Chapter 18:

  "The Slow Erasure of Empty"

  Arc 2: Chapter 7

  POV: "???"

  The royal wedding day dawned like a dream gilded with hope. It was not just a union; it was the ritual coronation of a new myth. For a million souls crowding the squares and filling the projection crystals, it was the definitive triumph of Light over the ashes of the past.

  Bruce Darking, the Strongest Man in the World, accompanied Luna to the gates of the Immaculate Light Cathedral. He did not offer his arm; he walked beside her like a mountain in motion, his presence warding off any shadow. Beneath the veil, Luna's face was a mask of serene determination. But when Bruce stopped, she looked at him. He, who rarely expressed anything beyond strength or severity, inclined his head in an almost imperceptible gesture.

  It was not a farewell. It was the passing of a burden.

  "Make them believe," his voice was a low roar, just for her.

  "I always do, Grandfather," she replied, and then she entered.

  She advanced beneath the celestial vault of the cathedral. Her dress was not fabric; it was the houses' union made tangible, woven from light and the blue of the mage house, flowing with her steps. Every eye followed her. Luka Graymon waited at the altar, imposing in his mage-royal vestments. His pride was not vanity; it was the certainty of fulfilling a destiny and, in his purple eyes, a genuine flicker for the woman approaching, the warrior who had returned from hell.

  Their "Yes" was not a murmur. It was a declaration broadcast through crystal amplifiers, echoing from the kingdom's farthest walls. A million voices rose in response, a roar of approval that shook the ground.

  Raphadun cried, Flávio shouted, Fencer smiled. Bruce observed somewhat indifferently. Theodora fell into tears, thinking of how her husband would be proud.

  In the front row of the noble sector, between Flávio and Fencer, Empty watched.

  Seated in his wheelchair, a simple blanket covering the legs that no longer responded, he was a silent counterpoint to that sea of brocades and jewels. When the crowd rose in a single wave of jubilation, he raised his hands and began to clap. Behind the mask, his eyes never left Luna.

  The party that followed was a controlled storm of music, light, and wine. Empty stayed on the margin, an immobile beacon amid the whirlwind. Luna, in a rare moment of truce, approached, her crown shining under the chandeliers.

  "Are you okay?" she asked, lowering herself to the level of his chair.

  He nodded, smiling.

  Luna smiled, and for the first time that day, the smile reached her eyes, moist.

  "Thank you for being here, Empty."

  The months following the wedding flowed like thick honey for the kingdom, and like quicksand for Empty.

  Luna and Luka's public life was a fairy tale under construction. The healing of the Infernal Zone, though slow, was undeniable. Hope was a tangible product. The kingdom prospered.

  For Empty, each week was a silent surrender. Weakness was no longer an occasional visitor; it was a permanent resident. Raising an arm required effort. His breathing, when perceptible, was a shallow whisper. The wheelchair became an extension of his body.

  But his smile—that gleam emanating from his eyes—never disappeared. It was a low but stubborn flame. His time was running out, but his curiosity about the world, about the people around him, burned with renewed intensity. It was as if, knowing the twilight, he wanted to absorb all the colors of the day.

  Three weeks after the wedding

  The kingdom is prepared to celebrate the 16th D.d.—the sixteenth year "After the Definitive," marking the rebirth after the last great crisis. Every year, after the coming of the Definitive, was seen as proof that life could be good. Each year, as the tradition demanded, citizens and nobles would utter the phrase: "Please, a good life." It was a milestone of renewed hope.

  In the secret medical reports, however, the date was a different kind of milestone. Only a few months remained. The primordial spark that sustained him was like embers under ashes, diminishing without flame.

  On one of those rare sunny days, with the fresh air carrying the smell of bread and market flowers, Raphadun decided to take Empty for a walk. Flávio, of course, took command of the chair with the enthusiasm of a general on parade.

  "Look, Empty! The market is amazing today!" Flávio narrated, pushing the chair carefully between the stalls. "And you have to try this new sorbet from Sebastian! It's an explosion of flavor! An explosion, I swear!"

  Fencer walked beside, a tired smile on his lips, watching the surroundings. It was a moment of precious normalcy.

  And it was then that Flávio froze.

  "My wallet! I left it at the counter!" he rummaged through his pockets in panic. "Stay here, okay? Don't move! I'll be right back in a blink!"

  And he disappeared into the shop behind them, swallowed by the crowd.

  "Hey, you're Empty, right?" The voice was oily, falsely friendly. "We're in a jam. There's a robbery going on in the back street, and elderly lady is terrified. The queen talks so much about helping others… How about giving a hand? We'll take you there quickly."

  Empty, whose code of existence was engraved in a single verb—help—did not hesitate. His instinct, stronger than any suspicion, took over. He nodded, a single affirmative movement.

  "That's it, good guy," the second man smiled, a cruel gleam in his eyes.

  Instead of taking him to the main street, they turned the chair toward a narrow corridor between two buildings. The sunlight died instantly. The market noise became a distant buzz. They pushed the chair to the back of the alley, a dirty, damp, dead-end place.

  Empty looked around. There was no lady. There was no robbery.

  There was only pure violence, waiting to reveal itself.

  The taller man kicked the front wheel of the chair with brutal force. Empty's world flipped sideways. The chair toppled with a metallic thud, and he fell with it, his fragile body striking the cold stones. The blanket tangled around him, a ridiculous shroud.

  "Your queen isn't here to defend you, disgusting curse," the man spat, his voice now a distilled hiss of hatred. He kicked Empty's curled body.

  The second man joined the attack. Kicks and punches began to rain down. Empty did not try to defend himself. There was no energy to fight, and even if there were, something inside him refused to return violence. He merely curled up, his eyes closed behind the mask, accepting the hatred as one more element of the world he had tried to heal. The sound of blows echoed on his armor. "Take off that disgusting armor, show the world the curse you are," the second man shouted.

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  The air in the infirmary smelled of antiseptic and contained rage. Luna, still with remnants of ceremonial makeup under her eyes, now sparked with icy fury. She was no longer at the altar; she was on the battlefield.

  "Who was it?" Her voice was not a shout; it was a sharpened blade, slicing the still air. "Names. Now. Who dared touch him?"

  She paced the room with short steps, the gauze of her garments dragging across the stone floor. The guards shrank under her gaze. Bruce, at the entrance, observed with silent approval. This was a rage he understood.

  On the adjacent bed, Flávio tried to sit up, his face a mass of bruises and swelling that twisted his smile into something crooked and painful.

  "Majesty, please, calm down," his voice came out thick through cracked lips. "Look at us here, all standing… more or less. It was just a… street misunderstanding. Nothing we couldn't handle, right, Empty? Hahaha!"

  His laugh, trying to smother the pain, echoed pathetically in the tense room. All eyes turned to the stretcher beside him.

  Empty lay there, his armor partially removed to expose the bruises staining his pale skin an unnatural purple. Upon hearing Flávio, he turned his head with visible effort. Behind the cracked mask, his eyes narrowed. It was not a full smile—there was no energy for that—but it was a gleam, a stubborn attempt to convey: I'm here. I'm okay. Don't worry.

  It was such a pure gesture of reassurance that, for a moment, it smothered Luna's fury. She swallowed hard, her clenched fists trembling slightly.

  Later, the group regrouped in Flávio's simple but cozy house. The air smelled of hot soup and deliberate normalcy. The door opened, and a small figure with curly hair like a cloud of golden threads and large eyes reflecting all the world's light appeared.

  "Daddy!"

  Juliet, six years old in her own private universe, ran and clung to Flávio's legs, ignoring the bandages. He groaned with pain and pleasure, lowering himself carefully.

  "Hi, my flower! Look who came to visit us." He pointed, with an exaggerated reverence that made his back protest. "This is my very special friend, Empty. And this is Uncle Fencer, the smartest man Daddy knows."

  "Hi!" Juliet said, with fearless curiosity. Her eyes landed on her father's wounds, on Fencer's serious face, on the quiet figure in his chair. Then the question came, innocent and direct as an arrow: "Did Daddy fight and win?"

  The question hung in the air. Flávio looked at his friends. At Empty, motionless, a monument to a different kind of strength. At Fencer, a smile on his face seeing his brother so happy with his daughter.

  Flávio then knelt, with a disguised groan, and wrapped his daughter in a tight hug, burying his face in her soft curls. When he spoke, his voice was thick, laden with an emotion that was not just pain.

  "Yes, daughter," he whispered, the words emerging like a sacred secret. "I won. Your daddy… is a hero."

  On the other side of the room, Amanda, his ex-wife, leaned against her own wheelchair, watching the scene. Her face was a mask of polished indifference, but her eyes, for an instant, landed on Empty. There was recognition there, quick and bitter, before she looked away to the window.

  "She'll think you're a weakling, brother," Fencer murmured, cleaning his glasses with his sleeve. With a playful tone and a perceptible smile.

  "Shut up, you!" Flávio laughed, the sound coming out a little hoarse as he lifted Juliet in his arms, ignoring the throbbing pain. "Hear that, Empty? Fencer's jealous!"

  Empty, at the back of the room, merely observed. His eyes moved from Flávio and Juliet to Fencer to Amanda's silent tension. He absorbed the scene, the human complexity of that broken and remade family in new ways.

  Raphadun arrived, panicked that he hadn't been there to help, but quickly saw them laughing and happy inside, then stopped beside Luna at the door. He saw the fury give way to something deeper, more tired. He leaned close to her.

  "I think they've already gotten over it," he murmured, with soft irony. "In their own way."

  Luna looked at the group. At Flávio, hugging his daughter like a treasure. At Fencer, with his rare smile. At Empty, that point of calm in the center of the storm, he himself attracted. Then she laughed. A laugh that began as a trembling sigh and turned into something light, relieved, even with tears shining on her lashes.

  "Yes," she said, wiping the corner of her eye with a finger. "Yes, it is."

  Another month slipped by in the great river of time. For the kingdom, it was fast, marked by proclamations and small triumphs. For Empty, each day was a slow tide receding, taking a little more of his strength with it.

  The physical marks of the beating had faded, healed by the mages' potions and the silent tenacity of his body. But something remained in the heart. An invisible scar from gratuitous violence, an echo of the hatred he would never understand.

  Juliet's sixth birthday was an intimate celebration in Amanda's modest home. Flávio invited half the world, but few from the nobility circle showed up. What mattered was there: Raphadun, sitting cross-legged on the floor, already visibly affected by cheap wine. Empty, in his chair, positioned as a silent guest of honor. Amanda's own Graymon family—not Luka's, but hers—occupied a corner, talking among themselves in whispers.

  Amanda, in her wheelchair, watched Empty in his chair as well, for a long time across the room. Her face, usually closed, seemed to reflect an internal struggle. Finally, with a determined movement, she maneuvered her chair through the space, stopping beside him. She did not look at him immediately, but at his hands resting in his lap.

  "I understand," she said, her voice softer than anyone there remembered. It was a surprising sound, coming from her. "Being strong. Being capable. And then…" she made a vague gesture with her hand, indicating her own chair, Empty's body, the weakness that united them. "Being here. It's hard. It's as if the world gives up on you before you give up on it." She then looked at the visor of his mask. "But you handle it better than I do. Congratulations."

  It was a moment of pure connection, devoid of pity. A fallen soldier recognizing another. Empty tilted his head slightly toward her, a nod of deep respect.

  Meanwhile, the party took its course. Raphadun and Flávio, deeply intoxicated, decided Empty needed to participate more.

  "Come here, champ!" Raphadun grunted, grabbing the handles of the wheelchair. "Luna couldn't come because of the… boring political thing. But we came! That's what matters!"

  "That's right!" Flávio agreed, staggering, and began pushing the chair side to side in a clumsy "dance." "She'll come next time! Life goes on, Empty! It goes on!"

  Raphadun, eyes moist with alcohol and loose emotion, sobbed:

  "We know about… the deadline. But we act normally! That's what you want, right? It is!"

  They had fun, spinning the chair, drinking, and laughing loudly. It was a noisy and awkward tribute, a way to escape the specter hanging over everyone. In her mother's lap, Juliet watched her father, her eyes shining with pure love and fun. The cake was brought, the six candles blown out amid off-key singing. Flávio cried, big tears mixing happiness and a pain that not even alcohol could drown. The mage relatives laughed, some in embarrassment, others in genuine sympathy.

  Empty watched that scene. The family. The connection. The simple and complicated love between parents and children, between friends. He would never have that. He had never had a beginning that allowed such an end. While the voices sang, a dark, cold thought, alien to the joy around him, began to form in the recesses of his twisted mind. It was not anger, nor fear. It was an empty realization, an echo of the very void that defined him, whispering about the fundamental disconnection between him and that human warmth. You are a specter. A gardener of a garden from which you will never harvest the fruits.

  Fencer arrived late, with the hunched posture of someone who had spent hours in a laboratory. He barely had time to breathe before being grabbed by Raphadun and Flávio.

  "The scientist has arrived! Long live the weak!" Flávio shouted, pulling him into the drunken dance.

  And, to everyone's surprise, including his own, Fencer smiled. A true smile that reached his eyes. He let himself be carried away, drinking a sip of wine, and for a moment, the skeptic, the analyst, shouted with them: "Long live the weak!"

  Empty saw that smile in Fencer, saw Juliet's carefree laughter. And with an effort of will that felt physical, he pushed away the dark thoughts. He focused on the candlelight reflected in the girl's eyes, on the clumsy warmth of friendship around him. He let his own eyes smile, behind the mask. In that instant, the contrast was absolute: the young six-year-old girl, at the beginning of everything, and he, the monstrous and primordial being, approaching the end of a solitary path. Both, in radically different ways, found joy in the same room.

  The following month, however, had no room for parties. Time, which for some had accelerated, for Empty slowed again, becoming a steep and perceptible descent.

  The deterioration was undeniable now. He grew weaker each week, his periods of response shorter, rarer. The smile behind the mask—his universal language—began to fail. There were moments when Flávio, Fencer, or Raphadun spoke to him, and his eyes merely blinked, slow, without the comforting gleam they desperately sought. The will to smile was there—they could feel it—but the body, the spark that animated him, no longer responded to the command.

  It was the sign no one wanted to name, but everyone feared. The sign that the end was no longer an abstraction in a medical report, but a presence in the room, sitting beside him, extinguishing his lights one by one.

  It was in this climate of silent vigil that Luna and Luka finally returned from their long diplomatic mission in the kingdom's second province, where they had consolidated alliances with the distant branch of the Graymon family. They returned laden with agreements and promises, the weight of the kingdom's future on their shoulders.

  And they returned to find the heart of their small world—the silent mystery that had united them all—fading rapidly in the quiet of a room, under the helpless gaze of those who loved him. The race against time had entered its final stretch, and the ticking of the clock sounded like a funeral drum in everyone's ears.