Help! Five Beast Alphas Want To Breed Me!!(BL)-Chapter 296: Forgive Me

Song For The Chapter; Remember To Rememberr Me by Isak Danielson

Selthía;

The training field smells like iron, sweat, and sun-warmed grass.

It is a familiar scent, one that settles deep in my bones and awakens memories. Memories of when I used to tumble in training fields, while my sister took political classes.

I pause for a moment and watch as the sword cuts through the air in sharp, precise arcs. Each strike measured yet violent... controlled yet hungry for blood.

I then stare at the young man, willing the sword.

Zethar.

He has his hair up in a bun, I’m sure he tied it in a hurry, and he seems so... alive. That light in his eyes is one that only fighting gives him.

I watch without announcing myself, and my mind marvels at how much of myself I see in him.

He moves like a storm... that learned discipline only so it could break things more efficiently.

His sword flashes, slicing the air again and again. The blade sings as it cuts, fast enough that the eye barely follows.

There is no hesitation in him... No wasted motion. Every strike is a decision already made.

He has trained like this for most of his life.

Every day.

I know because I watched him grow. He saw me training once, and since then, he’s taking training like a lover.

Dare I say he’s even better than me now...

"Training alone again?" I call out, keeping my tone light, as I interrupt his concentration.

He halts mid-strike and turns to me with surprise flickering across his face. He raises a brow, and I smile as I walk closer.

"Aunt Selthía," he calls, rolling his shoulders as he watches me.

"Did you... miss your way?" He questions, and my smile grows.

That’s a very Zethar thing to ask.

I step fully onto the field and notice how sunlight catches the embroidery of my dress.

"I may be a bit old, but I expect to know my castle," I reply, and he raises both his brows this time.

"So you meant to come here?" He questions, and my smile grows as I nod.

"I had a feeling you’d be training alone. That would never be as fun as with a partner... Especially one who can actually match your speed." I respond casually as I stare at the rake of weapons.

I look back at him, and his lips curl into a dangerous, familiar grin.

"And is that partner supposed to be you?" he asks, half-mocking, half-intrigued, and I laugh.

Is this little muffin challenging me??

Without answering, I gather the hem of my dress, tie it at my waist, and roll my sleeves up to my elbows.

The silk yields easily, surrendering to muscle memory that never truly left me.

I look back at the smug young man, and his grin falters.

I walk to the weapons rack and rest my hand on the hilt of a sword.

A gentle shiver runs from my fingertips down to the tail of my spine.

It’s been so long since I wielded a sword. I miss it.

"Do not underestimate me," I say calmly as I lift the sword free.

"You seem to have forgotten where you learned half your footwork," I add teasingly as I look back at him, and he freezes.

I know as a child, he thought I had no idea he was always hiding behind the pillar to watch me train.

I always knew he was there. Intrigued by martial arts, he couldn’t perform yet.

I slowed down each training session so he could see and learn all the details.

It was the only way I could feel a connection to him. The only way I could be close...without ever truly being close...

"Spar with me," I speak smoothly as I stare at him, and his jaw drops.

"And don’t you dare hold back, cause I won’t," I add, and at the words, he barks a laugh, as he shakes his head.

"Is this finally the day you decide to eliminate me for all the trouble I’ve caused?" He jokes, and I scoff a laugh.

"Oh, it feels good to hear you admit that you’re a troublemaker!" I exclaim with a chuckle, and that earns me a sharp laugh.

He finally raises his sword with his stance shifting, and his weight settling.

"Your funeral, then." He taunts, and I smirk as I take my stance.

In less than a minute, we are enveloped by the music of steel clashing.

My sword meets his with a crack that rings through the field.

He comes fast. Faster than most men could even think to be, but I am a hair faster. My blade intercepts his strike, my feet pivot with speed I had forgotten I possess, and my body flows into the next movement without pause.

He blinks, seeming impressed, and then he grins wider.

"Yes," he breathes.

"There you are." He mutters, and I huff a breath as I struggle to fill my lungs.

We circle, clash, break, and clash again.

He presses, and I answer. Our blades cry with neither of us willing to submit.

Sweat beads at my temples and along my spine. My lungs burn, but beneath it all, something old and primal coils awake.

I had trained him myself... indirectly.

So, he’s an advanced force built on basic I taught and provided.

He has my reach, my adaptability, my instinct for reading an opponent’s next move before they make it. It is uncanny, watching him mirror me without realising it.

"You trained every day," I say as we trade strikes.

"From the moment you could hold a sword. Men’s style. Serpent’s cun... every technique you could gain access to. You never stopped." I begin, and he pants.

"Stopping is not an option. It’s not something I do." He responds, driving me backwards, and I twist aside, barely avoiding the edge of his blade.

"You were a child," I respond, and his brows crease, and his strike pauses for a fraction.

"What?" He questions in confusion, and I stare at the child I broke.

"I should never have let you turn yourself into a weapon," I add, and he pauses.

There’s confusion in his eyes first, and then I watch it bleed into anger.

He comes at me with a strike so fierce that it slices the back of my hand.

"You didn’t let anything. You weren’t there!" He scolds coldly, and the words hit harder than bricks.

I stumble, but recover before he can land the next strike.

"You’re right," I say, breathless as I block.

"I wasn’t," I whisper, and his movements grow sharper... Faster, as anger fuels him now, stripping away every restraint he showed prior.

"I should have been," I say, forcing my blade up to meet his as I know I have to finish this.

"I should have been there for you... For Zephan. I was wrong for not being—" I continue, but he cuts me off.

"Don’t," he snarls.

"Don’t start this." He adds, and my heart falls.

"Zethar," I call, voice shaking despite myself.

"I blamed you..." I begin again, but gasp as his sword whistles past my cheek, close enough that I feel the wind of it.

But fear won’t stop me. If he hurts me, I deserve it.

"I blamed you both for her death, and it was a horrible thing to do." I plead, and he attacks like he wants to rip the words from me and crush them.

I can barely keep up now. My arms are aching, and my breath is ragged.

"You were innocent children," I say.

"And I punished you anyway. With distance. With silence." I cry, and he groans in anger.

"Keep fighting, and stop talking!" He screams, but I can’t do that.

"I am so sorry," I plead.

"I know apologies won’t undo the years, but I am asking you. Please. Forgive me. Let me try to make it right." I add as my voice breaks.

I open my arms and drop my sword. Leaving myself vulnerable and exposed to any attack he might throw next.

"Give me a chance," I whisper, and Zethar stops.

The sudden stillness is deafening.

He looks at me like I am something he does not know how to touch without breaking— Something he’s not sure if he wants to break, or not.

Then he laughs. Not kindly... but cruelly... darkly..

He drops his sword, and it lands at my feet with a dull, final sound. Then he glares at me.

"No," he says flatly.

The word is heavier than any blow he could have struck today.

"I’m too grown for this," he continues, with his eyes burning with rage.

"I’m too grown for guilt and late apologies, and I don’t need your pity." He spits, and air gets twisted out of my lungs.

Each word he spoke was precise.... deliberate. Chosen to wound.

"If you’ve found compassion, give it to Elián. Or his baby. Or your lover, Zerana. Turn it anywhere else but me!" He spits, and I gulp.

He marches past me, but stops close enough for me to feel the heat of his anger.

"And don’t you ever bring this up again, Selthia. You’re my aunt. My cold, distant, arrogant aunt. Stay that way. My mom is dead. Don’t fucking try to rewrite that." He growls in hate, and with that, he marches off.

The field is left silent.

My sword slips from my fingers, and I sink to my knees with my breath shuddering.

Tears blur the world until the grass and sky melt together, and I shut my eyes.

I deserve that— every word.

But the pain is undeniable.

I press my hand to my mouth to stifle a sob, as my shoulders shake.

Some wounds do not want healing. Some doors close forever.

And kneeling alone in the training field, surrounded by echoes of hurt and everything I failed to protect, I finally allow myself to cry.

I failed. I truly failed.