Realm Lord
Chapter 190: In a Moment of Silence

Chapter 190: In a Moment of Silence

Arthur looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers as if seeing them for the first time. The phantom weight of his odachi still lingered in his memory, and he could feel the echo of shadow-power thrumming just beneath his skin. Then he looked around the car at Cara, Myah, and Aziel, taking in their expressions of concern and barely concealed fear. The reality of what had happened—what he had done—began to sink in with sickening clarity.

"W-what’s going on?" Arthur asked, his voice quiet and shaky, barely more than a whisper. The words seemed to stick in his throat, weighted down by confusion and the growing certainty that something was seriously wrong with him.

Silence filled the car for several long, uncomfortable moments as his companions struggled with how to explain what they’d witnessed. The air felt thick with unspoken tension, heavy with the implications of what had just occurred. Finally, Aziel found his voice, though it carried none of its usual steady confidence.

"You tell us, dude," he said, his tone careful and measured, as if he were speaking to someone who might bolt at any moment. "You were sleeping just fine in the seat up front when all of a sudden you blasted out of your chair and started screaming. Then you summoned your shadow and sword like you were about to fight for your life."

He paused, letting the words sink in, watching Arthur’s face carefully for any sign of returning confusion or violence. When Arthur remained still and apparently lucid, he continued, "We tried to talk to you, tried to calm you down, but you wouldn’t listen. It was like... like you weren’t really here with us, you know? Like you were seeing something completely different."

Another pause, longer this time, filled with the weight of unspoken fears and growing concern. When Aziel spoke again, his voice had softened, carrying the genuine worry of someone who cared deeply about a friend in distress.

"A-are you okay, Arthur?"

The question hung in the air between them, deceptively simple but loaded with implications that none of them were quite ready to confront. Because if Arthur wasn’t okay—if whatever was happening to him continued to escalate—then they were all in danger from threats both external and internal. And in a world already filled with more horrors than any sane person could catalog, the thought of losing one of their own to some unknown affliction was almost too terrible to contemplate.

The tension in the vehicle was so thick it could have been cut with a blade, hanging over the small group like a suffocating shroud. Every breath seemed labored, every heartbeat unnaturally loud in the oppressive silence that had fallen after Arthur’s disturbing episode.

For the first time since Arthur had jolted awake in that terrifying display of uncontrolled power, Cara’s stern expression began to soften around the edges. The rigid set of her shoulders relaxed incrementally, and the defensive stance she’d maintained started to ease as she recognized that whatever had possessed him seemed to have passed. Her breathing, which had been quick and shallow with readiness for potential violence, began to slow to something approaching normal.

When she spoke, her voice carried the weight of genuine concern beneath its authoritative tone, like a protective older sister trying to help a sibling through a crisis they didn’t understand. "Take a seat, Arthur," she said, the words gentle but firm, leaving no room for argument or discussion.

Arthur looked around the confined space of the vehicle, his movements slow and uncertain, like someone navigating through thick fog. The confusion and shock that clouded his features made him appear younger than his years, vulnerable in a way that was almost painful to witness. His usually sharp eyes darted from face to face, seeking some anchor of familiarity in a world that suddenly felt foreign and threatening. When his gaze finally settled on Cara, there was something heartbreakingly lost in his expression, reminiscent of a puppy that had been separated from its pack and didn’t understand how to find its way home.

"Oh... y-yeah, okay," he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. The words came out fragmented and uncertain, as if he were testing each syllable before allowing it to escape his lips.

Moving with the careful deliberation of someone whose body felt disconnected from their mind, Arthur slowly lowered himself onto one of the worn seats. He let his back sink against the seat. The simple act of sitting seemed to drain what little energy he had left, as if the episode had burned through reserves he didn’t know he possessed.

He closed his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul. The air filled his lungs with the mixed scents of dust, leather, and the lingering metallic tang that seemed to follow them wherever they went. Behind his closed eyelids, he tried desperately to organize his scattered thoughts, to make some sense of the fragments of memory that swirled through his consciousness like leaves in a whirlwind. There were pieces—flashes of darkness, echoes of that terrible voice, the sensation of power flowing through him like liquid fire—but they refused to coalesce into anything coherent or meaningful.

Myah, took a seat across from him with movements that spoke of bone-deep weariness. Her usually pristine appearance was disheveled, strands of hair escaping from what had once been a neat arrangement to frame her face. She let out a deep sigh that seemed to carry the weight of all their recent trials, the sound filled with exhaustion that went beyond mere physical tiredness. Dark circles shadowed her eyes like bruises, and her hands trembled slightly as she folded them in her lap—whether from fatigue, fear, or the lingering effects of restraining Arthur, it was impossible to say.

Aziel, despite the obvious discomfort his wounded arm was causing him, moved to sit beside Arthur with the careful, measured movements of someone accustomed to managing pain. The fresh spots of red that had appeared on his bandages during the struggle were more pronounced now, evidence that his efforts to help subdue Arthur had reopened wounds that had barely begun to heal. Yet there was no accusation in his manner, no resentment for the additional injury. Instead, his presence beside Arthur was quietly supportive, the kind of wordless comfort that could only come from someone who had shared countless dangers and emerged stronger for the experience.

Cara remained standing in the same spot where she had confronted Arthur during his episode, her feet planted firmly as if she were still ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice. Her posture was that of a guardian—protective but watchful, concerned but prepared. The contrast between her stationary position and the others’ seated relaxation created a subtle but unmistakable hierarchy in the small space.

"So, Arthur," Cara began, her voice taking on the measured cadence of someone conducting an interrogation, "anything you can tell us about what just happened to you?" The shift in her tone was remarkable—gone was the gentle concern of moments before, replaced by something that sounded almost like a teacher disciplining a wayward student. There was an underlying steel in her words that suggested this was not merely a casual inquiry but something far more serious and potentially dangerous.

Arthur felt the weight of her gaze like a physical pressure against his skin. He looked down at his feet, studying the scuffed toes of his worn boots as if they might contain the answers he so desperately needed. Regret washed over him in waves—not just for what had happened, but for the fear he had caused his companions, for the disruption to their fragile sense of security, for being yet another source of danger in a world that already contained far too many threats.

He stared at his feet for what felt like an eternity but was probably only a moment or two, his mind racing through possible explanations that might make sense of his actions. How could he explain something he didn’t understand himself? How could he describe the void, the voice, the overwhelming sense of helplessness and rage that had consumed him? The words seemed inadequate, too small to contain the magnitude of what he had experienced.

"I... I don’t know," he finally managed, his voice thick with confusion and frustration. "One second I was having a nightmare, and the next I was awake and you guys know the rest..." The explanation felt pathetic even to his own ears, a pale shadow of the terrifying reality he had endured. But what else could he say? How could mere words convey the absolute darkness, the maddening static of that incomprehensible voice, the sensation of being torn between worlds?

Cara’s eyes narrowed slightly as she studied his face, searching for signs of deception or hidden knowledge. Her experience in this harsh world had taught her to look beyond surface explanations, to probe deeper when something didn’t feel right. After a moment of intense scrutiny, she spoke again, her voice carrying the weight of someone who suspected there was more to the story than she was being told.

"What kind of nightmare was this?" she asked, the question sharp and direct, cutting through any possibility of evasion or deflection.

The response came so quickly it surprised even Arthur himself. "I don’t remember," he blurted out, the words tumbling from his lips with unreasonable haste. They were rushed and defensive, spoken with the kind of automatic denial that suggested the opposite of what they claimed. The moment the words left his mouth, he felt a chill of recognition and horror.

Instantly, Arthur found himself lost and confused in his own thoughts, a cold fear beginning to crystallize in his chest. ’Why did I say that?’ he wondered, his mind reeling with the implications. The response had felt almost involuntary, as if his body had spoken without consulting his conscious mind, as if some other force had hijacked his voice and used it to deflect inquiry. ’It was like my body spoke for me...’

The realization sent tendrils of panic through his system. If he couldn’t trust his own words, his own reactions, then what could he trust? Was he losing control not just in his dreams, but in his waking moments as well? The thought was terrifying beyond measure, opening up possibilities that he wasn’t ready to confront or acknowledge.