"Father ... any news?"
Kallen's voice sounded hollow, almost unnatural in the silence of the Lionheart mansion. He stood in front of the massive study door, his fingers fumbling with the steel handle as a chill ran down his spine. Something was wrong.
It's too quiet.
He pushed the door open.
And a moment later, time stopped.
My father was sitting in a chair, leaning back as if he'd just fallen asleep. Only... there was a sword sticking out of his chest. The handle was dark, as if carved from coal, and the blade wasn't made of metal but of thick, black leaves, as if from trees growing in the underworld.
Steam was coming out of his mouth, despite the summer heat. His father's eyes were empty. Glassy. His mouth was slightly open. The blood... it wasn't flowing out, but rather creeping across his body, leaving a trail of rot behind.
Kalen froze.
On the floor, at the feet of his dead father, lay a leaf. A real leaf. Bright green, with blue-red veins. He carefully picked it up and turned it over.
On the back were blackened words:
"Watch your mother. She's playing the wrong game."
Kalen stood in silence.
He just looked at the dead body of the man he had once called father.
Then he looked down at the sheet.
And I understood.
"So it's started.
He left the office, closing the door firmly behind him.
A maidservant who was passing by stopped.
"Mr. Kalen? Is everything all right?"
He looked at her with such a cold, empty expression that she involuntarily recoiled.
"Father needs to rest." His voice was even, almost gentle. "Don't disturb him until morning. Do you understand?"
— Y-yes, of course…
He walked past without turning around.
In his room, Kalen threw the sheet on the table. Ward, who emerged from the shadows, approached him without making a sound. Tirk and Sael followed, gliding across the floor.
"Sir," Vard began, but Kalen raised his hand.
"Shut up.
He walked over to the mirror. He looked at himself. His eyes reflected black shadows and scarlet patterns. His breathing was ragged, and his hands were shaking.
"She's playing the wrong game."
So ... the mother.
Alessia Lionheart. Always reserved. Always haughty. Too beautiful to be an ordinary mother, and too intelligent to be just a lord's wife. He remembered how she held his hand when he was a child, teaching him to read. How she pulled away when he cried. How she averted her gaze when he asked about magic.
He remembered how she didn't cry when the news of his two brothers' deaths arrived.
As if she knew.
"...you knew," he whispered, looking into the mirror. "You knew everything, Mother."
The next morning, Kalen was the first to get up. He didn't say a word to Noreia or Celia, who were sitting at the table downstairs, discussing breakfast. They were both worried, but he just nodded without stopping.
Reina was waiting at the mansion's door. She sensed something—her gaze was keen, as if she already knew what had happened.
"You didn't spend the night," she said quietly. "Where have you been?"
"Where the dead no longer sleep," Kalen replied, and passed on.
Reina turned to follow him, her eyes narrowing.
— It's started, isn't it?"
He didn't answer.