CHAPTER 480: WHAT IS DONE IS DONE, BROTHER!

Delusion! That was what it was ... Nothing more than that. It was heart-wrenching for any eyes that would have seen this, except that there were no eyes at all, as each of the three was preoccupied with their own issues.

".... Brother! Please...."

’Please’ now flowed like water for Syla, though it was too late, and the person he had most detested in his life was the one seemingly listening to this... what irony?

He twitched in his wheelchair, as smoke-like vines crept around his limp legs, but Syla was not conscious. Even if he was, he would not have felt any sensation as his legs were useless to him. One would have pitied Syla, except that what he had become was all the result of his decisions and, most importantly, greed.

The three in the Acherra-Môr were just right for each other, and one would commend Ian for ensuring that all three were in that same space at the same time.

"You are not forgotten. You are remembered and are judged as well."

"What do you mean by that, brother?"

"Brother?"

Roman’s image in Syla’s mind seemed to scoff. The word ’brother’ seemed to now come so easily to Syla that one would wonder if this distressed and seemingly humble Syla was the same one as the one that Roman had grown up with.

Roman squatted by Syla,

"The throne? Didn’t you always want that? Why do you want to give what you do not possess?"

"Why are you doing this to me, Roman?"

"To you? I have done nothing that you have not done to yourself, Syla. We could have had a happy time together, but you chose the path that was forbidden. We all tried to tell you.... ’What does not belong to you should not be sought.

The thing is, brother, you never learned from your lessons, for even after you lost most of your power and the use of your legs, you still pursued the same throne... so that makes me doubt the sincerity of your words. The fact that you, of all people, find yourself in the Acherra-Môr is depressing. However, looking back, it’s not surprising...."

Then as if an afterthought,

"... But brother, you should have had a much more fool-proof plan... " Roman’s image seemed to mock Syla, but he could do nothing about it. He gritted his teeth, knowing that this was his last chance to get out of the Acherra-Môr. He had to do all he could to win Roman over, but Syla did not notice... or maybe, he had forgotten that he had supposedly dealt with Roman, long before.

His hope had risen so far high because he was ’able’ to talk to Roman. The irony of it was that the Acherra-Môr was messing with his head, and he had yet to realize that.

"I don’t want it again.... TAKE THE THRONE AND LEAVE ME A WAY OUT! PLEASE TALK TO YOUR SON!"

"What is done is done, ’brother’!"

"I knew it! Why did I stoop so low to talk to someone like you? You’d never understand! You were always like that... A know-it-all! I hate YOU!"

Roman’s image turned and smiled at Syla. He did not say anything else. None at all.

But, with that, the land had accepted Syla fully. He did not know it yet. The mist curled up and around his chair like a lover come to take its claim, and he sank—not into the earth, but into himself.

No visible chains bound him.

Only the weight of all he had lost... and would never regain.

"You might want to wake up, if you want a way out for yourself...." Roman’s voice said softly. It was familiar and comforting but irritating as hell. The voice was gentle, but also almost mocking, like it always was when teasing him as kids. Roman had always had a carefree, wild vibe to him that Syla had lacked, and in this moment, Syla felt that, making his resentment creep up.

Roman’s figure stood before him, hand outstretched, eyes glittering with something between concern and command. For a fleeting moment, he felt a pulse of warmth, a thread of salvation. But then .... The image twitched.

The smile cracked like porcelain under pressure.

Roman’s teasing voice deepened .... stretching, breaking, twisting.... until it no longer carried the timbre of a prince, but the hollow rasp of something ancient and cruel -laughter, vile and distorted, gurgled from the not-brother’s throat.

And before Syla’s very eyes, Roman’s familiar face began to melt away.

The eyes hollowed into black pits. The skin turned waxy and gray. The jaw slackened, mouth growing far too wide as if to consume him whole. The outstretched hand curled, clawed, and beckoned mockingly.

It wasn’t his brother. It had never been.

"What are you?" Syla croaked, horror strangling his throat. But he already knew. This land.... Acherra-Môr, fed on guilt and sins. It fed on weakness and mostly on secrets. He had let his guard down.... And now it was all exposed.

The vision had drawn out his hope, only to crush it underfoot. Because that’s what this place did .... it gave one mirrors, illusions, and whispers so it could justify your torment. So, it could say: see, even your soul condemns you.

When Syla finally managed to wrench his heavy eyes open, breathing hard and sweat-drenched, what met his gaze almost tore a scream from his chest. He did not even bother with Ash and Simon anymore.

Around him, everything had changed. The soft ash had become writhing roots. His hands, pale, gripped the wheels of a rusted chair fused with the ground beneath him—vines laced through the wheels like veins feeding a body that no longer felt his own.

He was rooted there. He was forever bound. There would be no escape.

He wished that he could stumble back in shock, but he could not.

His lungs heaved, heart hammering in a cage of despair. And yet... despair was kind. This ... this was the raw, seeping end of all things. Not death. Something far worse.

There was no redemption and definitely, no forgiveness.

Just the cold laughter of shadows and a land that drank his every regret like nectar.

Syla did not need anyone to tell him: He was utterly, irreversibly, done for. With no way to defend himself, and his remnant power useless as well, Syla knew. This punishment was worse than he had imagined.

Here, guilt was no longer internal. IT was open and it was fed on. One’s sinisterness depicted what the shadows and other creatures did to you. Such emotions bled out into the open, and the land responded to what festered in the soul.

All three of them felt it.

The whispers knew of their sins. The man who killed his brother and took his wife and possessions. The woman who helped kill her fiancé and marry his brother. The son who tried to take the wife of another and kill off his lineage. These sins were the greatest of the greatest.

Their shame carved itself into the air, heavy, inescapable. Every breath drew in fragments of memories they had tried to forget.

Some of the Fae believed that the Acherra-Môr itself wept for those cast into it. Others claimed it merely reflected what one refused to face.

Here, punishment was not physical pain.

It was a remembrance, distress, psychological and most importantly, it was endless.

It was just so that Ash and Simon had other ancient curses on top of that.

Simon was not bound like his father... nor did he have thorns piercing and blocking every movement like his mother, so he ran.

Or thought he did.

The terrain beneath his feet shifted like sand one moment and cold stone the next, but no matter how fast he moved, he never seemed to go anywhere. Trees without leaves whispered his name—not with voices but a rustling that vibrated through his bones. The air tasted like old metal and forgotten sorrow. He was not even sure what that meant, but that was exactly what Simon felt.

He stumbled, dragging himself through ash-laden paths, eyes hollow with exhaustion and dread. Every time he turned a corner, he saw it.... his shadow, twisted and wrong, growing longer, darker, and always just a step behind. Mocking him. Reflecting not the man he was, but the monster he became.

At first, he screamed for his mother. Then for his many concubines. Then for his children.

Obviously, no one came.

Simon was met with only echoes and warped imitations of their voices, filled with disappointment, crying or laughing, he couldn’t tell which anymore. Simon was truly tired.

He had once been draped in royal blue and silver, with guards flanking him and the finest at his call. Now, he was nothing but a ragged breath in a cursed land, cursed by his own choices, cursed by truth, cursed by fate.

And it was when he dropped to his knees, mud soaking into already ruined clothes, he felt the chill behind him.

His shadow stood still while he trembled. And the most ridiculous thing was that it spoke.

"Why do you run from me? I am you."

Simon wept then, not from fear, but from the cruel clarity. No punishment handed down from a king, a Fae royal, or a witch should be underestimated. He was done for!

How does one fight with oneself and one’s shadow? That curse was ancient and forbidden for a reason.

Once royalty, the two Princes, Syla and Simon as well as the Princess, Ash, were forever damned, but there was no one to witness it.

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