Chapter 186
Apathy did not answer immediately.
He merely looked at Miara with vacant eyes that never changed, eyes that had witnessed far too many deaths to be surprised by a daughter's hatred toward her father, eyes that had watched grief transform into anger, and anger into words that could never be taken back. When he finally opened his mouth to speak, his voice remained flat, unhurried, like a river flowing over stones that had lain submerged for far too long.
"Shaqar... your father, Miara—"
But before he could finish the sentence, before Shaqar's name had fully left whatever his throat was made of, Miara cut him off again, faster than before, sharper, like someone who had hidden a knife beneath her pillow and could no longer wait to use it.
"Ah, my father. It's always about my father. Even after his death, even after blowing himself up in that castle, even after the television called him a hero, the world still can't stop talking about Shaqar, can it?"
She laughed—the same laugh she had let out while standing in the kitchen with a wooden spoon in one hand and oil turning black in the pan, a laugh that came from something already dead but incapable of burying itself.
"Yes, Most Honorable Grand Sanse, Your wisdom truly knows no bounds for giving me a trial like this," Miara continued, her voice now sinking into a murmur—not quite a prayer, not quite a curse, but something caught between the two, something rising from a heart questioning why fate kept kicking her when she had nothing left that could still be kicked.
"After my father abandoned me over and over for years, after he chose mission after mission instead of coming home, after he chose to die as a hero rather than live as a father... now You send one of his subordinates to my house. To a house that doesn't even have a name. You send him here to remind me, once again, that Shaqar was always more important than his only daughter. That his sacrifice was worth more than the tears I never had the chance to shed because I was too busy being angry."
Absyumura reached for Miara's wrist.
Not to restrain her, not to silence her, but for something much simpler, something far more desperate: to remind her that he was still here, that he was still standing between her and Apathy with a bloodied forehead and knees still trembling from the mud clinging to them.
And in the living room, which suddenly felt much smaller beneath the weight of uncontrolled anger and grief that refused to be called by its name, Apathy remained standing silently in the doorway, waiting. Perhaps he had already learned that when a daughter was cursing her dead father, no words were powerful enough to stop her, no apology sincere enough to soothe her. There was only patience, only time, only silence willing to listen without trying to fix anything.
Miara shook her head.
Not the slow sway of a withering flower, but a short, resolute shake born from disappointment that no longer possessed any words to express itself, a shake that declared she no longer wished to remain trapped in a conversation revolving endlessly around the same name—a name that, even in death, remained too heavy to utter without pain tightening in her chest.
She pulled her hand free from Absyumura's grasp.
Not roughly, but with certainty, with the deliberate movement of someone who had decided it was better to stand alone in a smoke-filled kitchen than remain at a doorway that constantly reminded her of the father she had never truly possessed. Without looking back at either Apathy or her husband, without saying a single word that could be mistaken for a farewell, an excuse, or any sign that she cared what happened next, she turned away from the pale light pouring through the still-open door and walked back into the darkness of the kitchen, into the smoke that had begun to thin but had not yet disappeared, into the stench of rotten rats and burnt oil—the only scent that had never betrayed her.
"Come in, Apathy."
Absyumura's voice echoed through the living room. It was no longer hoarse with tears or trembling with fear, but warm—a warmth forced into existence, born not from comfort but from a desire to make this unusual guest feel welcome, at least by him, even if his wife clearly disagreed.
"Please, have a seat over there—the chair beside the sofa, the one whose legs have already been eaten away by maggots. I'm sorry, this isn't a luxurious home, but at least you can rest for a while. Your journey must have been... difficult."
In the dark kitchen, behind the thin wall that failed to keep the conversation in the living room from reaching her ears, Miara stood silently before the stove.
The fire beneath the pan had long since gone out, yet thin wisps of smoke still drifted upward from its surface, dancing slowly through the suffocating air inside the house.
She heard everything—every word spoken by her husband, every note of kindness offered to the creature with the triangular head—and deep within her mind, something whispered softly, quietly, yet sharply enough to wound her from within.
"'Please, have a seat on the chair that's already been eaten by maggots,' he says. As if this house weren't miserable enough without inviting one of my father's subordinates to set foot on its floor. Ah, Most Honorable Grand Sanse... thank You for this visit. Thank You for sending someone who knows my father's name better than his own daughter ever did."
Not long afterward, Apathy stepped into the living room, bringing with him a chilling air that crept across the old wooden floor.
The candle flame in the corner flickered faintly, as though reluctant to draw too close to the sharp triangular figure standing before it.
After lowering himself onto the woven stool, which creaked softly beneath his weight, he began the conversation in a hoarse voice filled with lingering nostalgia.
"Master Shaqar... your wife's father... has passed away. The explosion inside the castle claimed his life along with eighteen of our comrades."
Absyumura drew a short breath, his chest rising and falling gently like waves forced into stillness.
"Our family... is still struggling to believe any of this," he murmured quietly while gripping his knees tightly.
From the kitchen came the soft clatter of plates touching one another.
The worn curtain at the doorway slowly parted, and Miara emerged from behind it, her face as expressionless as a river stone that had never felt the warmth of sunlight.
She carried a tray containing slices of rotten snake meat still releasing black steam, along with crispy fried maggots.
With movements far too stiff to be called welcoming, Miara placed the tray upon the low table before Apathy before sitting close beside Absyumura, pressing herself against him as though searching for a shield.
"Is this house... still standing?" Apathy asked while gazing up at the cracked ceiling.
"It is," Miara replied coldly without looking at him.
Absyumura gently touched the back of his wife's hand, silently asking her to soften her attitude, but Miara merely crossed her legs and turned her face toward the damp wall.
Absyumura did his best to warm the conversation.
He spoke about Shaqar's old habits—how the late commander would always bring hunger meat home for his family during every Black Full Moon.
Apathy nodded slowly, the serrated edges of his triangular head trembling faintly.
"Shaqar loved you very much, Miara. Even before the explosion, he entrusted me with one final message: 'Don't let Miara go hungry, even if I must become hunger itself.'"
Upon hearing those words, Miara, who had been absentmindedly playing with the edge of her sleeve, suddenly responded.
"That's nonsense."
Her voice was not loud, but it pierced the silence like a splinter of broken bone.
Apathy fell silent.
Absyumura closed his eyes for a brief moment and let out another sigh—this one longer than the first, like someone desperately trying to keep a boat from capsizing.
But Apathy did not retreat.
As a messenger from Team Xirkushkartum, he had long grown accustomed to the icy hatred that often existed within families.
"Miara... I'm only telling you the truth. Your father died while holding a family photo talisman woven from the intestines of a giant weasel."
To be continued...