Chapter 2794: Story 2795: The Father Behind the Heart

The voice faded, but its final words continued to tremble through Ronan’s bones.

“Your father is coming home.”

Ronan stared at the sealed golden door.

“No,” he whispered. “Father is dead.”

Seratha struggled against the black chains binding her shadow. “Death was never enough to stop him.”

The door pulsed.

Once.

Twice.

With every heartbeat, the stone beneath their feet grew warmer. The broken crown fragments around Ronan began crawling toward him, dragging themselves across the floor like insects seeking their master.

Lyra caught his arm.

“Don’t let them touch you.”

Ronan looked down. “Why?”

“Because I can hear what they’re saying.”

The fragments whispered in hundreds of voices.

First Son. Firstborn. Vessel. Home.

Then they rose into the air and arranged themselves above Ronan’s head, forming the outline of a crown.

He swung his sword through them.

A red shockwave shattered the fragments, but the sound that followed was not metal breaking.

It was a child crying.

Ronan froze.

From behind the golden door came a small, familiar voice.

“Brother?”

The forgotten child inside Ronan stirred violently.

Don’t answer him.

Another voice followed.

“Ronan, please. It’s cold in here.”

Ronan’s expression crumpled.

He remembered those words.

Not from the six-eyed child, nor from the forgotten brother hidden inside his heart.

From someone else.

A boy standing alone beneath a dead tree, holding Ronan’s hand while their father’s shadow swallowed the sky.

“Who are you?” Ronan called.

The door answered with a deep, terrible groan.

“I am the father you murdered.”

Seratha screamed, “Don’t listen! It knows how to wear the dead!”

But the golden door began opening by itself.

Beyond it lay no abyss, no ancient prison, and no endless darkness.

There was a house.

A small wooden house beneath a silver moon, surrounded by flowers that glowed like stars. Smoke curled from its chimney. Warm light shone through its windows.

Lyra stared in disbelief.

“I’ve seen this place.”

Seratha’s chains tightened.

“No. You were never supposed to remember it.”

Lyra stepped toward the doorway.

Inside the house, a woman sang a lullaby.

The melody pierced Lyra’s chest. She remembered the warm hands, the white hair, the promise that someone would always come when she cried.

Then she saw the woman sitting beside a cradle.

The First Mother.

And beside her stood a younger Ronan, holding a bloodstained knife.

Lyra gasped.

The memory changed.

The house burned. The flowers turned black. The woman reached toward the children while a towering figure tore the stars from the sky.

Young Ronan raised his knife.

“No!” Lyra shouted.

The vision shattered.

Ronan fell to his knees, clutching his head.

“I remember the house.”

Seratha bowed her head.

“I tried to save you all.”

From within the doorway, a man stepped into the light.

He wore no crown. His face was gentle, his eyes tired, and his hands were covered in old scars.

He looked exactly like Ronan.

But when he smiled, every heartbeat in the chamber stopped.

“My children,” he whispered. “Which one of you remembers who killed your mother?”