Crimson Vows: A Tale of War, Love, and Redemption

Crimson Vows

The storm outside rattled the windows of the grand palace, echoing the turmoil within Emperor Varro’s heart. His reflection in the rain-smeared glass revealed a young man draped in crimson robes, eyes haunted by memories of flames, screams, and endless war. His fingers grazed the cold steel of the revolver at his side, a constant reminder of the price he paid for the crown he wore.

Today, he would visit the one person who terrified him more than any assassin or enemy general: his mother.

The coach jolted over a stone, snapping Varro from his thoughts. He signaled the driver to stop, stepping out into the misty dawn. The scent of pine and wet earth filled his lungs as he made his way into the forest, alone, leaving behind the stifling expectations of court and the watchful eyes of his guards.

As Varro climbed the rocky trail toward the waterfall, a glimmer of gold caught his eye. A young woman danced in the silver mist, arms open to the sky, her laughter blending with the sound of cascading water. For a fleeting moment, Varro felt the weight of the world slip from his shoulders, replaced by something like hope.

But hope was a luxury he could not afford.

A twig snapped beneath his boot, startling the woman near the edge. Without thinking, Varro lunged forward, gripping her arm before she fell into the abyss below. She clung to him, trembling, her blue eyes wide with fear before softening into gratitude.

“I—I almost fell,” she gasped, brushing her golden hair from her face.

“You’re safe now,” Varro replied, steadying her with a gentle firmness that surprised even himself.

“Thank you, sir,” she said with a shy smile. “My grandmother always warns me to stay away from the edge, but I love the falls too much to listen.”

Varro found himself smiling back, something he had not done in years. “It is beautiful here.”

“Are you a traveler?” she asked, tilting her head curiously.

“Yes,” he lied, savoring the anonymity. “On my way to visit someone important.”

“Your mother?” she guessed with a playful glint in her eyes.

Varro nodded, the smile fading. “Yes, though it is not a visit I look forward to.”

She reached out, touching his arm lightly. “Perhaps one day, you will return, not out of duty, but to see the falls again.”

Varro hesitated before bowing his head. “Perhaps.”

As he left her, he could not shake the warmth of her laughter or the softness of her gaze. But the memory of her kindness was soon overshadowed by the dark corridors of the palace, where the scent of decay clung to the walls, and the air was thick with the bitterness of unspoken words.

Inside the Empress’s chambers, Dowager Empress Kaparina, frail but fierce, awaited him like a viper coiled in silk. Her eyes, sharp as daggers, met his without warmth.

“You’re late,” she hissed, her voice as brittle as parchment.

Varro bowed stiffly. “Mother.”

“Empress,” she corrected, coughing violently before glaring at him. “You’ve failed me again, Varro. The Kotazoah should have been wiped out, yet you let them slip through your fingers.”

“Enough blood has been spilled,” Varro replied, his voice low.

“Blood is the price of power,” she snapped, her gnarled hand clutching his wrist, revealing the scars she had burned into him over years of torment and training. “You are weak, like your father, but I will make you strong.”

Varro pulled his arm away, anger flaring in his chest. “Strong enough to kill for you, to become a monster?”

Kaparina’s eyes gleamed. “If that is what Arcadis needs.”

That night, as the Empress lay in bed, shadows stirred near her window. A figure slipped inside, silent as moonlight, and shifted into the form of a young maiden with fierce blue eyes.

Zelaine, a Kotazoah survivor, stood over the sleeping tyrant, the faces of her slain family flashing before her eyes. She remembered her promise: no hesitation, no pity, no mercy.

Her dagger glinted as she pressed it against Kaparina’s throat, awakening the old woman with a gasp.

“You…” Kaparina wheezed, her eyes widening in fear for the first time in decades.

“This is for every Kotazoah child you burned alive,” Zelaine whispered before pressing down, the Empress’s final breath escaping as a rattling sigh.

The deed was done, but Zelaine’s mission was not over. She took the Empress’s form, crawling into the bed where the tyrant had died, waiting for Varro to arrive.

When he entered, Varro’s eyes were tired, shoulders slumped under the weight of the kingdom. He spoke, not to a mother, but to a phantom.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he confessed, his voice cracking. “The faces of the dead haunt me. I want peace, not endless slaughter.”

Zelaine’s resolve wavered as she saw the torment in his eyes. This was not the monster she had imagined, but a broken man drowning in guilt.

She shifted back to her true form, drawing her dagger and pressing him against the wall. “Your peace is too late!” she shouted, tears streaming down her face. “You destroyed everything!”

Varro closed his eyes, a single tear slipping down his cheek. “Then end it.”

She hesitated, the blade trembling in her hand, the memory of the waterfall and his gentle eyes haunting her. Before she could decide, the guards burst in, dragging her away, her screams echoing through the corridors.

“Kill her, sire!” the captain demanded.

Varro shook his head, meeting Zelaine’s eyes one last time. “No. Enough blood has been spilled.”

As the guards dragged her to the dungeons, Zelaine realized that the cycle of hatred was breaking, even if she could not let go of her rage. In the darkness of her cell, she clung to the memory of the waterfall, whispering a promise to the fallen:

For the good of Arcadis, what must be done… must be done.

Moral of the Story:

Hatred and vengeance may burn brightly, but only forgiveness and courage can break the cycle of endless violence.