Revenge: A Path of Destruction

The soft hum of mana-infused silence filled the lavish hotel room. Faint moonlight bled through the tall windows, casting pale silver streaks across the plush carpet and elegant walls. The air was still—eerily so.

Nyxara lay motionless, her form curled just a few feet away from Alex. Her golden eyes were wide open, glowing faintly in the dark. They weren't relaxed. They were fixed on the man sitting upright on the bed.

Alex.

But not the Alex she knew a few hours ago.

Not the one who smiled—rarely, but genuinely. Not the one who stroked her fur, or teased her, or sat in long, thoughtful silences filled with the quiet storm of memory and purpose.

This version of Alex sat like a blade—cold, sharp, and silent.

His breath had steadied, but that was worse. Because it was too steady. Controlled to the point of unnatural.

His eyes stared straight ahead, unfocused—devoid of emotion, of anger, of grief. Nothing moved in that gaze. Not a twitch of confusion. Not the usual fire behind them.

He looked…

Empty.

Nyxara's ears flattened.

She remembered this look.

It was the same one he wore during the first few years of his training, after the massacre.

When words meant nothing, when even her purring couldn't reach him. When he trained till he bled and stared into nothing for hours as if his soul had frozen.

It had taken her years to chip away at that silence, to bring him back from the brink.

And now it had returned overnight.

Her mind raced.

What happened?

What changed?

He was fine… he was with me… he was calm—wasn't he?

Her tail twitched erratically, discharging faint sparks of black lightning into the carpet. Her claws dug slightly into the fabric, flexing in frustration.

She wanted to ask.

She wanted to roar.

To demand what had stolen him away.

But she held herself back.

Instead, she replayed what had happened before the nightmare took him.

She had noticed how exhausted he was—his eyes shadowed with questions he wouldn't speak aloud. His hand, while stroking her fur, had grown slower… more mechanical. He had dozed off, his head tilting forward. At first, she had growled lightly, annoyed he'd fallen asleep without warning. But then… she saw the tiredness in his face.

The weakness in his face.

The way his hands had weakened mid-sleep, as if they were relieved about something.

And instead of waking him—like she once would—she had taken him gently in her lightning, wrapping him in its soft crackle, and moved him to the bed.

She had hoped he would find rest.

And wake up with a positive answer to this problem.

As she had been happy about Alex's encounter, as she had done something even she had not been able to for more than a decade, it made him feel, made him want, and made him able to seek peace.

But as she looked at him, this wasn't peace.

It was regression.

It was the death of progress.

She slowly stood, paws soft against the ground, and padded toward the bed. Her feline body moved silently, but her heart felt like thunder in her chest.

She leapt lightly onto the bed, the mattress.

Her gaze searched his face—still blank.

"Alex…"

Her voice was soft.

But the weight behind it was anything but.

She pressed her head gently against his chest, trying to feel his heartbeat. It was there. Strong. Steady. Too steady.

No tremble. No skip. No warmth.

Just rhythm.

Just a purpose.

Her fur rose faintly. She hated this. She couldn't understand what had just happened between now and a few hours ago.

She let out a quiet growl, not of anger, but of warning.

"Alex…" she said again, this time more firmly.

Her body wrapped protectively around his side, trying to anchor him to something real.

Something here. Something here.

But he didn't move.

He didn't blink.

And that, more than anything, filled her with dread.

Because it wasn't the silence that scared her.

It was the stillness.

The same stillness that came when he lost himself to his revenge.

----

The silence in the room stretched, thick and weighty like a fog that refused to lift.

For several long minutes, Nyxara remained draped across Alex's lap, her fur rising and falling softly with each breath. Her ears twitched now and then, responding to some imagined hope that what she saw was her imagination.

He didn't.

Not yet.

Every few moments, she whispered his name—soft, gentle, careful not to startle whatever part of him was still buried in that nightmare.

"Alex…"

"Alex… ."

But the response never came.

Until—finally—he sighed.

A long, tired exhale that made her lift her head.

His hands gently moved beneath her, not harsh, but firm enough to displace her.

Nyxara allowed it without protest, her golden eyes never leaving his face as he set her down in front of him on the mattress. She stood there, tense, tail lashing once behind her.

Alex looked at her.

And he spoke.

"Nyxara… I'm okay. I just had a nightmare..... A really bad one."

His voice was calm. Too calm.

Nyxara's eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in pain. She saw it instantly.

The emotionless mask was gone. The one that had taken her years to break through.

The one that smiled without warmth, spoke without weight, and fought without restraint. That wasn't a nightmare he'd woken from—it was a piece of himself he'd fallen back into.

He was lying, or didn't tell her the full gist of it.

She knew it.

But she didn't argue. Not this time.

She remained quiet, her feline face still, watching him as he turned away.

Alex pulled the sheets back and lowered himself into the bed, movements efficient, composed, cold. Before resting his head against the pillow, he spoke again, voice firm this time.

"By the way, Nyxara… we'll continue what we planned. Finish what we came here for. No more delays. No more distractions."

There was no fire in his tone.

Just precision. Finality.

Nyxara flinched inwardly. Her fears weren't just confirmed—they were declared.

He was truly back.

Back to the part of him that lived for vengeance and nothing else.

Back to the storm.

She watched him close his eyes, his breathing slowing, syncing into a rhythm that only those who've trained themselves to suppress emotion could maintain.

Nyxara turned away and padded to her corner of the room.

She didn't speak again.

Didn't purr.

Didn't curl beside him like she usually would.

Instead, she settled down a few feet away, her head resting atop her paws, her eyes still open, watching.

Not for danger outside…

…but for the one sleeping within the room.

The one she had once helped save.

And feared she might have to again.