Count Of The Shattered Chains

Chapter Thirteen: Island At Its Last

The wind howled over the ruins of Bastille, the black stones still damp from the morning tide. The Count stood at the edge of the cliffs, his coat billowing like a banner of war. Beside him, Sophie clutched his hand, her fingers interlaced with his—just as they had been a lifetime ago on the docks of Maréville.

"And that," the Count murmured, "is how I found Sparda’s treasure."

Sophie exhaled, her breath a wisp in the cold air. "And that’s how my Emeric became the Count of Maréville."

She turned, pressing a kiss to his scarred cheek—a touch so light it could have been the brush of a ghost.

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The New Keeper of the Dark

The crunch of boots on gravel announced the new caretaker, a grizzled old soldier with a face like cracked leather. He eyed the Count with wary respect.

"You’re serious?" the caretaker asked. "You want to buy Bastille… just to tear it down?"

The Count didn’t look at him. His gaze remained fixed on the sea. "Yes."

The caretaker hesitated. "Who are you? "

For the first time, the Count turned. His eyes—once full of fire, now tempered to steel—met the old soldier’s. " I am the Count of the Shattered Chains."

A beat of silence. Then the caretaker nodded, accepting the chest of gold coins Santiago shoved into his arms. As he walked away, he muttered under his breath:

"Bastille breaks men."

A pause. A glance back at the figure silhouetted against the storm.

"He broke Bastille."

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The End