CHAPTER 82: DESPAIR AND HOPE

[: 3rd POV :]

Melira’s piercing gaze locked onto the trembling man before her—the so-called leader of the Black Pirate slave merchants.

Her voice cut through the heavy silence like a blade, low and chilling, every word laced with icy venom.

"So tell me..." she began, her tone deceptively calm yet saturated with an underlying menace.

"Twelve years ago... were there any newborns... that you had enslaved?"

The man’s eyes darted wildly, his throat tightening as fear constricted his every breath.

For a long moment, no words escaped his lips, the weight of her presence suffocating him.

Then, with a sudden, sharp motion, Maiya’s blade glinted in the dim light as it sliced clean through one of his fingers.

A piercing scream shattered the tense air, echoing through the chamber.

"I-I don’t know!" he stammered, voice cracked and desperate.

"There were just too many newborns! Too many—I couldn’t keep track!"

Melira’s lips curled into a thin, merciless line, unimpressed and unmoved.

Her eyes darkened further, the chilling emptiness growing into a tempest of cold fury.

She leaned in closer, her voice dropping even lower, sharper, unforgiving.

"Oh?" she breathed, a sinister calm cloaking her words like a venomous whisper.

"So I wasn’t specific enough?" She paused, letting the dread settle like a weight in the room. "Then let me rephrase it myself."

Her eyes bore into him with a lifeless, predatory stare, devoid of mercy, her presence suffocating.

"Twelve years ago... before the Forest of Ruin became what it is today... did... you... or... did...you not encounter any newborns?"

Her voice was measured but deadly—each word dripping with the promise of reckoning.

The coldness in her gaze wasn’t just the absence of warmth; it was a void where compassion had once lived, now replaced by a relentless, simmering bloodlust.

The room seemed to still, breaths held captive, as if the very air feared to disturb the moment before the storm that was Melira’s wrath.

Certainly! Here’s a highly detailed, emotional, and vivid scene capturing Melira’s explosive rage and the tension in the room:

The leader’s trembling face twisted in reluctant recollection. His lips parted hesitantly, voice barely above a whisper, as though admitting this truth might tear his very soul apart.

"Y-yes..." he stammered, eyes darting nervously. "There was... an infant. I took him... a newborn... enslaved him with the others."

At that moment, Melira’s sharp gaze locked onto his, and something deep inside her stirred — a wild, fierce beat of her heart that seemed almost out of control. Her breath hitched ever so slightly, but she forced herself to remain composed. Yet beneath the surface, a storm was brewing.

Her mind raced. The pieces fell into place — the missing child, the years lost to darkness, the unbearable silence. She had found her answer.

And then, it shattered.

With a roar that tore through the chamber like thunder, Melira’s restraint exploded.

"YOU FUCKING BASTARD! DID YOU ENSLAVE MY SON?!" Her voice was a savage bellow, raw with agony and unyielding fury.

An overwhelming aura of wrath erupted from her very being, rippling outwards like a tempest.

The very walls cracked and splintered, shards of stone and dust cascading to the ground as her rage warped reality itself.

The air trembled, thick with the weight of her wrath.

Around her, the assembled rulers stiffened, instinctively pulling back but determined not to interfere with this sacred moment of a mother’s agony.

They maintained their composure, silently urging others to do the same.

The atmosphere hung heavy, like a taut string ready to snap.

Beside Melira, Maiya’s hands clenched into fists so tightly that blood welled from the torn skin of her palms.

Her entire body radiated lethal intent, her eyes blazing with cold judgment.

She was poised on the edge, prepared to tear down this monster and every noble family that had even breathed in collusion with him.

The tension in the room was unbearable, every breath caught in throats, every eye fixed on the broken man who had dared to enslave an innocent — the son of an empress, a symbol of hope.

The leader’s mouth opened, then closed again.

No words came out—his voice was trapped, caught in the tightening noose of terror strangling his throat.

His eyes darted wildly, seeking an escape that did not exist.

Every instinct screamed at him to flee, but the crushing weight of Melira’s wrath pinned him in place like a hunted animal.

Maiya’s keen eyes scanned the trembling man’s neck, and then her breath caught in her throat.

There, resting lightly against his pale skin, was an accessory—an ornate necklace, delicate but unmistakable.

Her hands trembled uncontrollably as she slowly lifted a finger and pointed, her voice barely a whisper, trembling with disbelief and hope:

"M-Melira... isn’t that the necklace your newborn son wore? The one you always held in your hands when you cradled him?"

The entire room seemed to still as all eyes shifted to where Maiya pointed.

Time itself seemed to slow, and for a moment, the world held its breath.

Melira’s breath hitched sharply.

Her wide eyes locked onto the necklace, shimmering faintly in the muted light, every intricate detail carved in a way only she would know.

Recognition struck her like a bolt of lightning—every memory flooded back, every tender moment of holding her infant, every whisper of love and promise.

Her face went deathly pale, lips parted, but no sound came out.

For a suspended second, she was frozen — caught between hope and despair, grief and the faintest glimmer of salvation.

A tempest of emotions roared silently behind her cold gaze: the unbearable sorrow of loss, the raging fury, and the fragile, desperate hope that her son—her precious boy—might still be alive.

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, but Melira’s expression remained unreadable—icy, emotionless, yet beneath the surface, her heart shattered and mended in a single heartbeat.

The room was utterly silent except for the faintest sound of her breath, heavy with the weight of a mother’s unspoken prayers.

Melira’s hand shook uncontrollably as she clutched the necklace, the cold metal biting into her skin.

Her eyes fixated on the insignia — the unmistakable crest, forged with the Dwarf King’s own hands and sealed with a vow of protection.

It was the very same necklace she had tenderly placed around the fragile neck of her newborn son so many years ago, a symbol of her hope, her promise, and her love.

"T-This is... m-my son’s necklace..."

Her voice cracked, barely more than a whisper, yet it resonated through the silent hall like a struck bell.

The weight of those words settled like a stone in her chest, trembling, radiating through her entire body as waves of despair crashed over her.

The rulers around her fell utterly still, the gravity of the moment freezing the very air.

Thrain’s mouth opened slightly, speechless, his eyes reflecting the cold steel of the insignia, recognising it instantly — the emblem he had forged with unwavering dedication for the Empress’s child.

Nearby, Sylthara’s proud smile vanished completely, replaced by a solemn, pained expression.

Her gaze darkened as the realisation sank in.

This was no ordinary matter; it was deeply personal.

One of her daughters was betrothed to Melira’s son, binding their fates together in a tapestry of grief and hope.

Melira’s breaths came in shallow gasps, a storm of sorrow and yearning swirling inside her.

The necklace was proof — proof that her son, lost for so long, was out there somewhere, still alive.

The despair that threatened to consume her was tempered by a fragile, flickering hope.

Though shadows clouded her heart, the faint light of possibility kindled within her — a promise that her son’s story was not yet over.

Her eyes, wet and fierce, swept across the room.

Melira’s eyes blazed with uncontrollable fury as she stared down at the trembling leader.

Her voice was sharp and laced with venom as she spat out, "You... WHY DO YOU HAVE THIS?!"

Her hands clenched tightly around the necklace, knuckles white from the intensity of her grip.

The raw rage radiating from her was suffocating, thick enough to make the air tremble.

Her entire being screamed for retribution—she wanted to raze the slave merchants, the corrupt noble families, anyone involved, to the very ground.

The leader, overwhelmed by the sheer force of her aura, staggered back, his face pale and drenched in sweat, before collapsing unconscious on the cold floor.

But just as Melira’s fury threatened to erupt into devastation, a calm yet urgent voice broke through.

"Melira... don’t tell me that your son is Daniel...?" Caelira’s words hung heavy in the room, her eyes wide with shock and disbelief.

Behind her, Kiel, Rika, and Manork exchanged stunned glances, their own faces reflecting a mixture of recognition and dread.

They knew that necklace.

’’W-What do you mean by that...?’’ Melira questioned with tears running down her cheeks.

’’Whenever Daniel...saw that necklace...he would often say that he felt a deep connection with it’’ Manork explained solemnly.

’’And this bastard would often provoke Daniel that the necklace belonged to him and not Daniel when he purposely he had snatched it when Daniel was an infant’’ Caelira added.