Fragments of Past

The city glowed beneath him, endless lights flickering like dying stars. Isak stood by the window of his mansion, his fingers curled into fists as the image of her lingered in his mind. That girl—her quiet defiance, the way she smiled despite her sorrow—it had disturbed something buried deep inside him.

He exhaled sharply and shut his eyes.

And then, the memories dragged him back.

The scent of old books and expensive whiskey. The heavy weight of judgment pressing down on his small frame. The presence of a man who was more a shadow than a father.

Ragnar Varen.

The name was spoken in hushed tones, feared in every corner of the underworld. A king who ruled not with affection, but with power that made men kneel and beg. He was a man of ruthless ambition, his heart carved from stone. To him, family was a matter of legacy, not love.

Isak was never meant to be part of that legacy.

He was the son of a mistress, a woman who had been nothing more than a fleeting indulgence for Ragnar. A mistake. But she had loved Isak fiercely, sheltering him in a world that had no place for them. For five years, she had kept him safe, hidden from the cruelty that lurked within the Varen estate.

Until the night it all came undone.

He was five. Too young to understand the weight of betrayal, yet old enough to feel the coldness of death creeping into his bones.

The nightmares always came the same way—flashes of crimson, the metallic scent of blood thick in the air, the suffocating silence before the scream that never fully formed. His mother’s last moments haunted him like a specter, dragging him into that night over and over again.

The mansion had been silent, the kind of silence that suffocated. He had run through the corridors, searching for his mother. The air smelled strange—metallic and thick. His small feet hesitated as he stepped into the grand hall.

She was there.

His mother lay motionless on the cold marble, her dark hair fanned around her like ink spilled over silk. Blood pooled beneath her, a deep crimson stain spreading across the floor. Her delicate fingers twitched as if grasping for something—someone.

Isak froze.

Her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. Her lips parted, trying to form words, but only a wet, gurgling sound came out. Tears clung to her lashes, her eyes glassy yet filled with a desperate kind of love. Even as life drained from her, she was searching for him.

His small hands shook as he stepped closer, his knees buckling beneath him. "Mama?"

Her lips moved again, but the sound barely reached him. His ears roared with the weight of something he did not understand. Something final. Something monstrous.

A distant rustle echoed in the silence—footsteps vanishing into the darkness. The ones who had done this were already gone, leaving only the wreckage behind. Isak was too young to know their names then, too innocent to understand the depth of their cruelty.

But he would learn.

His mother’s body jerked slightly, her fingers curling toward him one last time. A faint, broken whisper escaped her lips.

"Survive, my love."

And then—nothing.

The light in her eyes faded, leaving behind only emptiness.

Isak did not cry. He did not scream. He simply knelt beside her, his small hands curling into fists as something inside him shattered beyond repair.

That was the night he ceased to be a child.

The nightmares never left him. Even now, all these years later, they came like a cruel reminder. Some nights, he would wake up gasping, the phantom scent of blood clinging to his skin. Other nights, he would find himself drowning in that suffocating silence, reliving the moment her warmth slipped away from him.

For years, he buried his pain beneath steel and fire, forging himself into something unbreakable. His mother’s blood had been a lesson, a warning of what awaited those who were weak. The truth came later—whispers carried through hushed voices, hints of the ones responsible. His father's silence had been the final betrayal.

Ragnar had spoken to him once after the murder, a rare moment of acknowledgment.

"You are my blood, but do not mistake that for favor. Strength is all that matters in this world. You are either the hunter or the prey. Decide quickly."

There had been no comfort, no justice. Just a lesson wrapped in cruelty.

His half-brother had been given everything. Isak had taken nothing—until he became strong enough to claim it all.

His eyes snapped open, the weight of the past pressing against his chest. His fingers twitched, an old rage simmering beneath his skin.

His voice was barely a whisper, rough and laced with something unnameable. A promise, a question, a confession hidden beneath the weight of years.

"Who hurt you, my little girl?"

The words left his lips before he could stop them, slipping past the barriers he had built so carefully. His fingers curled tighter, his jaw clenched. Why did she matter? Why did her pain reach him when nothing else did?

He should forget her. Let her fade into the backdrop of his ruthless world. And yet—

Her image burned behind his eyes. That defiant, fragile smile. Those unshed tears. The quiet acceptance of a pain he did not yet understand.

One day, he would know. One day, he would find out what had shattered her, what had made her stand on the edge of the world as if she belonged to the abyss.

And when he did—

One day, he would make them pay. One day, he would burn the world they cherished to the ground.

Let the world burn for her.

And let them all burn with it.

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