Chapter 191: He blames himself.
~Raphael\`s POV~
The world twisted around me, I can never understand why people like portaling so much. I hate it.
Right now, it feels as if I am caught in a whirlwind. Colors bled together in mix of purple and gold before everything snapped back into focus with a bone-jarring thud.
I hit the ground hard, tasting dirt and grass. My ice sword clattered somewhere nearby. Fuck this shit. I just got portal lagged. It took everything in me not to puke like I wanted to.
I pushed myself up, spitting earth from my mouth, and I instantly froze at the sight before me. We had landed in paradise.
Rolling green fields stretched in every direction, dotted with flowers that seemed to glow from within.
Crimson roses the size of dinner plates bobbed in a gentle breeze that carried the sweetest perfume I'd ever smelled.
Golden fruits hung heavy from twisted trees, their skin shining like captured sunlight. Everything was lush, vibrant, alive in a way that made my eyes ache.
But something felt wrong.
This is too perfect, I thought, my instincts screaming danger despite the beauty surrounding us.
The air was too cold and soothing. Too quiet. Even the wind that shook the flowers made no sound. It was like walking through a painting, beautiful but lifeless.
At the center of this strange garden sat the most crooked hut I'd ever seen. Its walls leaned at impossible angles, as if built by someone who'd never heard of straight lines.
The roof sagged in some places and peaked wildly in others. Smoke came out from a chimney that is bent like an arthritic finger pointing at the sky.
"This is the home of Old Haggar," Drogon's deep voice rumbled behind me. The dragon had landed more gracefully, his massive form barely disturbing the grass. "The grandmother of my mate... Arabelle. The one you now call Gwen."
My hand moved instinctively to my sword hilt. Something about this place made my skin crawl despite its beauty.
A witch powerful enough to help us has been living here all this time? Anger rose in my chest. "While the world burned under Alasia's reign, she was here tending her garden?"
The words came out harder than I intended, but I couldn't help it. How many people died while this Old Haggar sat in her perfect paradise?
Drogon's massive head swung toward me, golden-red eyes reflecting something I'd never seen there before, shame.
"She fought the gods of the Third Realm after they drove Arabelle to her death. And after losing... she chose exile. The world could burn, and she'd never lift a hand again."
Gods of the Third Realm? The phrase sent a chill down my spine. This is something Grey had done as well. Fight them, however in his case, he didn't lose. He was threatened, so he willing lost.
If old Haggar had stood against them and lost... Then, there was more to the story of this Arabelle than the bits I have heard.
I watched as the others picked themselves up from the soft grass, their faces mirroring my unease. Even Caleb, usually quick with a joke, stayed silent as he brushed dirt from his body. The beauty of this place felt like a trap, too sweet, too inviting.
"Stay back," Drogon rumbled, moving toward the crooked hut. His steps were careful, almost reverent. "She doesn't trust anyone. Especially kings."
Kings. Meaning me. Another person that hates me. Drogon approached the hut's warped door and gently knocked with his snout. The sound echoed strangely in the too-quiet air.
"Old Haggar," he called softly. "It's Drogon. I need..."
"You stupid, foolish dragon!" The voice that exploded from inside the hut sounded like broken glass scraping against stone. "Be gone! I do not want to help you!"
The others exchanged nervous glances. I felt my jaw clench. After everything we've been through, after almost losing Drogon...
But Drogon's shoulders sagged, and I saw something break in his proud dragon's posture. His voice, when he spoke again, was barely above a whisper.
"Please... Arabelle and my children need me. You know this. If I don't return soon, she might die."
Silence stretched between us like a held breath. The flowers around us seemed to dim, their glow fading as if responding to the dragon's despair.
She's going to refuse. Gwen is going to die because this witch is too bitter to care.
I found myself stepping forward before I could think it through. What am I doing? But the words were already leaving my mouth.
"Old woman..." I called out, my voice ringing across the garden. "If there's any part of you that still feels, help us. We're all losing someone."
Someone. Such a small word for what Ava meant to me. For what Alasia might make her become in the short time I'd been gone. The thought of her lying pale and still, fading away while we stood here begging...
The silence stretched longer this time. I could hear my own heartbeat, could smell the garden's sweetness of those perfect flowers.
This is madness. We're asking a bitter exile for help. She probably wants us all to suffer.
Then, like the groaning of old wood in a storm, the door began to creak open.
The woman who appeared in the doorway made my breath catch. Old Haggar was indeed old, her face lined with wrinkles that spoke of endless years lived and lost.
But her eyes... her eyes shined green as summer leaves, fierce and alive in a way that made me want to step back.
Her hair, once flame-red, reminded of Gwen's own, her were now streaked white as winter frost, hung wild around her shoulders.
She stared at Drogon with an expression I couldn't read. Pain? Anger? Love twisted into something bitter?
"You always bring destruction to my family," she said, her voice showing the pains of old wounds.
What does that mean? I wondered, but before I could process her words fully, she moved.
Without warning, her gnarled hands began striking Drogon. Not gentle taps, but real blows aimed at the spots where I could still see the faint marks of Alasia's chains and blade. Places where the dragon's scales were scarred or missing.
Drogon writhed under her assault, a sound that broke my heart escaped his throat. But he didn't fight back. Didn't defend himself.
Why isn't he stopping her?
"You let them hurt her!" Old Haggar screamed, each word punctuated by another blow. "You let them take her from me! My beautiful granddaughter!"
Understanding crashed over me. She's not just angry about our arrival. She's angry about the one called Arabelle. About what happened to her.
I started to move forward, to stop her, but something in Drogon's eyes held me back. He was accepting this punishment. Welcoming it, even.
He blames himself too.
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