The Sinful Young Master - Chapter 185

Chapter 185: The scars of the past
Cleora stood still; her smile seemed to grow more and more warm as she watched him.

Jolthar huffed but didn’t respond.

Instead, he let his gaze sweep across the field again, already picturing how the forge would be laid out—the massive smelters, the anvils, the storage for raw materials, and the barracks for the workers. It would take time, resources, and skilled hands, but once complete, it would be a forge unlike any other.

And to fund it, he had turned to Milan.

Cleora had already called for an expert—a renowned builder with knowledge in constructing forges and smithies. Jolthar had spoken with the man earlier, discussing the necessary structures, the costs, and the scale of their ambition. It would be no small task, but Jolthar was determined.

Now, standing before the empty land, Jolthar knew that Milan’s decision had been the right one. The forge would not just be a business. It would be a strategic asset—one that could supply weapons to those who needed them most.

He exhaled and turned back to Cleora.

His gaze lingered on her for a moment before he finally asked, “How do you know that man? That Chittera lord?”

At the mention of the name, Cleora’s expression changed.

The teasing warmth in her eyes faded, replaced by something colder—something guarded. She turned her gaze forward, staring at the distant horizon as though looking at something only she could see.

Jolthar noticed the way her fingers curled slightly, her nails pressing into her palms.

“It isn’t something I would like to remember,” she said after a long pause. Her voice was steady, but there was an underlying tension there.

Jolthar remained silent, waiting.

She let out a slow breath. “I wish I could forget it. It happened a long time ago, even before I was married.”

Her words were simple, yet they carried weight. A history she had no intention of revisiting.

Jolthar stayed silent, waiting for her to speak.

Instead, he only watched as the wind swept through the open land.

Cleora sighed heavily, her eyes distant, as she started talking, “It was during my teenage years when my father, a rising merchant lord, had just begun making a name for himself in the empire. His reputation was still fresh, but already, his name was whispered in the halls of power, and his influence stretched further each day.

With newfound prominence came new dangers, something I learned in the harshest way possible.

That day, I was returning home, carrying an item of great importance—one that could solidify my father’s standing among the noble houses. It was entrusted to me, and my only task was to see it safely delivered.

Arvant, then a young but skilled commander, had been assigned to escort me back to my home. The roads were treacherous, filled with those who saw my father’s rise as a threat or an opportunity. We should have known better. We should have expected an ambush.

They came without warning—barbarians from the outer reaches of Chittera Province.

Not mere bandits, but warriors of a brutal and lawless faction, known for their savagery and disregard for life. Their attack was swift and precise.

Our escort, though disciplined, was outnumbered.

Arvant fought with everything he had, cutting through the first wave of attackers with desperation, but there were too many of them. Chaos erupted around me—swords clashed, men screamed, and horses reared in terror. I was just a small girl, clutching my hands around the box, praying as hard as I could.

Before I could react, rough hands grabbed me from behind, yanking me off. I remember the cold bite of a blade pressed against my throat as I was pulled away from my guards.

Arvant turned; I could see he was shocked and angered, but there was nothing he could do—there were too many of them, and their objective was clear.

Me.

They dragged me through the dense woods, their guttural laughter ringing in my ears as they shouted in their crude tongue. I kicked, screamed, and fought with all my strength, but they were stronger, and they relished in my helplessness.

The journey to their base was long and gruelling. My wrists were bound with thick rope that cut into my skin, my body bruised from their rough treatment. They dragged me behind, tying my hands to the horse.

Every time I slowed, they struck me, enjoying my pain.

By the time we reached their encampment, I was exhausted, my body trembling from fear and fatigue.

They threw me into a dimly lit tent, the stench of unwashed bodies and blood filling my nose.

I knew what was coming.

I had heard the stories of what happened to captives taken by barbarians. They didn’t kill outright—not at first. They enjoyed tormenting their victims, breaking them piece by piece until there was nothing left.

That first night, I lay awake, curled into myself, heart pounding as I listened to their drunken revelry outside.

I was trapped. Alone.

They would come at night, put their hands on me, scaring me, but they weren’t doing anything, but it was starting to take effect on my mind. I wished that they killed me instead; I begged them to, but they didn’t. They relished in my misery; I think it was then that I was starting to lose myself.

But then, I met Dagur.

He was around my age, perhaps a year or two older, with dark, piercing eyes that held something different—something that the others lacked.

He wasn’t like them. And he seemed to have a story of his own.

I saw it in the way he carried himself, the way his gaze never lingered on me the way theirs did. He was one of them, but at the same time, he wasn’t.

The next time they tried to touch me, Dagur intervened.

I could remember clearly to this day that one-eyed barbarian; he reached for me, his breath reeking of alcohol, his hands rough and eager. I had no strength left to fight, only to flinch away, to press myself against the wooden post I was bound to.

And then, without warning, Dagur struck him—hard. The man reeled back, cursing in their harsh language, but Dagur stood his ground, gripping a dagger, his voice low and threatening.

They backed off.

For now.

That was the beginning of a cycle.

Every day, they would test the limits, their twisted amusement evident in the way they taunted me, in the way they laughed at my fear. And every day, Dagur would stop them. He never spoke much, never explained why he protected me.

Perhaps he pitied me. Perhaps he simply didn’t enjoy cruelty the way they did. But whatever the reason, he was the only thing standing between me and a fate worse than death.

It was the longest week of my life. I barely ate and barely slept. Every night, I clung to whatever scraps of hope I could find. But hope was fragile, and I was beginning to break.

Then, salvation came.

The night Arvant found the base, I had nearly given up. My body was weak, my spirit worn. I had stopped counting the days, stopped believing in rescue. But then, through the thick walls of the tent, I heard it—shouts, the clash of steel, the unmistakable roar of battle. My heart leaped into my throat. I scrambled to my feet, straining against my bonds, my pulse hammering in my ears.

Dagur entered the tent, his expression urgent. Without a word, he cut my restraints and grabbed my arm, pulling me to my feet. “Come,” he said. It was the first word he had ever spoken to me.

He guided me through the camp, weaving between the chaos. Arvant and his men were cutting down barbarians left and right, their swords gleaming under the moonlight. The smell of burning wood and blood filled the air. I barely registered the bodies strewn across the ground, the screams of dying men. I focused only on running, on escape.

Dagur brought me to Arvant, his grip on my arm loosening as he hesitated. His dark eyes met mine for a brief moment, and I understood—he couldn’t stay. He had helped me, but he was still one of them. If he remained, he would be cut down like the rest.

Arvant’s sword was raised, ready to strike him down, but I grabbed his arm. “Let him go,” I pleaded, my voice hoarse. Arvant hesitated for a long moment, his eyes flickering between me and Dagur. Then, with a reluctant nod, he lowered his weapon.

Dagur met my gaze one last time before turning on his heel and disappearing into the night. I never saw him again.

I was safe. I was free. But even as Arvant carried me away from that wretched place, I knew that a part of me would always remember those days. The terror. The helplessness. And Dagur—the boy who had saved me when no one else could.

I wish I could forget. But some scars never fade.

I think I lost my way of looking towards the world; in those couple of days, it changed me completely. To this day, I haven’t spoken about it, not to anyone, even my parents. There were sleepless nights, nightmares, and all those flashing before me.”