Page 56 of Claimed In Darkness

56

ZEPHIRAN

I was made for this moment.

For war. For vengeance. For killing the man who cursed me before I even drew breath.

He will die screaming under my sword.

Zeran moves first.

Fast. Precise. Predictable.

He thinks I will break before I ever touch him.

He is wrong.

Our swords clash, steel scraping against steel, and the sound is thunderous. I don’t let him push me back.

I meet his strength with everything I have left.

This is not just a fight. This is his reckoning and I have been waiting my entire life for it.

Pain rips through my bones as the curse burns through me. Zeran’s activating it, using it against me.

This is a constant reminder of what he’s done to me.

Of the power he still thinks he holds over me.

Of the nights I have spent writhing on the floor, breaking and healing over and over, screaming into the dark while he listened from the shadows.

He smirks, sensing it.

"Still weak, son?"

I bare my teeth.

Not weak.

I shove him back.

My blade slices across his arm and it might be a shallow wound. But it’s enough.

This time, he’s the one bleeding.

Zeran's expression shifts into a flicker of something I have never seen in his face before.

Not disappointment. Not contempt.

Something close to fear.

He's aware that I am not that trembling boy anymore.

I am not a puppet on his strings.

I am not his curse-ridden heir, clawing at survival.

I am his end.

He lunges again.

I let him, then, I sidestep.

I pivot.

I drive my sword into his stomach.

He chokes and staggers.

His fingers twitch, reaching for something—anything.

But there is nothing left.

No power. No control.

I didn’t know it will be this easy to kill him. I should have known I have it in me. Even as my body break apart because of the curse, I don’t feel it anymore.

There’s only the rage and the anguish of losing Naira prevailing. The pain of the curse doesn’t matter anymore as it doesn’t compare to the pain of Naira dyingg on the cold, wet floor.

Right now, I’m just a dark elf regretting his choices. A man who is losing the only thing that makes his dark world blend with colors.

Right now, I’m a son, holding the blade that will end my father.

I twist the sword.

Zeran’s body jerks, and then he falls.

His breath is shallow.

His blood is everywhere.

Yet, he still tries to speak.

I crouch beside him.

Watching. Listening.

His lips part into a weak, rasping whisper, "You… were my… greatest mistake."

I smile.

Sharp. Bloody. Ruthless.

"I know,” I reply.

I push the blade deeper.

Finally, Lord Zeran Zacria dies.

I am free.

No more curse. No more chains.

No more father watching from the shadows, waiting for me to bow.

He is dead and I am still standing.

I let out a slow breath.

But the victory is hollow.

Naira is still bleeding. Still dying.

And suddenly—this isn’t over.

If I do not move fast—I will lose her too.

And losing her is a death I will not survive.