Chapter 33:

  "I Don't Regret Not Saving You"

  Arc 3: Chapter 12

  POV: "???"

  The memory arrived like a whisper—soft and unexpected.

  Luna woke on the dusty floor of an abandoned house, the first rays of gray light filtering through the cracks in the rotting wooden walls. For a moment, she didn't know where she was—sleep still weighed on her eyelids, and the transition between dream and reality was like crossing a wet veil.

  Then she saw Raphadun.

  Her brother slept a few meters away, curled against a pile of old rags, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. His pale face, even in sleep, carried marks of fatigue that didn't belong to someone his age. But he was alive. They were alive.

  Luna smiled.

  The air around her was thick, heavy with that smell she knew so well—the smell of death that permeated every inch of the Infernal Zone. It was an odor that never became familiar, only less strange. Like an unwanted guest who insists on staying until you grow accustomed to its presence.

  She sat up slowly, pulling the bag she always kept close to her body. Her fingers found the diary—the worn leather cover, the pages crumpled from constant use. She opened to a random page and read her own words, written days ago during one of the many pauses in their journey:

  "Future plans as queen."

  "On forgiveness."

  "If I ever return, I want to remember that the Infernal Zone taught me more than all the books in the castle."

  She smiled again, but now it was a different smile—sadder, heavier. Her hand flipped through a few more pages until it stopped at a section she had avoided for a long time.

  "On my parents."

  The title was written in shakier handwriting, as if back then she had struggled to keep her hand steady. Below it, a few lines she didn't need to reread to know what they said.

  Luna turned the page.

  Not today. Not here.

  She would keep those words for another time, when the past didn't hurt so much.

  She closed the diary and stood, dusting off her clothes. Her eyes swept the interior of the abandoned house—empty rooms, furniture covered in aged sheets, shadows that moved with the uncertain light filtering through the windows.

  Empty wasn't there.

  Her heart leaped—not from fear, but from something she couldn't name. A pang of concern that made no sense, because Empty was the most capable creature she knew at protecting himself.

  Then the sound came.

  A boom. Distant, but unmistakable.

  It came from the south.

  Luna moved before thinking, her feet pounding the dusty floor as she ran outside. The landscape of the Infernal Zone stretched before her—ruins, twisted metal, the gray horizon that never changed. But now there was something different.

  A figure.

  Empty.

  He stood motionless, his hands raised to the sky in a gesture that seemed... a greeting? A signal? There was nothing in front of him. Only the gray void, the low clouds, the wind that blew tirelessly.

  At his feet, the body of a defeated curse.

  Luna stopped for a moment, watching.

  A curse killer, she thought. That's what he is.

  It didn't matter how rushed their journey was, didn't matter their destination, didn't matter the danger of the Stalker. If there was a curse in the path, Empty faced it. Without hesitation. Without fear. As if that were his only reason for existing.

  But that wasn't all that intrigued her.

  It was the gesture.

  That wave to the void, to nothing, to something only he could see. It was intriguing, like everything about him. Mysterious, like everything he did.

  And fascinating like nothing else was.

  "Empty!"

  She called out, her voice cutting through the heavy air.

  He turned quickly, his eyes meeting hers through the slit in his mask. For a moment, Luna felt like she had in those first days—observed by that intense, almost childlike curiosity she still hadn't learned to interpret.

  She approached, looking at the ground and making a pout that in recent days had become her default expression when dealing with him.

  "What are you doing here?"

  Empty just watched her.

  "Always doing this," she continued, pointing at the defeated curse. "No matter how many times I tell you to hurry. Come on. Raphadun will wake up, and we'll start walking."

  She turned to leave.

  Empty didn't move.

  Luna felt his gaze on her back—a physical presence, almost tangible. She stopped. Turned again.

  "What is it?"

  He, as always, didn't answer.

  But there was something different in that silence. Something she was beginning to learn to read.

  Luna sighed, a sound that mixed frustration and something that might have been affection.

  "Got it, then."

  She approached slowly, pulling the diary from her bag. She opened to a blank page and, with the pen she always carried in her pocket, wrote:

  EMPTY

  She showed it to him.

  The eyes behind the mask fixed on the letters. He tilted his head—that characteristic gesture, so him—and studied the strokes with the same attention he studied everything.

  Luna pointed at the written name. Then pointed at him.

  "You."

  Empty raised his eyes from the paper. Found hers.

  And then something happened.

  The corners of his mouth, visible beneath the edge of the mask, curved upward. Slowly. Awkwardly.

  A smile.

  It wasn't the empty smile he sometimes offered, like someone imitating a gesture without understanding it. It was different. It was as if he had understood—not the letters, not the name, but the gesture. The meaning behind the gesture.

  She had given him a name.

  She had seen him.

  Luna smiled back.

  And in that moment, in the middle of the Infernal Zone, surrounded by death and ruins, there was only this: two smiles. One human. The other is not so much. But both are equally real.

  The voice of that Luna, full of youthful determination and raw hope, echoed in her mind now, in the present.

  Luna woke.

  The transition was abrupt—a shock between past and present that left her disoriented for long seconds. Her body still felt the dusty floor, the smell of death, Empty's smile.

  But when her eyes adjusted to the light, everything was different.

  She was lying in her bed.

  Not a makeshift bed in an abandoned shack, but her bed—in the castle, in the Safe Zone, in the world she had once called home. The sheets were soft, the pillow fluffy, the room bathed in the golden light of the sun streaming through the window.

  Slowly, Luna sat up.

  Her eyes found the window. Outside, the Kingdom of Light stretched under a clear blue sky—so different from the eternal gray of the Infernal Zone, it seemed like a lie. Towers gleamed in the sun. People walked the streets. Children ran and laughed.

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  It was beautiful.

  It was the world she had sworn to protect.

  But somewhere, in that same beautiful world, her greatest mystery—her greatest fascination—would be judged to die.

  The knock on the door was soft, almost timid.

  "Coming," Luna murmured, her voice still rough with sleep.

  She stood, her feet finding the cold stone floor. She straightened her pajamas—such simple clothes, so far from the royal garments she once wore—and walked to the door.

  She opened it.

  The soldier outside blinked, surprised to see her in such informal attire. But he recovered his composure quickly.

  "Gildert!" He gave a quick bow. "Your majesty."

  Luna leaned against the doorframe, a tired smile on her lips.

  "Tell me, Gildert. Today is a terrible day."

  The soldier hesitated, unsure how to respond to such brutal honesty. Then he risked a timid smile.

  "Forgive the disturbance, majesty. I came to inform you that Sir Alfredo Lighting is hospitalized, but his condition has stabilized. The risk of death has decreased."

  Luna felt the air leave her lungs in a sigh of relief. It was as if an enormous weight had been lifted from her shoulders—a weight she hadn't even known she was still carrying.

  "Thank the Light," she murmured.

  "And also..." Gildert continued, hesitant. "Lord Bruce Darking is already awake. But he won't be able to attend the trial."

  Luna processed the information. Grandfather awake. Grandfather is absent from the trial.

  "Then you know what to tell him."

  The soldier looked confused.

  "That I need to go see him," she completed.

  Gildert understood. Another bow.

  "At your command."

  He left.

  Luna closed the door slowly and leaned her forehead against the cold wood for a long moment. She closed her eyes. Breathed.

  Then she straightened and went to get ready.

  The day of the trial had arrived.

  In the streets of the Kingdom of Light, the air vibrated with an excitement that bordered on grotesque.

  Nobles crowded before the Great Tribunal, their fine garments and gleaming jewels clashing violently with the gravity of what was about to happen. Children ran between the legs of adults, oblivious to the weight of the moment. Street vendors took advantage of the crowd to offer their wares.

  And at the center of it all, the judicature of light was being erected.

  Construction workers labored without rest, installing the last chairs, adjusting the seats, and preparing the stage for the spectacle. In the middle of the site, beneath the partially assembled structure, two figures stood out for their stillness amid the chaos.

  Luka Graymon watched the Houses' chairs being installed one by one. His young face carried an expression none of the workers could decipher—thoughtful, distant, as if he were somewhere else.

  "Thoughtful, are we?"

  The voice came from behind, laden with a sarcasm Luka would recognize anywhere.

  Aldert Fingard appeared at his side, leaning on the staff he used for walking. The old counselor didn't look at Luka—his eyes fixed on the chairs, the seats, the empty stage where soon the creature would be judged.

  "Will you vote in favor of the creature?" Aldert asked, his voice too casual for such a loaded question.

  Luka sighed.

  "You don't need to hide your aversion to me, Aldert. Just don't hide my analysis of the facts from me."

  Aldert laughed—a dry sound, devoid of humor.

  "Innocent, boy. This is already a judgment."

  Luka turned to face him.

  "What are these facts? Because I only hear judgment."

  The old man rested both hands on his staff and leaned slightly forward.

  "Understand this: question the methods, not the outcome."

  His staff rose, pointing at the solitary chair in the center of the stage—the chair where Empty would be sentenced.

  "I have many children," Aldert continued. "And the truth is, those who don't get beaten and learn the hard way through discipline..."

  He smiled—a cold smile, toothless, just the curve of lips over decades of cynicism.

  "Destiny is there."

  Without waiting for a response, he walked away, his staff striking the floor in a steady rhythm as he disappeared among the workers.

  Luka turned his face, looking toward the exit. His eyes found the blue sky, the white clouds, the light that bathed everything.

  Those who don't get beaten, he thought. Those who don't learn the hard way.

  He closed his eyes for a moment.

  When he opened them, there were no answers in the sky. Only the same indifferent blue as always.

  Outside the walls, in the corridors of destruction left by Bruce and Alfredo's blast, two brothers worked under the sun.

  Fencer held a plank in place while Flávio hammered with a precision born of years of practice. Beside them, an elderly man watched with tear-filled eyes, his trembling hands holding a glass of water that never touched his lips.

  It was the same man who had taken them in when they were orphans, decades ago. The same one who had shared what little he had with them. The same one who now saw his home reduced to rubble by a war that wasn't his.

  "We've been doing this forever, haven't we?" Flávio commented, a tired smile on his lips.

  Fencer adjusted the plank.

  "That's one of the reasons we're inside the walls today, then."

  The hammer came down a few more times. The rhythmic sound filled the silence between them.

  Then Flávio hesitated. The hammer hung in the air for a second before descending again.

  "Empty..." he began, his voice hesitant. "Do you think he'll be found guilty?"

  Fencer took his time answering. His hands kept working, adjusting another plank, checking the fit.

  "Yes, he will."

  Flávio turned abruptly, the hammer forgotten in his hand.

  "Just like that? Quickly?"

  Fencer stopped working. He straightened slowly and turned to his brother. His eyes—those eyes that saw too much, that analyzed too much—met Flávio's with an honesty that hurt.

  "Think with me," he began, his voice calm, didactic. "Aldert, Veronica, and Leonas. The votes are quick. Luka, we don't even know who he'll vote for—if I remember correctly, he voted to kill Empty before."

  Flávio listened, his face hardening with each word.

  "The only one is Luna. And her vote isn't five."

  Flávio turned back to the plank. The hammer came down harder than necessary—a blow that was more anger than construction.

  "Then why put on this whole show?" he questioned, his voice tight. "If he used the stone, as they say, why not just kill him immediately? That's a capital crime."

  Fencer picked up another nail. Positioned it carefully.

  "It's simple. They tortured him. Did it accomplish anything?"

  Flávio thought. The memory of the severed fingers, the dark blood, that motionless figure enduring everything in silence.

  "No."

  "Right. Then you went to talk to him, along with Luna and Raphadun. Did it help?"

  Flávio didn't answer. He didn't need to.

  "No, right?" Fencer concluded. "This trial is the only attempt..."

  He hesitated, searching for the right words.

  "Attempt at what?" Flávio asked.

  The silence between them was long. The sun continued to shine, indifferent to the weight of the conversation.

  "The last attempt to try..." Fencer paused. The words seemed to struggle to come out. "...to understand him."

  The phrase echoed in the air like wind through ruins.

  Flávio didn't answer. He just kept hammering—but now the rhythm was different. Slower. More thoughtful.

  The silence between them, for once, didn't need to be filled.

  In the hospital, the white corridors seemed quieter than they should have been.

  Luna walked with firm steps, the simple dress she had chosen for the day contrasting with the solemnity of the environment. Each door she passed was a reminder of what was at stake—the wounded from the battle, destroyed lives, a kingdom on the brink of collapse.

  She stopped before a specific door. Took a deep breath. Entered.

  Bruce Darking sat up in bed, his torso wrapped in bandages, his face marked by bruises that not even his pale skin could hide. But his eyes—those green eyes that had seen empires fall—remained the same.

  Veronica was at his side, notes in hand. When Luna entered, she stood immediately.

  "Luna," Veronica said, her voice neutral as always.

  Luna nodded.

  "Hello, Veronica. May I have a moment alone with my grandfather, please?"

  Veronica looked at Bruce, then at Luna. She nodded in agreement and left without another word, the door closing behind her with a soft click.

  Silence settled between them.

  Bruce observed his granddaughter with that expression Luna knew so well—the same expression he used when assessing an enemy on the battlefield.

  "Is that how you're going to look at me, then?"

  Luna held his gaze firmly.

  "I'm not looking. Are you better?"

  The question was direct, no beating around the bush. Professional, almost.

  "Yes, I am."

  Another silence. Heavier than the last.

  "You don't need to look at me like that," Bruce continued, his voice low. "I understand the anger."

  He looked away for a moment—such a small gesture it almost went unnoticed.

  "Now, if it were me in his place, would you care more about your great-uncle than your own grandfather?"

  Luna felt her blood boil.

  "You know I would never think that!"

  Her voice rose, echoing off the room's walls.

  Bruce didn't move. His eyes returned to her with a calm that was, in itself, a provocation.

  "You disobeyed my orders..." he said slowly. "You went to see the monster. How long will you remain like this?"

  Luna felt something break inside her. A barrier she had kept intact for years, for decades, for a lifetime of restraint.

  "YES, MY GREAT-GRANDFATHER!"

  Her voice echoed like thunder. She stepped forward, her hands trembling.

  "Forgive me for being a fool who cares about the person who saved her!" The words now gushed forth, uncontrollable. "Forgive me for being an idiot who wants to see goodness in what I myself witnessed over the years in the Infernal Zone!"

  Bruce watched her, motionless. His face bore no expression.

  "I dreamed every day!" Luna continued, her voice now mixed with tears that refused to fall. "When the Stalker almost killed us, I imagined you or Alfredo arriving to save me! The two great heroes, who can destroy cities with their enormous power!"

  She gestured now, her hands cutting through the air.

  "I dreamed of you appearing and saving my father at the last moment!"

  Andrew's name hung in the air like a ghost.

  "And I didn't judge EITHER OF YOU!"

  Luna was breathless now, the words coming out broken, mixed with saliva escaping the corners of her mouth.

  "I didn't blame EITHER of you! I understood! And when I asked you to do the same, you didn't!"

  She stopped. Took a deep breath. When she spoke again, her voice was lower, but no less intense.

  "So tell me. Tell me honestly, Bruce."

  Her eyes found his.

  "Why do you hate me?"

  The silence that followed was absolute.

  Bruce continued looking at her, his face motionless as a stone mask. His eyes—cold, calculating, empty—revealed nothing.

  "You are weak..." he murmured. His voice was so low, Luna almost didn't hear.

  "What did you say?"

  And then Bruce broke the silence.

  "YOU ARE WEAK!"

  His voice wasn't loud—it didn't need to be. Each word fell like a stone into a deep well.

  "Years of House wars. Many deaths. My wife died. My family members died. All for the Definitive Light. All for the great power."

  He leaned slightly forward, his eyes fixed on hers.

  "But what do I see? A frightened little girl crying over a curse."

  His voice hardened.

  "And you will regret this. Bitterly."

  Luna felt the tears pressing behind her eyes, but refused to let them fall. She held them back with a strength she didn't know she had.

  "Why?" the question came out as a whisper. "Is it because I'm a woman?"

  She needed more. Needed something that explained that coldness, that distance, that insurmountable wall that had always existed between them.

  "No..."

  The answer came lower than anything Bruce had ever said.

  And then Luna saw.

  Tears.

  Almost invisible, almost imperceptible, but they were there—in the eyes of the strongest man in the world, on the face of one who never showed weakness.

  "I will regret forever not having gone to save Andrew..."

  His voice faltered. Just a little. Just enough.

  "But I don't regret having gone to save you."

  The impact was physical.

  Luna felt as if she had been struck in the chest—a punch, a stab, something that pierced all the defenses she had built over the years. Worse than the Stalker. Worse than the Infernal Zone. Worse than all the curses she had faced.

  The tears she had held so tightly didn't fall.

  They couldn't fall.

  If they fell, it would mean he had won.

  Luna just kept silent. A silence that carried everything that couldn't be said.

  She turned.

  Her hand found the doorknob. Her fingers closed around the cold metal.

  Before she could open the door, Bruce's voice came from behind:

  "Satisfied now?"

  Luna stopped.

  Her hand tightened on the doorknob. The words echoed inside her—I don't regret having gone to save you—but when she opened her mouth, what came out was a single syllable:

  "Yes."

  She opened the door.

  And closed it behind her.

  Outside, the sun continued to shine.

  The streets remained crowded.

  The construction workers kept working.

  And in the depths of the prison, chained to a metal chair, Empty waited.

  Head bowed. Eyes closed. His breathing—if he even breathed—was so slow it seemed nonexistent.

  Up above, the tribunal is nearly finished.

  Up above, the judges are nearly ready.

  Up above, the people are nearly ready to watch the spectacle.

  And he waited.

  As he had always waited.

  Since the abandoned house. Since the empty crib. Since the first monster that dragged him down the hill.

  Empty waited.

  For something that might never come.

  Only a few hours remained.