The Lionhearts' yard had always been immaculate. The bushes were trimmed, the paths were clean, and the magical lanterns cast a steady, unwavering light. But now everything seemed unnaturally still. It was as if the very air was hesitant to breathe.
Kallen stood in the center of this perfect peace, surrounded by shadow. He waited.
Thirk sat high on the roof like a giant black blot. Ward stood behind him, silent as a monument.
The servants avoided Kalena. But he knew he was being watched. In the evening, in his dreams, he heard rustling. He felt eyes on him. And not just any eyes—his own. His family's eyes.
"You should talk to Celia," Ward said.
"She won't tell me anything new."
"But she might not lie. That's rare," Thirk chuckled grimly.
Kalen headed towards the west wing.
His sister was sitting by the window, sorting through old letters—he recognized Veren's handwriting. When she noticed her brother, her fingers twitched, but she didn't look up.
— Did you want something?"
"You were closer to him than I was. You know something."
"I know he was afraid. In the last few weeks, he said someone inside the family was playing a game."
— Who?"
"He didn't mention any names. But he asked me to keep a letter. Only in case of his death."
Kalen felt the shadow inside him sigh.
"Where is it?"
Celia stood up. She slowly walked over to the cabinet and pulled out an envelope sealed with blood magic. It flared when Kalen touched it, and then it dissolved, recognizing him as Lionheart.
The words inside were short:
"If you're reading this, I've made a mistake. Our father is no longer the same. Keep an eye on Uncle Lanorel. He's no longer on our side."
Kalen clutched the letter.
"Is he dead?"
Celia nodded.
— Several years ago. He was killed. Officially, by bandits. In reality, no one showed the body. There was no mention in the chronicles. Only a closed room and an "accident."
Kallen stepped to the window. His eyes pulsed red.
"Then dig deeper.
That same night, he ventured back into the catacombs beneath the house. The ones that had once been reserved for the chosen few. He descended lower. Lower than he had been as a child. And there, he found a chamber covered in ash. The walls were adorned with ancient shadow writings. The chamber was cold, but the air was filled with the scent of long-buried magic.
"Here," whispered Ward. "Only heirs who had passed the Threshold were brought here."
— My brothers were here?!
— Yes. You're not.
- why?
Silence. Only the pulsation of the walls.
He stood in the center of the circle. The shadow stretched out from his feet like a snake, covering the symbols. And then he heard it.
Whisper.
"You shouldn't have come."
He wasn't afraid.
"It's too late.
A black shadow emerged from the wall — not Ward, not Tirk. Ancient, faceless, and heavy. It spoke in a voice that contained hundreds of words at once.
"The family curse begins here."
"I am his end," Kalen replied.
The shadow reached out to him, but at that moment, Ward stepped out from behind him, and Tirk's spiders began to crawl out of the cracks in the walls.
"He's not alone," Thirk growled.
The darkness shuddered and retreated.
Kallen stood in the shadow of an ancient power. And he began to realize that the Lionheart house was hiding more than just a conspiracy.