Reborn As A Slave: The Fallen God's Revenge

Chapter 11

Something felt different to Libradon. Not because there was a war threatening at the border, not because there was a disappointing tax report from his ministers, and not because the wine in his cup tasted more bitter than usual. What was different was only one thing, Teresa had not appeared.

Libradon had been seated on his throne since morning, working through a series of tedious audiences, noblemen with their grievances, merchants with their petitions, guards with their routine reports. All of them came and went like waves that never truly caught his attention.

And throughout all of it, the chair to his right, the chair that Teresa usually occupied, was empty.

Libradon did not acknowledge that he noticed this. He would never acknowledge it, not even to himself. But his eyes kept returning there, to that empty chair, in a way that irritated him further each time he caught himself doing it.

"Your Majesty."

One of his ministers was speaking. Libradon redirected his gaze to the front with an expression he kept carefully flat.

"Continue," he said coolly.

The minister went on with his report, but the words entered through one ear and left through the other without truly registering. Libradon's thoughts were elsewhere.

Where was Teresa?

And then, like a small spark touching a pile of dry straw, another question followed.

What about the slave?

Libradon remembered well how the whip had landed. He had given the order himself, give him suffering, make him regret every word that came out of his mouth. The guards had carried out that order with an enthusiasm that even exceeded his expectations. The wounds carved into the slave's body were deep and numerous, blood flowing without pause until the stone floor beneath the cross had changed color.

That man should have been dead by now. Or at the very least, he should have been lying near death in some corner of the palace, too weak to move, too broken to be any threat.

But Teresa had asked for him back.

Libradon furrowed his brow, resting his chin on his interlaced fingers.

That was what kept nagging at him. Not simply the fact that Teresa had changed her mind, Teresa was occasionally unpredictable, that was nothing new. What nagged at him was why. What had the woman seen in that ragged slave who did not even know how to lower his head?

Teresa never asked for things that made no sense. She was not impulsive, not easily carried away by feeling, at least not openly. But yesterday she had come with a request that changed twice in less than a single day, and she had not offered an adequate explanation for either of those changes.

Something had happened. Libradon did not like things happening outside his knowledge.

"That is enough for today," he cut in abruptly, ending an audience that had not yet concluded.

The ministers and guests exchanged glances, but no one dared to object. They bowed and withdrew one by one, leaving a hall that now felt larger and quieter.

Libradon stared at the emptiness before him for a moment. Then he turned to the guard standing closest on his right.

"Send for Doran."

Doran was the longest-serving head guard in the palace, a quiet man with eyes that always appeared to be watching even when his body appeared still. Libradon trusted him not because he liked him, but because Doran had never failed to carry out an order and had never asked more than was necessary.

The man was on his knees before the throne within minutes.

"Your Majesty called for me."

"Go to the east wing," said Libradon without preamble. "There is a room currently occupied by Lady Teresa. See what is inside. Report back to me."

Doran did not ask why. He only nodded. "How much detail does Your Majesty require?"

"Everything you see. Including the condition of the slave in there." Libradon picked up his cup of wine, turning it slowly between his fingers. "Especially the condition of that slave."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Doran's footsteps faded at the far end of the corridor.

Libradon drank from his cup, watching the fire burning in the large hearth along the side of the hall. The flames danced, casting red-gold light across the high stone walls.

He did not know why he was curious. The slave was supposed to be nothing more than a brief diversion, an arrogant man who needed a lesson, and that lesson had been delivered. The story should have ended there.

But something was not sitting right in his mind.

The way the man had stood before him, without trembling, without begging, without even lowering his chin a single centimeter. The way his eyes had looked back with an intensity Libradon had never encountered in any slave who had ever stood before him. The way he had spoken, not with the boldness of someone reckless out of desperation, but with the authority of someone accustomed to being heard.

Libradon had dealt with many kinds of people. Noblemen who feigned deference while plotting betrayal. Soldiers who were brave on the battlefield but fell to their knees trembling before him. Prisoners who boasted at the start but ended up weeping and begging for mercy when punishment actually arrived.

But that man, the slave named Kayrus, did not fit into any category Libradon had ever known. And that, more than anything, was what he could not clear from his mind.

Doran returned sooner than Libradon had expected.

The man knelt once more before the throne, his face as composed as ever, but there was something in his eyes that was different. Something that bordered on confusion, though Doran was too well-trained to let it show plainly.

"Report," said Libradon tersely.

"Lady Teresa is in her room, Your Majesty." Doran began in a measured tone. "She was seated near the window. She appeared to be reading, though I am not certain her thoughts were truly on the book."

Libradon gave a slow nod. "And the slave?"

A brief pause.

"Still alive, Your Majesty."

Libradon stopped moving his cup.

"Repeat that."

"The slave is still alive." Doran lifted his face slightly. "He was lying on a cot in the corner of the room. His breathing was steady. Several of his wounds had been neatly bandaged. It appears Lady Teresa has been tending to him since he was brought there."

Silence spread through the empty hall. Libradon set his cup down slowly on the arm of the throne. His mind turned, reassembling what he had heard and measuring its weight.

Still alive.

After all of that, after the whipping he had ordered himself, after the guards he had chosen precisely because he knew they recognized no limits, after wounds that had caused even some of the guards present to look away, that man was still alive.

"How severe was his condition when he was brought to Teresa's room?" asked Libradon, his voice lower than usual.

"Very severe, Your Majesty. I was the one who assigned two men to carry him. At the time..." Doran paused briefly. "I did not think he would survive until morning."

Libradon leaned back, staring at the high ceiling of the hall. Did not think he would survive until morning. But he had survived. Not only until morning, he was still alive now, breathing steadily, stable enough to be lying on a cot and not on a stone floor.

An ordinary human body did not work that way. Wounds that deep, blood loss that great, even a trained soldier in good health could be beyond saving. But the slave had survived.

Libradon closed his eyes briefly, tracing his memory of the man's face, a gaze that did not waver, a jaw that had set itself with a firmness too familiar for someone who claimed to be nothing more than an ordinary slave.

Who are you, really?

The question surfaced for the first time in Libradon's mind, not in the dismissive tone he had used when he had first posed it in the hall, but in a different tone. More serious. More genuinely curious.

"Your Majesty?" Doran's voice broke the silence. "Are there further orders?"

Libradon opened his eyes. He reached for his cup again, drained it to the last drop, then set it down with a quiet sound that echoed through the empty hall.

"Not for now," he said finally. "You may go."

Doran bowed and withdrew.

Libradon sat alone on his great throne, watching the fire still dancing in the hearth, his thoughts far busier than he cared to admit.

The slave was still alive.

And for the first time since the man had stood before him with a gaze that knew no fear, Libradon began to think that perhaps, only perhaps, he had been too quick to assume who and what that man truly was.

The fire in the hearth flickered.

And Libradon did not move from where he sat, his fingers tapping the arm of the throne in a slow, steady rhythm, a sign that his mind was working hard, searching for answers to a question he had not yet found the right way to ask.