Wielder Of The Dragon Flame

Chapter 32

Gregor seemed unable to continue, the words stuck in his throat, and Malachar could see the old butler struggling with whether to speak freely in front of his companions, with what was appropriate to say, with the lifetime of trained discretion that warred against his obvious distress.

Malachar made a decision quickly. 

"Come with me." 

He said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

 "All three of you. Now."

The bungalow was small,tiny, really, compared to the servants' quarters Gregor would have occupied in the Xavier mansion proper. Just three rooms: a common area with a table and a few chairs, and two small bedrooms barely large enough for the narrow cots they contained. 

The walls were bare stone, the furniture was simple and well-worn, and the single window was covered with a thin curtain that did little to keep out the cold.

But it was clean, Malachar noted. 

Despite everything, despite the obvious poverty and hardship, the space was meticulously maintained. The floor was swept, the few possessions were neatly arranged, the dishes stacked carefully beside a small washbasin. 

Gregor's training and pride hadn't been completely broken, then. He still maintained standards even when everything else had been stripped away.

They sat now around the small table,it was barely large enough for four people, and Malachar's knees bumped against the underside, but he'd insisted on sitting rather than looming over them.

 Gregor sat across from him, the two cooks Malachar had learned their names were Helena and Marcus,flanking him on either side. All three clutched cups of wine that Helena had produced from somewhere, serving their unexpected guest with trembling hands despite their circumstances.

Malachar's own cup sat on the table in front of him, the wine untouched. He'd accepted it out of politeness, but drinking it felt wrong somehow,taking their hospitality when they clearly had so little to give.

He studied the three faces across from him, noting details he'd been too far away to see clearly in the courtyard. 

Gregor's face wasn't just lined with age,it was gaunt, the skin stretched tight over the bones, the hollows under his eyes deep and dark. Helena's hands, which had once created culinary masterpieces, were rough and scarred from work they weren't meant for. 

Marcus had a bruise on his cheek that was fading to yellow-green, and he kept his left arm close to his body in a way that suggested an injury not fully healed.

The sight made something cold and hard settle in Malachar's chest. These people had served the Xavier clan faithfully for decades,Gregorfor nearly fifty years, if Malachar's memory was correct. This was how their loyalty was repaid?

He had to know. I had to understand the full scope of what was happening here.

Malachar took a slow breath, then fixed his gaze on Gregor's pale, sad face. The old butler was staring down at his wine cup, not drinking, just holding it like it was an anchor keeping him connected to reality.

"Gregor." 

Malachar said quietly, and the butler's eyes lifted to meet his.

 "What about Asta? Have you heard from him? Do you know where he is, how he's doing?"

Something flickered across Gregor's face,pain, sharp and raw, mixed with worry and what might have been guilt. He glanced at Helena and Marcus, and both of them looked away, unable or unwilling to meet anyone's eyes.

"We..."

 Gregor's voice cracked, and he had to clear his throat before continuing. 

"We sent him a letter. Two weeks ago. Through the academy's message system, addressed to the labor quarters where we heard he'd been... been sent." 

The words seemed to physically hurt him.

 "We wanted him to know that we hadn't abandoned him by choice, that we'd been forced out, that we still..."

He trailed off, his hands tightening around the cup until his knuckles went white.

"He hasn't responded." 

Gregor finished quietly. 

"It seems he's really busy. Or..." 

Another pause, this one heavier.

 "Or perhaps he doesn't want to hear from us. Perhaps he thinks we betrayed him too, like everyone else. Perhaps he believes we chose to leave."

Helena made a small sound that might have been a stifled sob. Marcus's jaw tightened, his eyes closing briefly as if against pain.

Malachar processed this information, his mind working quickly. Asta was in the labor quarters that matched what he'd heard through his own intelligence network.

 Still there, still unable to manifest flame, still trapped in that brutal existence. And these three, his most loyal servants, had been cast out and couldn't even reach him to explain.

The cold, hard thing in Malachar's chest grew heavier, darker. Cassian's purge of everyone connected to Asta had been thorough. Vicious, even. Not just removing them from the mansion but reducing them to this,to poverty, to hard labor, to desperation.

It was calculated cruelty. Strategic elimination of anyone who might support Asta's claim. And it told Malachar something important: Cassian wasn't just confident that Asta wouldn't awaken. He was actively working to ensure that even if Asta did somehow gain power, he would have no support system, no allies, no foundation to build a challenge from.

Which meant Cassian did see Asta as a threat. Despite all his confident words earlier. Despite his smirking declaration about death matches. Somewhere in that ambitious heart, Cassian feared his half-brother enough to destroy everything connected to him.

Malachar made his decision.

"Alright then." 

He said, his voice firm, decisive, cutting through the heavy atmosphere in the small room. 

"I think I can do something about this."

Three pairs of eyes snapped to him, sudden hope flaring in their faces so bright and desperate it was almost painful to see…