The God of Nothing.-Chapter 16: Beneath Noble Boots

The door exploded inward, the splintered wood crashing against the far wall with deafening force.

Caelith jerked awake, heart pounding like a war drum. His gaze snapped toward the doorway, his vision blurry from sudden wakefulness.

Panic clawed at him, cold fingers gripping his chest as shadows flooded into the cramped room. His eyes darted toward his sword, ready to defend both himself and his mother.

The candle beside his mother's makeshift workstation flickered violently, casting frantic shadows across the peeling walls.

He barely had a chance to rise before armored figures stormed into the room, their heavy boots shaking the wooden floorboards beneath him.

These weren't normal Stormont guards—he immediately noticed the difference.

Their polished silver armor gleamed coldly under the flickering candlelight, reflecting eerie dancing shapes on the walls.

On their breastplates rested an unfamiliar crest: a silver stag with grand antlers pierced by a crimson spear.

Caelith felt a chill crawl down his spine. The crest belonged neither to the Stormont lineage nor any faction he'd ever seen.

All ten of them emanated an aura that stifled his breath, pressing down upon him with undeniable power.

Kaden had taught him enough to recognize it immediately. Each man radiated the steady, disciplined pressure of a warrior.

Fear pooled deep in Caelith's gut. For the first time in months, he felt utterly outmatched.

"Caelith!" his mother's frantic scream snapped him out of his shock.

He spun his head towards her just in time to see two armored hands seize her roughly by the shoulders, hauling her violently from her bed.

"Mother!" Caelith shouted, lunging forward.

He'd barely cleared the straw mattress when an iron-hard gauntlet collided with his chest, hurling him backward.

The impact knocked the air from his lungs, his back slamming painfully against the thin wall.

Before he could even gasp, rough hands seized him, forcing him face-first onto the filthy wooden floor.

A knee pressed mercilessly into the small of his back, pinning him down, as coarse rope bit sharply into his wrists.

"Stay down, bastard," growled a deep voice. "Make this easy on yourself."

Caelith thrashed violently beneath their grip. His teeth bared in fury.

The ropes tightened mercilessly, biting into his flesh as the guards bound him, their mana-infused strength impossible to resist.

Across the room, his mother struggled weakly against her own captors. Their grip was less harsh on her but firm enough to keep her subdued.

Her sapphire eyes glittered with tears, wide with terror, as they met Caelith's desperate gaze.

"Please," she begged, her voice trembling. "He's just a boy!"

One of the guards scoffed, gripping her jaw tightly. "Quiet. The Stormonts want an example made."

Caelith's stomach twisted violently at the mention of his family's name. Elowen had to be behind this. The woman whose pride he had wounded by defeating her precious son—she would never allow this humiliation to go unanswered. The cruelty etched into these men's faces was proof enough of that.

His mother's soft blue eyes widened, terror written plainly across her pale face. "Caelith—" she whispered desperately, her voice raw and breaking.

Caelith snarled, fighting harder. The guards laughed at his futile resistance, their cold amusement slicing through him more sharply than any blade.

The leader, a broad-shouldered brute with dark, callous eyes, stepped forward.

His armor bore a crimson sash beneath the stag emblem, marking him clearly as their commander.

He tilted his head, regarding Caelith like a particularly interesting insect beneath his boot.

Caelith's heartbeat thundered in his ears, every pulse resonating like a violent drumbeat as the guards dragged them forward.

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"Under orders of the Stormont family, Caelith Stormont and Elysia Stormont are hereby exiled!"

The head guard spoke plainly. He then instructed the guards to drag the pair out of their lodgings and out of the estate via a small passageway Caelith had never seen.

Caelith's arms burned with pain, wrists raw from the coarse ropes biting deep into his flesh.

Each forced step through the tangled underbrush sent jolts of agony through his exhausted body. Yet, none of that compared to the helpless rage boiling within him.

He glanced sideways, desperate to check on his mother.

Her normally graceful form trembled with every stumbling step she took, bound and bruised.

Her porcelain skin was smeared with dirt, cuts marking her face where branches had lashed out cruelly. Still, she moved forward, forcing herself upright despite the evident struggle.

A rush of guilt pierced Caelith's heart.

All this suffering was because of him because he'd dared to humiliate Vaerin Stormont, his blessed half-brother.

He had believed, foolishly, that skill and strength alone could overcome the barriers of noble pride. Now, he was paying the price for that naivete—and so was she.

His mother's quiet sob tore him from his thoughts, drawing his attention back to their grim surroundings.

Ahead, the commander walked with arrogant ease, seemingly unfazed by the thick branches that scraped and snagged at his polished armor, leaving faint scratches in their wake.

These men were no ordinary soldiers.

The aura surrounding each guard was palpable—violent, suffocating—emanating power that far surpassed the estate guards he trained with.

Caelith felt as though invisible hands were pressing down upon him, squeezing his lungs tighter with every step deeper into the woods.

One guard shoved Caelith roughly, causing him to stumble forward, his knee sinking into the mud. He gritted his teeth, struggling to rise, but a boot slammed harshly into his back, forcing him back down.

"Keep moving, bastard," the guard sneered.

Caelith spat out mud, forcing himself back upright, defiance blazing in his eyes.

Another shove, another curse, another surge of agony. The guards made their disdain abundantly clear with every cruel jab and shove. He was beneath them, barely worth the dirt they trampled beneath their armored boots.

But worse was the sight ahead—his mother stumbling weakly through the brush, shoved and prodded like livestock.

He watched as her thin frame shuddered under every harsh push, her gentle face twisted with pain and exhaustion.

Anger surged in his chest like molten iron.

He swore silently that he would make these men pay. Every shove, every insult—they would return a thousandfold.

Yet for now, he could only endure.