# CHAPTER 16 – A Monster Who Judges
The air in the room was different.
Not the toxic air of Xlezas, which scratched the lungs like shards of glass. Not the heavy air of Lunos, laden with snow and memories. This air was simple—clean, fresh, as if someone had opened a window to a world that didn't exist. Zirinos felt it enter his lungs and, for a moment, forgot where he was.
The room was white. The walls, of a white so pure they seemed to emit their own light, were covered in plants—green vines that climbed to the ceiling, pots with flowers of colors he hadn't seen in months, broad leaves that glistened with a moisture that seemed to come from within. There was no neon. No smell of metal and blood. Only life, growing in silence.
Zirinos sat in a chair of light wood, his hands resting on his knees. His body ached. His soul ached more.
Truilus stood by a small table, preparing tea with slow, precise movements. The immense figure, which once exuded the odor of mutilation and sacrificed souls, now seemed almost domestic. His hands, which could crush skulls with a squeeze, held a clay cup with a delicacy that didn't match his size.
"Do you want tea?" Truilus asked, his voice deep but calm.
Zirinos nodded. He didn't have the strength to speak. He just wanted to sit there, in that room of white walls and living plants, and forget everything. Endomyar. Mira. Luna. Ethan. All the screams that still echoed in his head when he closed his eyes.
If I could change worlds, he thought, if I could be someone else... would it be different?
He realized he didn't know the answer. Perhaps, if he had been born in another galaxy, another family, another body... perhaps he wouldn't have done the things he did. Perhaps he wouldn't have violated Lysara. Perhaps he wouldn't have destroyed Endomyar. Perhaps he wouldn't have killed his own brother.
But he hadn't been born elsewhere. He was born in Z. He was Zickony's son. He was the heir to the blood of Zer'Malo'Kiou. And everything he had done, he had done by his own choice.
Zirinos's hand touched Zequila's necklace. The metal, cold and heavy, still had the lion shape his brother had worn since he was fourteen. He squeezed it tighter, and his fingers trembled.
Zequila, he thought. Sword maniac who always presented himself as the better leader.
He remembered his younger brother, lying in the rubble, saying he was going to die. He remembered the blood flowing from his belly, the eyes that slowly dimmed. He remembered the request: "Kill me, Zirinos!"
And he killed him. He killed him with his own hands.
A tear escaped from his right eye. It fell down his face, warm and salty, and Zirinos did nothing to stop it.
And Zerane, he thought. Sweet, kind, who cried for everything and everyone.
His sister. The only person he had loved without reservation. The only one who made him feel that, despite everything, there was still something good in him. But she was dead too. Dead from an illness, they said. Dead in a world he had never seen, saved by a hero he had never known.
Zirinos wondered about the origin of that hero. Where had he come from? Why had he saved Zerane? Was he a soldier of A? A mercenary? Someone who saw her suffering and decided to help her?
It didn't matter. She was dead. And he wasn't there.
Every dream I had about my sister fades away, he thought. Leaving only sadness and regret.
Zirinos asked himself, for the thousandth time, what would have happened if things had been different. If he had been a good brother. If he had protected Zerane, instead of using her as an excuse for his own actions. If he had said no to Ether.
What would have happened?
He realized that, even if he had said no, Ether would have found another way to force him. He was a manipulator. He used people like pieces in a game only he understood. And Zirinos, at the time, had no choice.
Technically, he protected my brothers, Zirinos thought, with bitterness. He just wasn't explicit about how.
Anger grew in his chest. Why hadn't he asked? Why hadn't he demanded to know how far that "protection" went? If he had asked, perhaps Zerane would still be alive. Perhaps Zequila would still be alive.
And now?
He remembered what he had promised Zequila. "I will avenge my father. I will avenge you." He remembered the necklace his brother had given him, and the promise he had made when he held it.
"I couldn't keep the promise, brother," he murmured, his voice so low Truilus didn't hear.
The tear fell.
Truilus, who was serving the tea, noticed. The cup stopped mid-gesture. His eyes, dark and deep, fixed on Zirinos.
"Are you alright, prince?" he asked, his voice deep, but with a tone of concern that didn't match his imposing figure.
Zirinos wiped the tear with the back of his hand. The gesture was quick, almost clumsy.
"Yes," he replied, his voice hoarse. "I'm fine."
Truilus didn't insist. He just placed the teacup in front of Zirinos and stepped back.
"The Fornentis Xavier girls are almost here," he said. "If you want, you can rest until then."
Zirinos nodded. He picked up the teacup and took a sip. The liquid, hot and bitter, warmed his chest.
He closed his eyes.
He tried to remember Xailla and Xiollor. The two sisters, the heiresses of Xérius. He remembered the birthday party where he had met them, years ago—a party his father had forced him to attend, to "forge alliances." Xailla, the older one, was cold and pragmatic, with an intelligence that made her dangerous. Xiollor, the younger one, was impulsive and temperamental, with an energy that made her unpredictable.
He remembered dancing with Xailla. He remembered seeing Xiollor arguing with a noble who tried to touch her. He remembered thinking that those two girls were the opposite of each other—and yet, they complemented each other perfectly.
But that was years ago, he thought. Before everything.
He opened his eyes.
The room door opened.
Xiollor entered first. Her hair, of a tone that was difficult to describe—metallic, silvery, with a shine that seemed to come from within—fell over her shoulders in perfect waves. Her eyes, also silver, sparkled with an excitement he hadn't seen in a long time.
She jumped at him.
The impact was strong, unexpected. Zirinos fell from the chair to the floor, with Xiollor on top of him. Her body, warm and alive, pressed him against the wooden floor, and her arms, strong, squeezed him with a force that surprised him.
"Zirinos!" she shouted, her voice full of joy. "Finally!"
Zirinos felt anger rise to his throat. The urge to open himself to the "Glitch," to destroy her, to make her disappear—all of that burned in his chest like fire.
But then, he remembered.
He remembered all the people he had killed. He remembered Mira, calling him a hero. He remembered Luna, dancing with him. He remembered Fenísia, dying in his arms. He remembered Ethan, looking at him with fear.
Why don't I kill myself?
The question echoed in his mind like a broken bell. He had lost his family. Lost his land. Lost everything he loved. Why did he keep living?
Xiollor felt the hesitation. Her silver eyes, once full of joy, now fixed on him with growing confusion.
"Zirinos?" she asked, her voice lower. "What's wrong?"
Zirinos pushed her. The gesture was brusque, almost violent. Xiollor fell to the side, her eyes wide.
"What's your problem?" she asked, her voice trembling.
Zirinos didn't answer. He just stood up, slowly, his body aching with every movement. His eyes, once full of anger, were now empty. Empty of everything except a sadness so deep it seemed bottomless.
Xiollor prepared to use her blood power—the energy that ran in the Fornentis Xavier family's veins. But at the last second, she remembered who Zirinos was. She remembered what he had done. She remembered that, if she attacked him, he could destroy her with a thought.
She muttered something—a word, perhaps, or a sound—and sat in a chair, her eyes fixed on Zirinos with an expression that was simultaneously disdain and excitement.
"You're different," she said, her voice calmer. "What happened?"
Zirinos didn't answer. He just turned to Xailla, who was still at the door.
"Aren't you going to sit?" he asked, his voice neutral.
Xailla hesitated. Her silver eyes, once cold and calculating, now fixed on him with an expression he couldn't decipher. It wasn't fear. It wasn't contempt. It was... hurt.
Hurt?
The question echoed in his mind, but he didn't have time to explore it. Xailla sat in the chair next to her sister, her hands resting on her lap, her eyes fixed on Zirinos.
"What do you want?" he asked, his voice cold.
Xiollor opened her mouth to answer, but her sister cut her off:
"Julqam-Totalus."
Zirinos laughed. It was a dry laugh, without humor, that echoed off the white walls.
"Julqam-Totalus," he repeated, his voice laden with irony. "A power I never wanted. But it's what I have, and what everyone wants to use."
Xiollor looked at her sister with contained anger. But Zirinos didn't notice.
"Do you think I'm going to help you against Xerazith?" he asked, his voice still cold. "Do you think I'm going to fight your war, for you, with nothing in return?"
Xiollor rose from her chair, anger shining in her eyes.
"We can give you the galaxy!" she shouted. "Everything in it! We can try to help you against Ariana!"
Zirinos looked at Xailla. The sister, the pragmatic one, the calculating one, nodded.
*They're desperate*, he thought. *So desperate they're willing to give me everything.*
But he didn't want anything. He didn't want the galaxy. He didn't want power. He didn't want revenge.
"I don't care about Ariana," he said, his voice low. "I'm tired of everything. I want to rest."
Xiollor trembled with rage. Her silver eyes, once full of excitement, now fixed on him with an intensity that almost frightened him.
"You're the person who is supposed to be the most just!" she shouted. "The judge of the universe! And you refuse to do justice?"
Zirinos looked at her. His eyes, once empty, now fixed on hers.
"My justice," he said, his voice low, almost a whisper, "is dirty. It's not the justice you expect. It's not the justice you deserve, and it's not a justice that belongs to me..."
He turned. He walked to the door, his steps slow and heavy.
"Truilus," he said, without looking back. "Take me to a room."
Xiollor began to say something, but her voice didn't reach Zirinos's ears. He was tired. Tired of fighting, of planning, of pretending there was still hope.
The door closed behind him.
Truilus followed in silence.
Zirinos felt the weight of Zequila's necklace against his chest, and the memory of his dead brother, and the promise he hadn't kept, and Zerane's crying, and Luna's sadness, and Ethan's fear, and the disgust of everyone who had loved him, and the guilt, and the pain, and the void.
I'm a monster, he thought. And an old lion good only as a punching bag. I don't deserve rest.
But that night, Zirinos rested.