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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

JORGE

“ M ove, you lazy beast.”

I didn't jolt out of my stupor when Uncle Maris snapped at me. I was stuck inside the anticipation, waiting for the pain. I didn't wait long. The slap… it barely registered.

His hand, once a thing of brute force, was nothing more than a brittle relic of my past nightmares.

His fingers, gnarled and twisted from years of labor and age, could barely extend fully.

The strike was weak, a ghost of the blows that used to send me reeling.

It carried no weight, no real sting—just the memory of a frail, unloved boy who had cowered under this man’s shadow.

I wasn’t that boy anymore.

I was a soldier, a warrior, a man who had fought and bled for his place in the world. A man who had the love of a princess, the respect of a kingdom, and a strength Uncle Maris could never touch.

He couldn’t hurt me now. Not with his words, not with his hands.

He raised his hand again. I watch that gnarled thing come toward me. I had no interest in being struck. So I don't get struck. I shifted, so he hit air and tumbled forward.

My cousins looked murderous. But it was the guards who were smarter. They charged me. They knew it was me or them. My family hadn't a clue who they were dealing with. My cousins were too busy helping their father to his feet.

My blade extended with a whisper of steel.

A sharp gasp escaped the first guard before he crumpled to the ground.

The second guard was only just turning when I lunged, my prosthetic arm slamming into his chest with a force that sent him staggering back.

The blade found its mark, and he slumped into the dirt beside his partner, the life draining from his eyes.

I wasn't even out of breath. I bent down to clean my blade on their clothing, giving my family my back. It was the ultimate show of disrespect when a warrior presents his vulnerable side to his enemy.

"Now you've done it, boy. Those were fae guards. You think your little flower skirt will get you out of a murder charge?"

Did everyone know about Charlotte and my affair? We'd thought we hid it so well.

"We should grab him. Might be a reward for turning in a killer." That was Olric's voice. "Grab the little crackling, Dain."

There was a dull thud and the sound of rocks kicked as boots stumbled forward and halted. The blood cleaned from my blade, I rose to my full height and turned to face them.

Dain was a step ahead of the other two males. He quickly stepped back. Olric clung to his father in what could be mistaken as a show of holding the old man up. But the way Olric's fingers curled into his father's shirtsleeves gave away his cowardice.

There was fear in their faces. I drank it in like a man starved for justice.

Caution clung to the deep grooves etched into their overworked, malnourished faces, settling in the hollows of their gaunt cheeks and the nervous twitch of their hands.

Their once-imposing frames, the ones that had towered over me in my youth, were now brittle with age and hardship.

Their skin had taken on a sallow, sunken quality, stretched too tight over bones that no longer carried strength.

Once, they had been giants in my eyes, their presence casting long, suffocating shadows over my childhood.

But now, stripped of the power they’d once wielded over me, they were nothing more than broken things—hollow and shrunken, their edges dulled by the same cruelty they had inflicted on others.

But then their fear hardened into something uglier—resentment, bolstered by years of misplaced pride.

My uncle was the first to recover, his lips curling into a sneer. “You always were a freak, Jorge.”

Olric gripped a hammer so tightly his knuckles turned white, while Dain shifted uneasily, clearly wishing he were anywhere else.

Once, they’d towered over me, their laughter cruel and their blows merciless.

They’d been my tormentors, thriving on my weakness.

But now… now I saw them for what they truly were.

Pathetic. Petty. Cowards.

The corner of my mouth twitched, but I didn’t smile. Instead, I lowered my blade and stood tall, letting them see me, all of me—scarred, enhanced, and unbreakable. My posture dared them to come at me.

No one moved.

“You’re nothing." My uncle spat on the ground. "Always have been. Always will be. ”

Olric swung the hammer in a nervous arc, as if testing its weight.

Dain muttered something under his breath, too low for me to catch.

I didn’t care. They could call me whatever they wanted. Their words couldn’t reach me anymore. I turned my back to them and walked away.

“Crackling coward.”

I had no idea which one of them bellowed that at my back. Their voices sounded the same as the insults came fast and thick. I kept walking, every muscle in my body ready to react should one of them try to strike.

Their voices grew louder, desperate to reclaim some semblance of power. I could hear it in the pitch of their taunts, the rising hysteria. They needed me to react, needed me to turn and engage.

Something whistled through the air.

I didn’t need to turn to know what it was. Metal had always spoken to me. I could feel the weight of it, the shape, the familiarity of its build. A hammer was airborne and aimed for the back of my skull.

I lifted my prosthetic arm, aiming without turning. A pulse of energy surged through the plating, gears shifting into place as I unleashed the blast.

The hammer never reached me.

The shockwave met it midair, sending it hurtling backward like a comet returning to its maker. It struck the forge with a deafening crack, colliding with the roof before bouncing into the piles of wood and scattered embers. A hiss filled the air as the first flames licked hungrily at the dry beams.

Maris cursed. Olric and Dain scrambled, their heavy footfalls shifting from pursuit to panic. The thick smoke curled into the air. The heat licked at my back.

I didn’t stop.

Didn’t turn.

Didn’t spare them so much as a glance.

Their fate wasn’t mine to hold.

They had made their bed in cinders. Let them lie in it. The past was ash, and I wasn’t staying to breathe it in.

I wasn’t the broken boy they’d once beaten into submission. I was a survivor. A fighter. And I had someone to fight for.

I picked up my pace. Charlotte was my future, my everything. And no one—not my family, not prince or queen, not even the gods themselves—would keep me from her.

I needed to get back to the capital. But I couldn't walk. I needed a functioning ride or a fast ley line. The closest was in Evergrove.