dull.
Muted.
Seth slowly sat up in bed.
The movement sent a dull ache through his head—not sharp pain, not blinding agony. Just a constant reminder. He raised a hand carefully and touched his face, fingers trembling as they traced the bandages. He peeled them back with measured calm.
The cuts were healed.
That much was undeniable.
The flesh had closed, smooth at a glance—but beneath it, the damage remained. Deep, jagged lines etched where his eyes once saw. Not raw. Not bleeding. Just… wrong. Unsightly in a way that made even Seth pause.
He let out a breath that might have been a laugh.
Or a sob.
Neither came.
Instead, his expression settled into something still, unreadable. A mask forming without effort.
Visitors came quickly after.
His mother arrived first, pale and shaken, hands cold as she held his. Her voice broke as she spoke of recovery, of hope, of time healing all things. She stayed longer than etiquette allowed, fear clinging to her like a second skin.
His little sister never left his side.
She cried quietly, gripping his sleeve, curling against the bed as if proximity alone could undo what had been done. Seth rested a hand on her head, saying nothing. Comforting her felt… distant. Like an action learned, not felt.
Word did not leave the mansion.
By Lord Andrea's direct order, the incident was sealed behind stone walls and guarded tongues. Seth was removed from public life overnight. No appearances. No visitors beyond family and sanctioned professionals.
Doctors and physicians were brought in secretly—some from distant regions, others paid sums large enough to buy silence for a lifetime. Each examined Seth carefully, their conclusions whispered behind closed doors.
Blind.
Irreversible.
Assigned to him was a maid—quiet, efficient, instructed to handle every domestic necessity without question. Rehabilitation personnel followed soon after, guiding him through routines meant to teach dependence, caution, limitation.
Days passed.
Seth complied.
He stumbled when expected to stumble. Reached too slowly. Hesitated when prompted. He learned quickly what they wanted to see—and gave it to them. Progress was slow, frustrating, pitiful.
They pitied him.
At night, the mansion slept.
And Seth moved.
The moment silence deepened and footsteps faded, he rose from his bed—not stumbling, not reaching blindly. He stood straight, steady, and walked.
Through halls.
Down staircases.
Across marble floors.
Unnoticed.
Guards remained at their posts, unaware. Servants slept undisturbed. Seth moved like a shadow, slipping through the estate with practiced ease. His world was no longer darkness—it was information.
Vibrations traveled through stone and wood, mapping space beneath his feet. Each step sent ripples he could read instinctively. The air carried scents—polish, fabric, sweat, steel—each distinct, each anchored to a presence.
Sound painted depth.
Breathing revealed distance.
Heat betrayed bodies behind walls.
Auras brushed against his awareness—not as colors, but as pressures. Variations in energy, intent, life. Magic hummed softly where it gathered. Mortal rhythms pulsed predictably.
All of it fed his mind.
Signals layered and organized themselves without conscious effort. Where there was something, there was shape. Where there was nothing, there was space.
Seth smiled faintly.
During the day, he remained broken.
During the night, he learned.
He slipped beyond the mansion grounds, over walls, through streets, into civilian districts where life never truly slept. There, he tested himself—listening to crowds, navigating chaos, memorizing layouts without sight.
No one noticed the blind noble moving among them.
By the time dawn neared, he always returned.
Then one night, he climbed.
Stone steps spiraled upward until the air thinned and the city spread beneath him. Seth stood atop the watchtower, midnight wind brushing his face. Below, lanterns flickered. Some slept. Some worked. Some dreamed of futures he would never share.
He tilted his head upward.
The sky stretched vast and open above him.
Stars burned.
For the first time since the council hall, Seth smiled—truly smiled.
"…What a night, huh?"
The wind carried his words away.
And the mansion, unaware, slept on—while something quiet and dangerous learned how to see without eyes.