Chapter 587: Seeds Of Envy
Timeless Assassin Volume 6: The Second Great Betrayal
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"Betrayal is not born in the shadows, but in the light of trust.
A knife in the back only hurts because once, that hand was used to hold you steady.
The cruelest traitors are never the strangers at your gate, but the brothers you ate with, the fathers you honored, the lovers who swore eternal loyalty.
And when betrayal comes, it is not a single act, but a rewriting of history itself, for what was once truth becomes a lie, what was once sacred becomes profane, and the names of the guilty and innocent are switched in the annals of memory.
In the end, betrayal is not merely the breaking of bonds.
It is the birth of a new order, forged from the ashes of trust."
— Archivist Lyrren Dey, On The Nature of Faith and Treachery, 12th Cycle Edition
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(Planet Ixtal, The Lost Forest, Soron and Kaelith’s POV, 2500 years ago)
*Creek*
*Rustle*
For a few moments, the only sound in the backyard training field was the gentle hum of cicadas and the soft sway of leaves against the castle walls of Ixtal.
The twin moons overhead cast their pale light upon the grounds, bathing the sparring circle in silver, as two brothers faced one another with blades drawn, their breathing steady but their eyes sharp.
On one side stood Kaelith, his stance calm and balanced, the posture of someone who had fought this duel a thousand times before and had triumphed in each of them.
On the other side stood Soron, restless energy coursing through his veins, lips pressed into a thin line as he tried to smother the grin tugging at his mouth.
Their father sat upon the stone bench at the edge of the field, one leg folded over the other, chin resting lightly on his hand.
He looked not like a ruler, nor like the most feared assassin the universe had ever known, but like a father watching his sons learn to shape their destiny.
"Kaelith," his voice came low and measured, steady as flowing water, "tighten your stance. You are overconfident, and overconfidence is the first crack in any fortress."
Kaelith adjusted without hesitation, planting his feet more firmly into the soil, his blade held with renewed precision.
"Soron," their father continued, his gaze shifting, "stop trying to force your way through. Use your head. You are not stronger, nor faster than Kaelith, but you are not without tools of your own."
Soron gave a quick nod, his eyes flashing, as if those words had given him license to try something bold.
The spar resumed.
Kaelith moved first, his blade igniting in a streak of black fire as he whispered the word, [Dark Flame].
The air shimmered with heat, the very grass beneath his feet curling and blackening, as he brought the weapon down in a decisive arc meant to end the match before it began.
Soron raised his own blade, coating it too in [Dark Flame], sparks erupting as the weapons clashed, the unstoppable fire colliding with its twin.
*SHING*
The force rang out across the courtyard, shaking the wooden training dummies nearby.
"Too slow, Soron," Kaelith muttered, pressing forward with relentless strikes, every movement practiced, every cut leaving no room for error.
He had always been the stronger, always the steadier hand. For sixteen long years since the two of them began sparring, victory had been his birthright, but recently the gap between them had started to narrow as Soron started to mature.
*PARRY*
*PUSH*
Soron grimaced, parrying another blow before his body blurred into sudden speed as he invoked [Enhance], his arms and shoulders swelling with a rush of strength that let him push Kaelith back.
For a heartbeat he believed the momentum was his, until Kaelith responded in kind, enhancing his legs instead, sliding to the side with impossible agility before carving another flaming strike across Soron’s guard.
"Predictable," Kaelith whispered, sparks dancing between them as their blades locked.
But Soron only grinned, teeth clenched, eyes shining with something his brother had not yet seen in him before.
He disengaged, stepping back, then suddenly surged forward. His body blurring, as in that instant he seemed to vanish from sight altogether, invoking a move he had recently learned called the [Fade Step].
To Kaelith’s eyes, his brother had dissolved into the night air, the faint shimmer of heat and flame swallowed by shadows.
Kaelith pivoted, blade raised high, trying to anticipate the illusion, but he anticipated wrong, as Soron did not appear from above him, but rather behind.
*SLASH*
Soron attacked with perfect precision, his blade angled low, sweeping toward Kaelith’s exposed side, while Kaelith spun to defend, but the faintest hesitation, the single breath of disbelief that his younger brother had finally caught him off-guard, cost him dearly.
His block came a fraction too late, and Soron’s weapon tapped firmly against his ribs.
The sound echoed like thunder in Kaelith’s ears, as he was pushed back with a shallow cut.
*FSSHHH*
His feet dragged in the sand, as he looked towards his brother in disbelief.
"I win! I finally won against big brother!" Soron shouted, laughing with breathless joy, as he lowered his weapon and began chuckling like there was no tomorrow.
In sixteen years, Kaelith had never lost a spar against his younger brother, as day after day, year after year, Kaelith had trained harder, struck faster, defended better, endured longer.
Soron had been the one always catching up, always reaching but never grasping. Yet tonight, in the silver glow of the twin moons, he had done it. He had won.
But Kaelith was not jealous. Not yet. He felt no malice as he lowered his blade, no hatred as his brother’s laughter rang across the field. If anything, he felt a strange sense of pride that Soron had finally managed to push past his limits.
And then their father rose.
The sound of his slow, deliberate clap echoed through the field, each strike of his hands louder than the cicadas, louder than the rustling leaves, louder than the disbelief beating in Kaelith’s heart.
He walked to the center of the sparring ground, his robe trailing against the grass, his presence filling the circle with a gravity neither brother could resist. He stopped before Soron, resting one calloused hand upon his son’s shoulder, and then he pulled him into a tight embrace.
"You, Soron," their father said, his voice warm in a way that Kaelith had never quite heard before, "you have the potential to surpass even me as a warrior someday, my son. Hahaha!"
The laugh was full, unrestrained, genuine. The pride in his eyes was unmistakable, glowing like fire, fierce and unyielding.
And it was in that moment, as Kaelith stood a few steps away, blade still in hand, the sweat cooling on his brow, that something inside him cracked.
His father had never said those words to him. Not once. No matter how many times he trained until his hands bled, no matter how many times he defeated Soron, no matter how many hours he spent perfecting every form, every strike, every stance, his father had never once told him he could surpass him.
Soron had beaten him once. Once, in sixteen years. Yet for that single victory, he was embraced, praised, elevated beyond measure.
Kaelith’s chest tightened as he lowered his gaze, the roar of his father’s laughter ringing in his ears like mockery. He forced himself to remain silent, to swallow the bitterness rising in his throat, but the words carved themselves into the marrow of his being.
Why not me?
Why never me?
That night, he said nothing. He walked away from the training field with his head bowed, his blade dragging faintly against the grass, the laughter of his father and the joy of his brother echoing behind him. But within his heart, the first seed of jealousy had been planted.
It was small then, almost imperceptible, but it was there. A root of envy, curling deep into the soil of his soul, waiting for the years to pass and the storms to come.
And when it finally bloomed three hundred years later, after countless such small incidents occurred, it bore the fruit of betrayal.
The Great Betrayal.
In the form of Kaelith claiming his father’s life, forever altering the destined course of history and the Cult .