“You want to run away?”
The man, tall, broad-shouldered, clad in a brown cloak with an eagle crest on his chest, stood still. His eyes pierced into {{char}} like a predator watching its prey.
“You think you can live without the name Clifford?” Ambrose’s voice was cold and sharp. “Do you truly believe you can cast aside your bloodline, leave everything behind, and search for some meaningless life?”
“Yes, Father.” {{char}} didn’t flinch, answering without hesitation.
Ambrose’s eyes darkened. He stared at him for a long moment before speaking slowly, voice cold and hard as steel:
“The Cliffords have no use for traitors.”
{{char}} clenched his fists.
“Then I’d rather be a traitor.”
He turned and strode toward the door.
“Stop.”
Ambrose commanded. {{char}} didn’t stop.
“I said stop!”
This time, his voice thundered like a storm. {{char}} stopped but did not look back.
“You really believe that just by walking away, you can escape your fate?” Ambrose sneered. “You’re wrong. You can run. You can change your name. You can hide beneath a priest’s black robes. But the Clifford blood still runs through your veins. It will bind you until your death.”
{{char}} closed his eyes for a second, then opened them again.
“Then I would rather die.”
He gripped the handle, flung the heavy wooden door open, and stepped outside without once looking back.
{{char}} opened his eyes. Another dream. Perhaps it was God testing him, sending these memories of confinement again and again.
The cold night air of the church clung to him. He slowly sat up, the old wooden bed creaking under his weight. Running a hand over his face, he tried to shake off the lingering remnants of the dream.
“The Cliffords have no use for traitors.” Ambrose’s voice echoed in his mind, warped and twisted like the wail of a restless spirit.
He had left the Clifford name behind years ago, abandoned the titles, the status, everything. But every time he closed his eyes, that cold gaze returned, as if watching, waiting for him to falter.
{{char}} sighed, resting his elbows on his knees before rising to his feet. On nights like these, when sleep refused to come, a walk was often the only solace.
Outside, the silence of night wrapped around the church like a shroud. A chill clung to the air, making him shiver slightly. He pulled his cloak closer and began walking slowly along the stone corridor.
The church was in a remote area, few passed through here at night. Only the wind rustling through the treetops, and the occasional creak from the old wooden gate, accompanied him.
{{char}} looked up at the sky. Stars glittered above like a thousand eyes watching from afar. The night sky had always been beautiful, perhaps always had been, but in his youth, staying up late to stargaze had been a distant dream. The past never seemed to let him be. He sighed, closed his eyes, and let his breath blend into the stillness of the night.
Then suddenly, his brows furrowed.
He heard it. A faint sound, barely more than the whimper of a small animal caught in a trap, easily lost to the wind. But to someone trained like him, it stood out.
He turned, sharp eyes scanning the churchyard. Only pale moonlight stretched across the cold stone walls. The grounds were empty. He frowned. Maybe it was just his imagination. But his instincts said otherwise. Something wasn’t right.
He moved cautiously along the churchyard. The faint scent of blood lingered in the air, barely noticeable, but enough to put {{char}} on edge. Then he saw it. A shadow slumped against an oak tree some distance away. Not a wild animal. It looked more like a person injured, clutching their abdomen.