SPIRITBINDER: The Boy Without A Mark
Chapter 67: An Order is an Order

Chapter 67: An Order is an Order

Medas groaned as his eyes fluttered open. The soft glow of sunlight filtered through the curtains of his room, illuminating the familiar surroundings. His body ached with every breath, the aftermath of the battle weighing heavily on him. He tried to sit up but winced as pain coursed through his muscles.

As his vision cleared, he spotted a figure seated at the edge of the room, waiting silently. Crimson.

"You..." Medas rasped, his voice hoarse. His eyes narrowed. "Why did you intervene?"

Crimson remained seated, his expression calm and composed. "Because someone had to," he said evenly.

"You shouldn’t have," Medas snapped, his voice gaining strength despite the weariness in his body. "That fight wasn’t your place to interrupt."

"Calm down," Crimson said firmly, holding up a hand. "You’ve pushed yourself to the brink, Medas. If I hadn’t intervened, you and Drevon would’ve torn each other—and everything around you—to pieces."

Medas scowled but said nothing, his jaw tight. The silence between them hung heavy in the air until the door creaked open.

Morvane stepped inside, his presence uncharacteristically subdued. His eyes flicked to Crimson, then to Medas. "Is he awake?"

"I’m right here," Medas muttered, his tone sharp despite his weakened state. He tried to push himself upright, but his body betrayed him. His arms trembled, and he sank back against the pillows, frustration etched into his features.

Morvane crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Don’t bother. You’re too tired to stand."

Medas glared at him. "What are you doing here?" he demanded. His voice was tinged with anger, but it lacked the force it usually carried. "You could’ve escaped while you had the chance. I’ll see to it that you’re imprisoned for this."

Morvane didn’t flinch. Instead, he raised an eyebrow. "Imprison me? In your condition? You can barely sit up, let alone give orders."

Medas growled but said nothing, his fists clenching weakly at his sides.

Before the tension could escalate, Crimson’s voice cut through the room. "Enough."

Both men turned to look at him, startled by the sharpness in his tone.

Crimson stood, his commanding presence filling the room. "Medas, you’re in no position to make threats right now. And Morvane, don’t push your luck. You’re here because I allowed it—not because you’ve earned anyone’s trust."

Medas stared at Crimson, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. "Why are you protecting him?" he asked, his voice quieter but no less accusatory. "What game are you playing, Crimson?"

Crimson’s gaze hardened. "This isn’t a game. I’m just doing what I think is right—just like you should be."

Medas’s eyes widened slightly at the weight of Crimson’s words. For a moment, the room was silent, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

"Rest," Crimson finally said, his voice softening. "You’ll need your strength for what’s coming next."

Medas’s glare softened slightly, though the fire in his eyes hadn’t entirely faded. He leaned back against the pillows, his breathing steadying as he resigned himself to the situation.

Morvane, however, stayed silent, watching the exchange with a thoughtful expression. Whatever Crimson was planning, it was clear that Medas wasn’t the only one in the dark.

Morvane broke the silence, his tone low and measured. "I know you still hate me, Medas," he said, his gaze steady. "And I don’t blame you. But I’ll leave as the sun sets. You won’t have to deal with me any longer."

Medas said nothing, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. His silence wasn’t one of indifference—it was laden with unspoken emotions: anger, pride, and something else he couldn’t quite name.

Crimson, standing between them, sighed heavily. "This feud between you two has gone on long enough," he said, his voice firm but not unkind. "Medas, you can’t let your pride keep you chained to this hatred. And Morvane, walking away won’t solve anything either."

Morvane glanced at Crimson, his lips twitching in a faint smile. "I appreciate the effort, Crimson, but we both know Medas isn’t going to let this go. Some wounds take more than words to heal."

Crimson turned to Medas, his expression softening. "Medas, let it go. At least enough to have a conversation."

Medas finally looked at Crimson, his jaw tight. "It’s not that simple," he muttered, his pride refusing to yield.

Crimson shook his head, frustration flickering across his face. "It’s as simple as you make it."

But Medas turned his head away, signaling that he was done with the conversation. Crimson’s shoulders sagged slightly as he realized he wouldn’t get through to him—not now.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of gold and crimson, Morvane stood at the edge of the estate. The air was cool, and the fading light cast long shadows across the ground.

Crimson approached him, his steps measured. "Leaving already?" he asked, his voice quieter than before.

Morvane nodded. "There’s no reason for me to stay. Vianna already went ahead to her Queendom, and I’ll be joining her there. She’s expecting me."

Crimson’s brows furrowed slightly. "And you’ll be safe there?"

Morvane chuckled softly. "Safe enough. Vianna’s not exactly someone who leaves room for doubt when it comes to protecting those she cares about."

Crimson gave a small nod, though his expression remained serious. "I still think you should’ve stayed a bit longer—to try and fix things with Medas."

Morvane’s smile faded slightly, and he looked out at the horizon. "Medas isn’t ready, Crimson. You saw that. And maybe he never will be. But I’ll wait—when he’s ready, I’ll be around."

Crimson studied him for a moment before placing a hand on his shoulder. "Just make sure you don’t wait too long."

Morvane gave a faint smirk. "Don’t worry about me. Vianna’s already waiting. If Medas ever decides he’s ready to talk, he knows where to find me."

With that, Morvane turned and began his journey, his figure disappearing into the twilight. Crimson stood there for a while longer, the weight of everything that had transpired lingering in the quiet evening air.

As soon as Morvane was gone, Crimson made his way back into the grand halls of Ketamran’s palace. The stone walls echoed faint murmurs of activity as the night deepened. When he entered the central hall, he saw Medas, now out of bed, standing with his guards. His posture was rigid, and his voice carried a sharp authority that reverberated through the room.

The next morning, Crimson awoke to a stark change in the palace atmosphere. The gates of Ketamran were locked and closed, the normally bustling pathways now eerily quiet. Guards stood at every entrance, their expressions tense, as if bracing for something. Only those with explicit authorization were permitted to enter or leave.

Crimson frowned as he made his way to the throne room, where he found Medas issuing orders to his council and guards. The air around him radiated an intensity that made even the most seasoned soldiers uneasy.

"What’s going on here?" Crimson asked, his voice cutting through the tension. "Why are the gates closed? Is this still about Morvane?"

Medas turned slowly, his eyes narrowing as he met Crimson’s gaze. "You could say that," he said coolly. "My hatred for that boy grows every time I think about him. This is for the better—for my kingdom’s safety and my own peace."

Crimson’s brow furrowed. "What are you saying, Medas?"

"I’m banishing him," Medas declared, his voice sharp and unwavering. "Morvane is no longer welcome in my kingdom. He is forbidden from stepping foot here ever again."

Crimson took a step closer, his tone low but firm. "You can’t be serious. You’re letting your emotions cloud your judgment."

Medas’s expression darkened, his pride flaring. "This isn’t about emotion, Crimson. It’s about protecting my people. Someone like Morvane—someone with his history—cannot be trusted."

Crimson shook his head, disbelief etched into his features. "This is your pride talking, Medas. You’re not protecting anyone—you’re punishing him for something that’s long in the past."

Medas didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he turned his back to Crimson, his cape billowing as he walked toward the throne. "This is my decision," he said firmly. "And it’s final."

"Medas—" Crimson began, but the king raised a hand to silence him.

"Enough, Crimson," Medas said without looking back. "You’re my trusted ally, but even you must know your place. Morvane’s presence will no longer cast a shadow on this kingdom."

With that, he dismissed his guards and strode toward his chambers, leaving Crimson standing in the empty hall, frustration and concern swirling within him.

As Morvane walked through the quiet night, the cool breeze brushing against his face, a familiar feeling washed over him. He paused, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

A shadow, darker than the night itself, began to take form ahead of him. It was the same shadow that had appeared before the confrontation between Medas and Drevon—the one he couldn’t quite understand.

"Who’s there?" Morvane asked, his voice steady but laced with caution. He took a step back, his eyes scanning the area, trying to pinpoint the source of the unnatural presence. "What are you?"

A low, ominous laugh echoed from the shadow. It seemed to ripple and twist, as though it were alive, its form shifting with an eerie fluidity.

"You already know what I am," the shadow replied, its voice cold and almost mocking.

Morvane’s heart raced. The voice was unfamiliar, yet something about it sent a chill down his spine.

"Who are you?" Morvane demanded, his hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of his blade. "What do you want with me?"

The shadow only laughed again, this time louder, a hollow sound that reverberated in the air.