CHAPTER 480: SHADOWS OF GUILT

Just before training started that day, Netser was already waiting at the Old Gardens, tucked away in the eastern quarter of the palace. The place where he stood was a quiet threshold—the manicured hedges of the royal grounds brushed against the untamed edge of the forest, as though order and wilderness leaned toward one another in secret greeting.

Shaya appeared at last, dressed not in silks or jewel-toned gowns as she once had at the duke’s mansion, but in her training attire: loose, wide-legged black trousers and a simple long-sleeved blouse of white linen. The simplicity of her clothes only threw her beauty into sharper relief—her presence seemed to belong to another world entirely, one that required no ornament.

She arrived breathless, her chest rising and falling from the morning run she insisted on completing before heading to the Old Gardens. A wolf pup padded loyally at her heels, its tiny claws scratching against the earth. With a small, practiced motion, Shaya pulled a folded towel from her pocket and dabbed the sweat from her brow, her hair sticking in dark strands to her temples.

The east was awash in a pale yellow light, the sky holding the promise of daybreak, though the world below was still dim. Against this half-lit backdrop, the garden seemed suspended in time, waiting for the sun to finish its climb.

Yet to Netser, who watched her cross the garden toward him, the scene blazed brighter than the full morning. She seemed like the sun itself—quiet, inevitable, and radiant in a way that unsettled him.

"Sit down and take a rest," Netser said, his voice even, though something in his chest had stirred.

Shaya obeyed with a soft exhale, stretching briefly before lowering herself onto a stone bench. At once Blue Eyes leapt into her lap, pressing its cold nose against her stomach. The sight tightened Netser’s jaw; he frowned without thinking.

He took the seat across from her, a rectangular stone table lying like a boundary between them. For a moment, silence pooled in the space, broken only by the chirp of waking birds.

Then, with deliberate care, he asked, "How have you been these past years, Shaya? Where did you go?" His eyes searched hers, weighing every flicker of her expression, as if her answer held the power to either soothe or wound him.

"I escaped to the Zandaya mountain range, back to the village where my nanny was born," Shaya said, her voice even, almost casual. She unscrewed her canteen and drank, the water glinting in the morning light as if nothing in her words carried weight.

Netser leaned forward. "Why did you not ask for my help?" His tone faltered, edged with hurt. Over the years, in their many encounters, Shaya had grown close to him—closer than he expected—treating him like the elder brother she never had.

Shaya gave a short, dry, and sharp laugh. "You’re joking, right? If I had asked for your help, wouldn’t that be the same as delivering myself back into my father’s hands?"

Her words landed like a blow. Netser flinched, lowering his gaze. Maybe she was right. Perhaps his involvement would have only tightened the noose around her neck, adding fresh accusations to her name—not just a runaway daughter, but a traitor who had entangled an accused merchant family.

He spoke more carefully, his voice low. "And after? How did you find your way to Northem?"

Shaya’s grip tightened on her canteen. Her eyes lost focus, her voice dropping into something softer, shaded with memory.

"Two years passed quietly in the village. Then one night, the bandits came. They descended without warning, their torches throwing monstrous shadows across the mountain walls. Flames leapt from roof to roof, the smoke choking the night. People screamed—men fighting with farming tools, women pulling children into the woods. My maid and her brothers dragged me from the house before the fire could reach us. I still hear the crack of burning wood, the shouts, the silence that followed. We ran, and we didn’t look back."

She paused, swallowing hard before continuing.

Her words slowed, her eyes distant as though reliving a wound. "But the river was not merciful. Pirates found us. They came like shadows over the water, their blades catching the moonlight. My maid’s brothers fought—bravely, desperately. They died shielding us." Shaya’s jaw tightened; her next breath trembled. "We managed to break free, but I was separated from her in the chaos." She stopped, the memory dragging at her voice.

Netser shifted restlessly on the cold, rough stone bench, the chill seeping through his clothes. His heart raced, the urge to draw her into his arms clawing at him like a ravenous beast. But in the end, he restrained himself.

"I stumbled ashore on Northem’s border, half-starved and lost. I thought it was over when the rebels found me. They circled me like wolves, jeering, reaching. I could do nothing. But then—" her expression shifted, a flicker of light breaking through the weight of memory—"a woman and her men cut through them. Her name was Briella. She pulled me out of their hands as though I were nothing more than a child. She took me to Carles, and I served her as her maid."

Shaya’s voice fell silent, but the images she had conjured—flames licking at rooftops, the river swallowing the dead, the gleam of pirate steel—lingered heavy in the air between them.

The garden was quiet after Shaya’s words, yet the silence pressed on Netser like a burden. He sat motionless across from her, but inside, his thoughts were like the tempest in August.

She had fled through fire, river, and swords. She had faced bandits, pirates, and rebels—and where had he been? Eating with his friends. Living in comfort, while she had fought for her life with nothing but scraps of luck and the loyalty of those who bled for her.

I should have known. I should have found her.

Netser’s jaw tightened. His hands curled on his knees beneath the stone table. He remembered the day she vanished, how whispers spread like wildfire in the palace halls—that the duke’s daughter had run away. He had heard it and wanted to look for her. Yet he did nothing. Duty had bound him, and so he stayed.

His chest ached as he thought of her seeing her maid’s brothers, cut down in the river’s moonlight, their sacrifice carving a path for her survival. It should have been him. If he had gone with her, if he had stood at her side, perhaps she would not carry that shadow in her eyes now.

He stole a glance at her. Shaya sat calmly, stroking Blue Eyes where it nestled in her lap. The wolf pup’s soft fur contrasted with the hard edge of her story, as though she had learned to cradle life gently only after watching so much of it torn away.

Guilt gnawed at him. She spoke to him as if nothing had been expected of him, as if it were natural that she bore the weight of her escape alone. But Netser could not accept that. He was the one she had once trusted, the one she had treated like an older brother. Though he had hoped that she could treat him more than that. Because in his heart, he wanted to be more.

And yet, when she needed someone most, he had not been there.

I should have searched for her. I should have broken every law, every tie, to bring her back. Instead, I let her walk through hell alone.

But what could he do? It wasn’t even a year since she was gone when his family was targeted and suppressed. They were bled dry, their possessions seized. But even then, their enemies were not content and condemned his entire family to death.

The pale light of morning had grown stronger now, gilding the tops of the hedges in the Old Gardens. To anyone else, the scene was peaceful. But for Netser, it only threw his failure into sharper relief. The light touched and framed her, making her look untouchable, distant—as though the hardships she had endured had carried her to a place far beyond his reach.

He pressed his lips together, his thoughts heavy. I will not fail her again. Whatever comes next, whatever trials await... I will be there. This time, I will not turn away.

And yet, as he sat in silence, he knew these were only promises whispered to himself—fragile things, born out of guilt and regret. Whether Shaya would let him walk beside her now was another matter entirely.

Shaya tilted her head, her gaze steady on him. "And what about you, Netser? How have you been these past few years? And why are you here in Northem—training like the common soldiers?" Her voice carried both curiosity and a faint edge of challenge, as though she knew the answer would not be simple.

The question struck him unguarded. Netser froze, the air between them tightening. For a moment, he said nothing, his expression unreadable. But inside, the old wound tore open, raw and bleeding, as if her words had pressed a blade into a scar that had never truly healed.

His eyes darkened—