The Blood Wolves | Vol.3, The Eldenarian Artifacts ✓

8.

When Sebastian couldn't sleep, would lay awake in bed and wait for the night to swallow him. Sometimes it worked, and sometimes it didn't.

That night was one of those times.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't drift into the bleak, nothingness that was sleep. He tossed and turned, grumbling curses under his breath in the darkness. Eventually, he grabbed his pillow and chucked it across the room.

Sleep wasn't coming.

Groaning, he climbed out of bed and trudged over to the balcony connected to his room. One of the two houses his group was gifted upon arriving in the Eldenarian Council overlooked the quiet city in the distance. Faint lights pulsed among certain buildings, but for the most part, it was dark. It was quiet.

It was peaceful.

Sebastian placed a hand on the doorframe as he stared at it. His jaw clenched. They had no idea what was coming.

Sighing, he sat down on the edge of the bed. As he stared into space, he couldn't help but blame himself for everything that had happened. Everyone told him that it wasn't his fault; that he did everything he could do.

He still couldn't get himself to believe them. It was like his brain was hardwired to never forget his shortcomings.

Flashes of his childhood exploded in the dark space that was his mind. He was suddenly a thirteen-year-old kid dueling against his father and other members of the Order again. Every week, he was subjected to duels against magicians who were exponentially better than he was. And every time he lost, which was almost all the time, he was met with the same insults and degrading comments.

He was weak. He was worthless. He was nothing. Sometimes he was even less than nothing.

Back then, he had brushed them off as tough love. He thought his father was just trying to make him a better caster and man.

Now he knew that wasn't the case. His father had been telling him the truth.

He was weak. He was worthless. He was nothing.

Sebastian was beginning to wish he had stayed dead on that couch in House Aegeon's castle.

So far, his existence had been fairly disappointing for all parties involved. But no one knew his struggles and what he felt inside. No one knew what had been building up in soul for years. He wouldn't let them.

Growing up as a child of an Eldenarian Council member wasn't everything it was cracked up to be. Of course, he grew up with everything he could've asked for—servants, riches, private tutors, etc. But no one knew the pressure he was put under.

People said pressure turned coal into diamonds, but he still felt like a piece of black rock. Disposable and not nearly as valuable.

Being the heir of House Tenebris meant he was always forced to be the best. He was expected to be the best magician, the best politician, and the best commander. Part of his training involved performing torture curses on magicians who slighted his father and practice magic with relentless Shades who showed no restraint when it came to hurting him.

But he learned to survive. He put on a mask, just like how many of his house members did when they conducted their shady dealings. He did what he had to do; if that meant pretending to be the person his father wanted him to be, then that's what he had to do.

Now that he was free from their grip, he realized just how detrimental that environment had been. He was scarred permanently. And now Makaela was stuck with them. She'd be forced to go through all the things he went through.