Ragnarök, Eternal Tragedy.
Chapter 134: Never Meant to Cover

Chapter 134: Never Meant to Cover

Taviel had lingered.

Even after his father moved further down the corridor with Governor Halbrecht’s entourage barking out numbers and production metrics, the boy had drifted back toward Lionel’s station—hands tucked behind his back, eyes flicking between workers as if observing some low-born ritual through a fogged lens.

Lionel hadn’t lifted his head.

The heat pressed against the back of his neck like punishment, fingers still deep in the sorting bin, gravel biting into the web of his palm.

"You don’t speak much," Taviel said eventually, tone somewhere between boredom and mild authority.

Lionel didn’t stop.

Didn’t answer.

Taviel took a half-step closer, boots barely crunching the dust.

"You just sort rocks all day?"

Lionel stacked one stone atop another, adjusted the weight, reset the bin.

Taviel huffed lightly. "Do you even know who I am?"

Lionel didn’t look up.

But his voice did.

"You should leave."

Taviel blinked. "Why?"

"Because if I talk to you," Lionel muttered, "the foreman’s going to beat me again. And if you stay, he’ll beat me harder."

His fingers never paused. His tone never shifted.

It was fact. Not threat.

Taviel hesitated—eyes narrowing, confusion curling around his privilege like smoke against polished glass.

Then the shadow arrived.

Joren.

Foreman. Warden. Scar-carved petty king of the mine.

His boots hit the ground like accusation.

"What’s this?" he barked, voice cracking through stone and skin. "Why’s the owner’s son speaking to you, filth?"

Lionel didn’t flinch.

But that didn’t save him.

Joren grabbed him hard by the shoulder, yanked him sideways, and slammed his body to the ground in one motion. Taviel flinched but didn’t speak. Joren hovered over Lionel’s frame, boot pressing down against the boy’s chest—then his jaw—then finally his temple.

"You speak when royalty speaks!" he roared. "You answer with respect, you vermin!"

Lionel’s cheek scraped against the dirt. One hand twitched near his ribs. He didn’t scream. Didn’t fight. Just breathed—slow and bitter as the taste of rust.

Joren stomped once more.

Then turned away.

Taviel watched all of it.

And then he left.

That night, Lionel slept on the floor.

No pillow. No light. Just the scratch of wood against his spine and a water stain near the far wall that had started to look like an open mouth.

He wasn’t bleeding much.

But something inside him was aching louder.

He stared into the dark.

Thought of Taviel’s voice.

His clean clothes.

His posture.

His shoes not coated in dust.

He thought about how they walked—like the world had been swept ahead of them. He thought about how they spoke—without fear of interruption, without consequence. He thought about how they moved through rooms like their place had already been promised.

And Lionel clenched his fists.

Not because he wanted revenge.

But because he wanted to exist beyond it.

He hadn’t planned it.

There was no map. No whispered promise. No secret route through night-lit alleys or codes etched behind brick.

Just pain.

And Jareth’s final word.

Survive.

Lionel sat up in the dark, hand clenched against the frayed blanket he hadn’t used, eyes open but not blinking, body curled against cold wood like stone learning how to stand. His breath was shallow, his ribs still aching from Joren’s boots, but his thoughts moved faster than the wound.

He stared at the rusted pickaxe beside him.

Then stood.

The walk through the barracks was silent.

No one asked questions at that hour. Sleep had learned not to react. Dreams were a privilege they couldn’t afford. Lionel moved with focus carved from exhaustion, slipping through mining corridors until the dirt turned smoother and the buildings became houses.

Joren lived in the iron quarter—where foremen received meal upgrades and homes built from reinforced stone.

Lionel knew the route.

He’d cleaned the gutters once.

Knew where the front latch stuck.

Knew where the back entrance could be slipped if the hinges didn’t squeak.

He found it quickly.

And he entered.

Joren’s house was ugly with wealth.

Half-eaten fruit lay rotting on the counter. A necklace rested carelessly beside a chipped glass of wine. Wall hangings stitched from imported thread adorned corners nobody looked at. And the bedroom—upstairs—had lockboxes and coin sacks and a blade polished but never used.

Lionel gathered what he could—quiet, methodical. The pickaxe rested against the wall near the stairway. He didn’t mean to take more than he needed.

He just wanted to leave.

Then the noise.

Joren’s voice barked from the stairwell.

"What the hell are you—!"

Lionel didn’t turn.

Didn’t explain.

Didn’t beg.

He grabbed the pickaxe.

Swung.

The impact snapped through the room like a storm cracking wood.

Joren fell backward hard, blood coughing from his mouth before his body even hit the floor. His hand trembled once. Legs twitched. Then stopped.

Lionel’s hands were shaking.

But not his grip.

Not his eyes.

Then—

A second voice.

Soft.

Young.

"Dad?"

Lionel turned sharply.

The boy stood in the doorway—barely nine, hair messy from sleep, eyes wide and wet and confused. His feet were bare. His voice cracked.

"Dad?"

Lionel froze.

Something buckled inside.

He turned.

Ran.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t close the door behind him.

Just vanished.

The night clung tighter than usual.

And Orivath felt larger.

For the first time in his life—

Lionel was outside the schedule.

He was no longer a miner.

No longer a worker.

He was something worse.

And something more.

He didn’t stop running.

Not when the rooftops thinned.

Not when the smoke from his last breath tried to follow him.

Not when Orivath shrunk behind him into a line of rust-colored smog and memory. Lionel vanished without direction—no map, no coin, no companion, just hands clutched around a sack of stolen trinkets and lungs burning from guilt and sprint.

The world didn’t greet him with banners.

It greeted him with mud.

Rain hit in sheets that didn’t ask if he needed shelter. His shoes tore apart by the third province. By the fifth, he had learned to walk barefoot without flinching. Survival wasn’t a thought—it was muscle memory with no kindness left in its tone.

He moved from village to village like wind trading names with dirt.

Some places let him sleep near the livestock.

Others chased him off with bricks and half-chewed curses.

He ate what he stole.

Sold what he couldn’t swallow.

Slept wherever the moon didn’t look too bright.

Kingdoms passed like bloodlines he didn’t belong to.

In the outposts of Valegarde, he scrubbed floors for soup.

In Deross Hollow, he dug graves for old nobles who died too fat to carry alone.

In Iskryn Junction, he watched soldiers line up children to measure blade potential—and walked away before one of them saw something in his eyes.

No place held him.

But every place shaped him.

He learned languages without effort—because effort wasn’t something he could afford anymore.

He learned how to bow without meaning it.

How to nod and smile and speak in ways that didn’t make nobles nervous.