Maximillian
People say we each have our personal prisons, even though we're not physically confined; sometimes, we choose to remain trapped. It had been a year since my best friend Darius passed away, and I hadn't moved past my grief.
How could I, when everything around me served as a reminder of him? His face haunted my dreams, his laughter echoed in my ears, and his voice lingered, sharing dreams of a future he'd never witness, all ended by my own hands. I resented the pity mirrored in my parents' and siblings' expressions, and their delicate treatment of me as if I were a ticking time bomb. Rejecting their sympathy felt rude, and I couldn't openly express my disdain for my privileged life.
Writing a farewell letter to my parents proved to be the most challenging task I'd ever faced, yet it was necessary. I couldn't be certain if leading an ordinary life would ease my guilt or bring slight comfort, but regardless, I'd acknowledge my suffering as deserved. Having completed my letter, I sealed it in an envelope and placed it on my reading table, ensuring it was in a noticeable spot.
It needed to be found promptly, but not too quickly, allowing me time to escape. I was certain my mom, who worried excessively about me, would be the first to discover it. I didn't wish to subject her to this emotional rollercoaster, but being apart was healthier for both of us. Perhaps, in the future, I could return as the son she remembered, as this version of myself was unrecognizable even to me.
At 1 am, I grabbed a backpack, filled it with discreet clothes and two pairs of shoes. After securing my wallet in my jeans, I removed my credit cards, ensuring I had enough money to sustain me until I found a job, then quietly left my bedroom. Having pondered for two months, I devised an escape plan.
I studied the guards, noting their shifts and positions around the palace and gates. Exiting the house was a breeze, but the real challenge lay in bypassing the gates or scaling the fence. I tiptoed across the lawn, crawling quietly when necessary, until I reached the farthest tree in the corner, scaled it to the highest branch, and hid there.
After making sure the guards were gone, I carefully approached the fence, threw my jacket over the barbed wire, and jumped down. Experiencing a sharp pain from my knee to my ankle, I gritted my teeth in frustration. My left leg, injured in the accident, had undergone reconstructive surgery, sparing me a lifetime of limping. Now, I worried I might have worsened it, especially since I was still recovering from my second hospitalization incident.
Testing my leg to determine the extent of the injury, I sighed in relief when I found I could walk normally. Realizing my father's money had not gone to waste, I waved a final goodbye to the house, placed a black baseball cap on my head, and went my way.
~~~~~
"I heard the bad news. I'm sorry for your loss. May her soul rest in peace. What are you going to do now? How will you take care of your children?" The man consoled his friend, expressing his condolences.
The friend, wearing a resigned expression, replied, "I intend to go back to my hometown. There's nothing for me here anymore. At least, my father's house is there waiting for me. I can work on the farm to take care of myself and my children. All I need right now is money."
"What about your truck? Sell it and use the money to travel." The man suggested.
The friend sighed. "And what will I use to carry my belongings? It's at the mechanic's shop waiting for me to come and get it after I've paid Silas all the money I've been owing him. It's really not fair of me to repay his goodness with evil."
"How much do you need?" The man inquired.
"I'm owing Silas twenty thousand. I need at least forty thousand." The widower replied.
"That's tough. I don't have any money right now." The man said.
Listening to these men discuss gave me an idea. All I needed to know was where he was headed and how fast he could leave before my father would send his guards out to look for me. I was cutting it too close as it was and couldn't afford to go back home.
Stepping out from behind the abandoned bus, I stood in front of them, startling them. They quickly composed their features when they realized how young I was and that I was unarmed.
"Who are you?" One of them questioned.
"I'm sorry to drop in on you like this, but I overheard your conversation. You said you need money, don't you?" I inquired.
The men eyed me warily, but I could see they were considering that I didn't look like a thief or a scammer. They exchanged silent looks until the one in need of money spoke up.
"I do. May I ask why?" He questioned.
"I'll double the amount if you take me along," I offered. "But, we must leave within thirty minutes."
"What's your name?" He inquired.
"It doesn't matter. I'll provide the money you need and pay you to take me wherever you're going," I explained. "But first, where are you headed? Is it far from Mercia?"
"It's a two-day journey without traffic or stops," He replied. "I'm heading to Havindelle, the last of the five kingdoms."
The mention of Havindelle brought back memories; my dad had once mentioned it was enemy territory. Grandpa had eliminated the entire royal family, and King Elroy's cousin had claimed the throne. Dad didn't like the late King's cousin either, but he seemed better than his predecessor.
"Perfect," I said. "I'll triple the amount if you leave your belongings behind."
Despite their initial wariness, the men couldn't resist the tempting offer. The man nodded, exchanged a handshake with his friend, and we departed. In less than an hour, with only their clothes for the trip, the man bundled up his three kids in the truck, and we began our journey to Havindelle.
~~~~
I could have accompanied the man to his house in Havindelle for the night, but I anticipated his expectations: covering accommodation and dinner costs. Initially doubtful, he became cheerful upon seeing the cash, addressing me as 'sir.'
I wandered without a clear destination, relying on his tip about a one-star hotel nearby. Planning to stay there for the night and search for a better place later, I dismissed approaching footsteps, assuming they were mine. However, I had to acknowledge that I was about to be robbed as two men brandishing pocket knives blocked my path.
I sighed, shook my head, and turned around, only to face three more men—one with a toy gun, the second with a baton, and the third with a dagger.
"I don't have the energy to face all five of you tonight," I declared. "But if you don't leave right now, I'll have to teach you a lesson."
"Five against one? That's amusing. Hand over your belongings, and we won't harm you." The supposed leader, his high top fade dreadlocks framing his face, retorted.
With a sardonic smirk, I cracked my knuckles. "Looks like you'll have to try and take them."
Dreadlocks exchanged glances with his mates before they lunged at me together. However, I skillfully dodged their blows, swiftly incapacitating one or two with powerful strikes to their stomachs and delivering a precise uppercut to another guy's chin, sending them sprawling to the ground.
Engaged in a stare-down with dreadlocks, I was caught off guard and couldn't dodge the blow that struck the back of my head, causing me to slump to the ground in pain. An irritated hiss escaped my lips as I tried to rise, but they relentlessly attacked me with kicks and punches, and one of them cut me with a knife.
"You should've handed over your stuff," Dreadlocks sneered, seizing my backpack. "And for that... Strip him down."
Left in just my underwear, I endured another brutal kick to my ribs. Through blurred vision, I watched them walk away, laughing and chatting. I recognized their faces; revenge would be mine later. For now, oddly, I wasn't furious—it felt like a well-deserved lesson.
As darkness enveloped me, a man's voice asked if I was alright, countered by a woman telling him not to bother. I wanted to agree with her, but my eyelids grew heavy, and I succumbed to unconsciousness.
All he had left were what-ifs, unspoken regrets, and a lukewarm affection for the woman he had married—Lillian, Steven’s mother. Sometimes, when the nights were too quiet and the house too still, Matthias wondered if she could tell. If, after all these years, she had sensed that his heart had never truly been hers.That his heart had long belonged to another woman—a woman who was never his to lose, and yet not his to love either. A woman who wasn’t her. A woman who had married his best friend.Priscilla. He often questioned how different his life might have been if he’d spoken up years ago. Maybe he would’ve been the one praying with her in hospital corridors instead of offering help as an outsider.He was pulled from his thoughts by the warmth in Priscilla’s voice.“Thank you for the food items you gave us, Matthias. You didn’t have to,” Priscilla said, her voice warm and genuine, her grateful smile enough to stir something buried deep in him.He shrugged lightly, spreading his hands
For as long as Cyril Jonas could remember, he and Matthias had been friends. Their fathers were friends, and their great-grandfathers before them. It felt like something passed down through bloodlines—the kind of loyalty that didn’t need to be spoken to be understood. So it only seemed natural that the third generation would continue that legacy of friendship.Even though Matthias’s family was wealthy and Cyril’s was not, it had never affected how they saw each other. Status never factored into their bond. It was that very sense of equality that led Matthias to believe it made perfect sense for his third eldest child and second son, Steven, to be betrothed to Cyril’s youngest daughter, Edwina. It wasn’t just about preserving tradition; it was about deepening the bond between their families—making it permanent.For the sake of peace, and perhaps out of fear, Cyril chose to withhold the truth from Edwina until the time was right. But the more he watched her around Steven, the clearer i
Maximillian Edwina returned to the hospital with the clothes we needed, her arms full of our wrinkled familiarity from home, and thankfully without her lover boy. Relief washed through the room like steam rising off hot coffee. But of course, getting the clothes was only half the battle.One problem solved. But naturally, another one popped up right after—Where were we supposed to bathe and change? That was the next problem. The hospital bathrooms were either tiny or shared, and frankly, I wasn’t about to ask Priscilla and her daughters to freshen up in some overcrowded, disinfectant-reeking stall. Everyone looked tired, sticky, uncomfortable. I figured I’d try my luck.I slipped away from the group, already running a few lines through my head. Time to charm someone. I’d gotten out of worse situations with a smile and some polite audacity. It was time to put the dimples to work.I spotted a nurse across the corridor, young, round-faced, bright-eyed, and thankfully not too busy. Her
Maximillian Truce.Edwina liked to throw that word around like it cost her nothing. Like it was some sort of magical spell. As if saying it could wipe the slate clean. I'd lost count of how many times she'd said it before, only for us to be at each other’s throats again the next day.I’d heard her use it before—casually, flippantly, like tossing breadcrumbs to pigeons. I never believed her—not really. But this time felt different. Maybe because we were all too exhausted to keep up the usual sparring. Given the circumstances—the fire, the chaos, her father’s heart attack—it wasn’t about peace anymore. It was about survival. I figured we had, what, a month? Maybe a few weeks if we were lucky before one of us lost our heads and the usual bickering resumed. But for now, we were pretending to be civil. It was kind of nice. Strange, but nice.By seven a.m., I figured someone had to do something useful, so I went out to get toothbrushes, toothpaste, and something edible. I knew no one want
Edwina No matter how guilty I felt, I couldn’t help myself—I kept the conversation going, mostly just to prove a point. I was stubborn like that. I always have been. Even when I knew I was wrong, something in me just couldn’t back down without having the last word—even if it meant pushing someone else’s buttons."We’ve already been left high and dry..." I muttered, half to myself, half to the room, bitterness creeping into my voice before I could stop it. And maybe—just maybe—I wanted Justice to feel what it was like to be left behind, to carry the weight of that silence, even if he hadn’t earned it.Not because he deserved it, but because I didn’t know what else to do with my own hurt. I guess that was my own kind of pettiness.“Edwina, leave Justice alone,” Mama said firmly, cutting off my tirade before it could gain more traction. Her voice was calm but carried the kind of weight that shut everyone up immediately.Her tone wasn’t angry, just weary—like someone who had seen enoug
EdwinaThe hallway to the ICU felt longer than any road I’d ever walked. Every step echoed off the tiled floor like it was measuring my guilt, my fear, and the weight of the unknown that lay behind the door ahead.I paused just outside, staring at the faded “Authorized Personnel Only” sign like it was a final warning. But a nurse had already waved me through. “Five minutes,” she’d said gently. I wasn’t sure if five minutes would be enough to hold back the flood I felt inside, or if it would break me completely.The door clicked shut behind me, sealing me in with the beeping machines, the antiseptic air, and the man who had built his life with soil-stained hands and an unshakable will.My father—Cyril Jonas—was barely recognizable.He lay still, eyes closed, lips slightly parted. Tubes snaked from his arms, and a monitor beeped steadily beside him like a countdown. There was oxygen hooked under his nose, and the usual deep brown of his face looked ashen under the hospital lights.My h