Chapter 414: The Little Birds

The morning air was cool and fresh, with a gentle breeze drifting through.

A figure stood near the stone balustrade, leaning forward slightly over the carved railing. He wore a loose robe that fluttered softly in the early wind, his hair falling messy around his neck. In his left hand, he cupped a generous handful of cracked nuts, sunflower seeds, and dried berries, his fingers moving with a gentle rhythm.

He lifted his right hand, making a low, rhythmic clicking sound against the roof of his mouth, tsk-tsk, tsk-tsk.

For a few moments, nothing happened. Below the balcony, the sprawling gardens lay silent under a thin layer of morning fog, the frosted leaves glistening like shattered glass.

Then, a sudden rustle echoed from the canopy of a nearby pine tree.

A tiny, ash-grey sparrow darted through the mist, hovering nervously above the terrace before landing lightly on the wide stone ledge a few feet away. It tilted its head, its shiny eyes fixing onto the figure.

The man smile, a soft, incredibly gentle expression that softened every sharp line of his face.

"Come here," he murmured, his voice hushed and sweet, as if speaking to a fragile child.

He slowly lowered his hand, extending his palm flat against the stone. The little sparrow fluttered forward, taking tiny, hesitant hops before burying its beak into the handful of seeds. A second bird followed, swooping down from the eaves to land right on the wooden railing, its tiny claws clicking against the frost.

"That’s it," he whispered softly, his smile broadening as he watched the birds feed. He took a pinch of seeds with his free fingers, carefully scattering them along the stone ledge so the bolder sparrows wouldn’t crowd the smaller ones. "Eat up. Eat as much as you like, and grow up nice and healthy, okay?"

A few yards away, near the thick trunk of an old oak tree that reached up toward the second-story balcony, a tiny red squirrel poked its nose out from a hollow branch. The man caught sight of it and let out a quiet, affectionate chuckle. He tossed a whole almond toward the tree. It landed with a soft thud in the grass below, and the squirrel darted down instantly, snatching the nut before vanishing back into the bark.

The man stood there for a long time, quietly watching the morning life unfold around his terrace, entirely detached from the cold, ruthless political schemes churning outside. To anyone passing by, he looked like nothing more than an innocent, gentle soul taking solace in the quiet beauty of nature.

Eventually, the chill grew heavier, and the sparrows, satisfied with their feast, burst into the sky, fluttering away into the misty trees.

The man looked down at his right hand. One small, brown sparrow remained perched directly on his index finger, peck-pecking at the final remnant of a berry.

"Time to go inside," he whispered to the bird.

Cradling the tiny creature against his chest to protect it from the wind, he turned around and stepped through the tall glass doors, stepping into his warm, dimly lit private chambers. The thick curtains were half-drawn, keeping the room in a permanent, cozy twilight. The heavy scent of dried lavender and bitter herbal tea hung thick in the warm air.

He walked over to the small, ornate birdcage resting on a low wooden table near his armchair. Opening the brass door, he carefully let the sparrow hop onto a small wooden perch inside before setting down a tiny clay bowl of fresh water.

"Stay safe in here," he murmured, gently closing the cage door with a quiet click.

He turned away, his soft smile slowly fading from his face like snow melting in warm water.

The gentle, innocent warmth in his eyes evaporated, replaced by a cold, flat stillness as he walked over to the armchair placed near the unlit hearth. He sank into the plush leather, resting his elbow on the armrest and leaning his chin against his knuckles.

Before long, he was thinking about one person again.

He thought of the Valtrane estate. He thought of Duke Valtrane, Zarius.

The formidable northern lord had been keeping to his private quarters, his health had taken a noticeable turn for the worse. He looked unusually weak and pale, spending most of his time resting in bed instead of carrying on with his usual duties.

The once-mighty warrior who had commanded armies on the frozen borders now looked miserable, drained of his natural vitality, trembling under the weight of an unseen, lingering affliction.

The curse was working. The curse he had carefully put into motion was slowly eating away at Zarius from the inside out, turning a lion into a dying beast.

Yet, as the man sat alone in the quiet room, staring blankly at the dark hearth, he felt no rush of victory. He felt no grand sense of triumph.

The curse was consuming Zarius, just as intended, but why... why did it still not feel like enough? Why did this quiet, slow decay feel so terribly hollow?

A cold, dark itch lingered beneath his skin, a restless, insatiable hunger that simple revenge couldn’t seem to quiet. Zarius was weakening, yes, but Cherion...

Oh, yes. The Crown Prince’s ex-fiancé. For some reason, seeing Cherion beside Zarius always made him uneasy.

The man raised his hand, his long, pale fingers resting against the polished wood of the armrest.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The steady, rhythmic sound of his fingernail striking the wood echoed through the quiet room, matching the slow, heavy beat of his own heart.

He stared at the tiny sparrow pecking at its seeds inside the brass cage, his dark eyes narrowing into something terrifyingly vacant.

"Cherion..." he whispered into the empty room, his voice dropping into a soft, melodic murmur that sent a chill through the warm air.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He tilted his head slightly, a faint, chilling smirk curving the corner of his lips.

"Should I curse him, too?"