You Were My Sl*ve - Chapter 92

A child grows even in the absence of a father.

On the second-floor balcony of the inn where she had stayed for many months, Elona reclined comfortably in the warm shade of midday.

Her hands rested gently on her round belly, and she listened to the peaceful sounds around her.

The soft jingling of bells on a donkey’s neck as it carried a heavy load.

The joyful laughter of children running through the streets.

The fluttering of birds taking off after pecking at the drying grains.

“Ah.”

Whenever she dozed off, it never failed—her child would stir, waking her with tiny movements.

Elona smiled quietly, feeling the little life moving beneath her palm.

Seven months had passed since she conceived.

Six months since Kazan had left to suppress the rebellion.

As he waged war in Ferma, their child grew steadily, kicking and turning inside her.

She whispered gently to the baby in her womb.

“Will we receive good news today?”

Miriam, concerned for Elona’s well-being, had been sparing in her updates from the front lines.

The rebels’ resistance had been fierce, but the royal army’s retaliation had been equally devastating.

The most recent news she had received was that the noble House of Horta and other prominent families had pledged their forces to the king’s cause.

And today—Miriam finally arrived with the message they had been waiting for.

“Elona, it’s over. Everything has been settled. We can return to Ferma now.”

“And… His Majesty?”

Her cautious voice made Miriam smile.

“He is waiting for you.”

*

The rebellion had been the largest in Ashatra’s history.

Padisha, once a trusted figure of King Sindar, and Omar, the most prestigious noble family in Ashatra, knew exactly what was necessary to win a war.

The death of the last surviving member of the Mileshatra royal family—the great Sindar, Kazan Mileshatra.

If that was accomplished, nothing else would stand in their way.

Conversely, as long as he lived, they could never win.

“Irid Padisha.”

Two days after reclaiming the throne, Kazan stood before Irid Padisha and the remaining members of the Padisha family, bound and kneeling before him.

Harnuk Padisha had fallen in the final battle for the palace, slain by Torthan’s sword.

Now, all that remained was Irid Padisha—the woman who had once been his court official and ally.

“Your Majesty…!”

Tears streamed down her face as she gazed up at him with pleading eyes.

Her face was hollowed from exhaustion, her hair disheveled, yet she remained strikingly beautiful.

Had a man with a lustful nature held her fate in his hands, he would have gladly made her a slave instead of condemning her.

“Please, Your Majesty, forgive us! My father and I… we were merely deceived, tricked by Zahhak Omar’s cunning threats…!”

But Kazan, unimpressed by her pleas, exhaled in weary disinterest.

Looking down at the wretched state of the woman who had once stood beside him, he spoke in a quiet, tired voice.

“My mercy has been a poison to you.”

“Please, Your Majesty! I beg you—!”

Her sobs were cut short as Kazan unsheathed a dagger.

Irid screamed and struggled against her bindings, but it was useless.

With deliberate precision, Kazan dragged the blade across his own palm.

“Your soul will never set foot on this land again.”

Irid trembled in horror as she was sentenced to Sindar’s punishment.

She had longed to touch him, to possess him—but in the end, she was not claimed by the king, but by the god’s cold grasp instead.

“No! Please, no—! Get away! AHHH!”

The moment Kazan’s blood trickled down his hand, a monstrous black entity materialized, descending upon her.

Sindar’s crimson eyes bore into her, judging her sins.

A sharp beak, unyielding in its hunger, tore through her chest and devoured her heart.

Even without the curse, he was still the son of Sindar.

Kazan watched without flinching as Irid was reduced to ashes, then turned away.

There was only one more matter to take care of—Zahhak Omar.

“The desert, huh? Quite the unexpected move.”

Zahhak, bound in thick ropes and kneeling on the floor, let out a dry chuckle.

His scarred face bore new marks from the battle, but he still exuded a sense of pride.

Unlike Irid, he showed no desperation.

He had already resigned himself to death the moment he was defeated.

In truth, Zahhak’s fate had been sealed from the moment his assassination attempt had failed.

When he learned that Kazan would immediately return to Ferma upon hearing of the rebellion, he had dispatched assassins to ambush him along the road from Kurgo.

The Omar family’s assassins, unafraid of divine curses, would have surely succeeded in killing the king.

If only Kazan hadn’t turned toward the desert—to find Elona.

Zahhak sneered up at Kazan.

“So, you found her after all? That slave princess?”

“I did.”

“Tch. I should have taken her that day and killed her myself. Would have saved me from this pathetic end.”

Even in the face of death, Zahhak’s eyes burned with fury.

He was a noble by birth, a warrior of Ashatra by blood.

Kazan met his gaze silently before tightening his grip on the dagger.

This time, he did not cut his own palm.

Instead, he slashed Zahhak’s eyes.

“AAAHHHH!”

Blood poured from the gaping wounds as Zahhak screamed in agony, thrashing against his restraints.

His head fell forward, gasping through the pain.

And then Kazan spoke again.

“A different kind of death suits you better.”

At the king’s low, commanding voice, Zahhak grit his teeth.

Was he going to be tortured?

But just as he braced himself, an unexpected sound reached his ears.

The sound of liquid being poured into a waterskin.

He could hear the familiar tightening of the leather strap as the container was sealed shut.

Blind and full of suspicion, he tensed—until the king issued his final order.

“This is my last command.”

Soldiers approached from either side, seizing Zahhak and forcing him to his feet.

Kazan regarded him with cold, unreadable eyes before speaking.

“Zahhak Omar, you will now be sent to the very desert you feared. You will leave immediately. Prepare yourself.”

The meaning of those words struck Zahhak like a curse.

His expression twisted into something grotesque.

“You’re throwing me into the middle of the desert like this? What kind of cowardice is this?”

“You will be given enough to drink. If you have any faith, you’ll find a way to return alive.”

Zahhak opened his mouth to curse him, but before he could, the king gave a single gesture.

With that, he was dragged away to the escort carriage.

A soldier tossed several waterskins toward him.

With only his right hand remaining, Zahhak clutched one tightly, his teeth grinding in fury.

“Damn it… damn it all….”

As the carriage departed from the palace, the people of Ferma gathered in the streets, watching in silence.

“The great Omar family… a house of traitors.”

“Did His Majesty spare him?”

“No way. He’s being sent to his death.”

“Where to?”

“The desert.”

The carriage carrying Zahhak traveled for three hours before stopping in the middle of the vast desert.

He was thrown onto the sand, completely alone.

“Damn it….”

Abandoned in the darkness of his blindness, Zahhak felt the wind and the shifting sand as he trudged forward.

The waterskin at his waist swung heavily with each step.

“Wait… could I actually survive this?”

A three-hour ride by desert horse from Ferma—this wasn’t that far from the city.

Maybe, if he rationed his strength, he could make it back.

Perhaps it would even be better to lighten his load by discarding unnecessary weight—like the water.

The thirst gnawing at his throat made him think about drinking.

But the moment he uncapped the waterskin, a sharp suspicion flooded his mind.

Was this really water?

Would the king truly grant him such mercy?

Poison? No… or worse—

His blood?

The thought sent a violent shudder through him.

Grinding his teeth, Zahhak closed the waterskin without drinking a drop.

And then, he laughed.

A dry, broken laugh that soon swelled into a cackle.

“Hah… ha… HAHAHA!”

No. He couldn’t drink it. He wouldn’t drink it.

With a sneer, he hurled the waterskin far into the desert.

“That’s enough. I won’t be toyed with any longer.”

He refused to be reduced to a pathetic, quivering wretch, sniffing at a drop of liquid, torn between thirst and fear.

He was a man of the Omar family.

He had already lost everything—but not his pride.

And so, Zahhak walked.

Alone, across the endless dunes.

Until the desert winds returned his body to the sand.

*

The second year of the reign of Sindar Kazan Mileshatra. The Omar family and the Padisha family disappeared into the history books. Everything returned to its place.