The long oak table of House Morryn gleamed under the warm glow of candles. Silverware chimed softly against porcelain plates laden with roasted lamb, honey-glazed carrots, and steaming bread fresh from the oven. Goblets brimmed with deep red wine, each surface caught a flicker of flame and shattered it into a small, moving light.
To an outsider it would have looked like the portrait of noble warmth, a broad-shouldered father presiding at the head of the table, a graceful, sharp-eyed mother beside him, daughters whispering and laughing between bites, and the eldest son, Kaelen, sitting in silence—his gaze sharper than the knife beside his plate.
But Kaelen did not eat. His fork hovered above the lamb while his eyes traced the room. Every step of the maids. Every pour of wine. The rhythm was wrong. Mira, the head maid, lingered at the pitcher longer than necessity demanded, her grip on the handle was tight, mechanical, as if she held a blade rather than glass.
Why is her hand so tight? That is not how Mira moves. Even servants have patterns — subtle, repetitive motions that betray their nature.
Kaelen shifted closer to his youngest sister, Elira, resting a hand near her plate. "Elira, eat slowly," he murmured.
She blinked at him, cheeks full of bread. "But the bread is soft," she whispered, muffled and innocent.
Mira's gaze flicked toward them, something unreadable passed over her face in the candlelight. Kaelen's jaw tightened.
At the head of the table, Lord Erendir Morryn laughed at Serenya's sharp remark about the king's latest decree. Lady Seliane shook her head, her voice was calm but edged. "Careful, love. Words travel faster than walls can hold them."
They spoke of the unrest in Valmyr, of the so-called Heartless Prince whose rebellion bled the city's streets. Erendir waved away his wife's caution with another booming chuckle. "As I said, we must not meddle in matters of inheritance. Better to help the people who suffer than fight over crowns."
Then his eyes found Kaelen's untouched plate. "Kaelen," he called with a smile, "eat your dinner. As my eldest, you will inherit my place one day. You must grow strong!" His laugh filled the hall like rolling timber.
Kaelen lifted his fork, then paused. Another dish appeared at the far end of the table. No order had been given. The maids were adding food without command—movements too frequent, too hurried.
Strange. Why increase the feast when the table is already heavy? Food is never set twice without the lord's word. Are they trying to distract us? Or hasten us toward something?
He pierced the lamb and drew it back. The meat glistened under the candlelight —rich, fatty, glazed—and beneath the shine a faint, almost hidden purple shimmer caught his eye. He tasted the thought and felt his breath go cold.
Bark of Luthenwood… subtle, bitter, masked when cooked.
Enough of it can paralyze a man within an hour. So this is no mistake. Someone has turned our feast into a weapon.
Kaelen rose quietly and crossed to his mother. Seliane's eyes softened at his approach. "What is it, my dear?"
He inclined his head, voice low and pale. "Mother…do the servants seem strange to you tonight?"
Her brows drew together. "Why do you say so?"
His eyes swept the hall again; servants moved like shadows at the edge of sight. His lips thinned.
Why do I always feel the pull to question? Is it paranoia… or survival? Is it déjà vu?
The tall windows suddenly flared. It was not morning light but a wild orange that smeared itself across the sky.
Kaelen's stomach dropped. He glanced at the grandfather clock by the hearth, the hands read six—too early for sunrise.
He hurried to the window. Flames licked high above the estate walls, smoke twisted like a living thing.
That's fire.
Not one. But dozens of flames, it's an army's blaze.
He spun back, voice sharpened by alarm.
"Father! The gates—they're under siege! Hundreds outside, and knights…knights in crimson and black!"
Erendir leapt up, his chair scraping and toppling. "What—"
A concussion from the gate answered him as soldiers forced the way through. On the gate, a voice rang out, cold and familiar.
"Erendir Morryn of the House of Morryn."
Kaelen glanced at Elira—still chewing. He rose and crossed to her with the steady, controlled steps of habit.
He tapped Serenya's shoulder. She turned, eyes wide. "Brother, what's happening?"
Kaelen pressed a finger to his lips and made a soft sound. "Shh. Don't speak. Calm down and follow my lead." He leaned in, colder than the candlelight. "Something bad is going to happen. The servants and butlers are all here in the hall—stop eating."
She hesitated, then set down her fork. "What is it, brother?"
"Let's go to the garden. It's safer out there. Take Elira." He forced his voice casual, the better to hide what he feared.
"When I say 'florritine flowers,' run. It will mean it's dangerous — both of you, run."
I think it's better to keep them unaware. A commotion would only make things worse.
He lifted Elira and set her by Serenya. Lady Seliane's eyes met his—all worry, no words. She nodded once, pale and swift.
So she wants them taken to safety.
Kaelen's gaze flicked upward to the landing where Mira watched from the second floor.
An idea settled, if Mira escorted them to the garden, it would appear ordinary—the perfect cover.
He called up in a bright, casual tone. "Mira—my sisters would like to see the garden before they sleep. Could you show them?"
The head maid tilted her head. "Lord Kaelen, it is late. The ladies should be in their beds."
"I asked," Kaelen said, voice flat as a blade. "Will you come or not?"
For a heartbeat her face hardened, then smoothed into the trained calm of a woman who had learned to hide everything useful. "Very well. I will bring a few maids to escort them."
She descended, three maids behind her. Kaelen's mouth betrayed the faintest, sardonic lift. Well trained—too well.
Mira took Serenya's right hand and Elira's left. "Ladies, the garden," she said in that polished tone that masks intent.
They walked out under the light of bobbing torches. Kaelen moved with them, noting the torches with a cold, small thought.
Why torches at such close quarters? It's bright enough inside. Another odd choice—further evidence of a plan.
The hall smelled of smoke now, like a thin film over the windows. They hurried through corridors until the garden opened before them.
Mira and her maids stopped. Mira released the girls' hands and spoke smoothly.
"My ladies, explore the garden. I should speak with Lord Kaelen on some matters of household concern."
She turned away as if to give them privacy.
Kaelen called out, keeping his voice light. "My little sisters—could you fetch me some florritine flowers in the north hedge?"
Serena paused, then continued as if nothing were wrong.
Silence fell. Mira turned back—and something glinted at her hip, a dagger.
"Lord Kaelen," she said, voice flat and soft, "may I execute you now?"
The three maids drew daggers as one, the blades reflecting torchlight.
Kaelen's mind measured distance and speed in a breath.
Are they far enough?
He let the silence lengthen, then spoke, deliberate.
"Head maid…so you were the one who betrayed us. Tell me—why betray House Morryn?"
The maids said nothing. Mira's face did not change as she replied, slow and certain. "We were not the betrayers. We were betrayed by Morryn. Today is the day this noble family will vanish from history."
Kaelen flicked his finger toward Mira—a small, useless insult. She dodged and hissed, "Kill him."
They rushed.
Their forms were not clumsy. They felt like trained killers.
He smiled despite the danger, a cold happiness at the test. He gripped his coat and let it fly toward Mira, launching himself into motion.
He slid under a blade, rolled behind a maid, and grabbed a wrist. He twisted, snapped the dagger free, and struck the maid at the base of the skull—she crumpled.
"I can keep doing thi—" he murmured, and then his mouth filled with something warm and metallic.
He clamped a hand to his lips. Blood wet his fingers and he tasted iron.
Damn. I never thought my body this weak.
He looked up to see Mira advancing in a blur.
"Do you think a mere wound will stop me?" he taunted.
He steadied, choosing not to take her on directly. He struck low, a hard kick to a maid's liver. The unexpected blow snapped the woman's breath away, but she hooked his ankle and held fast.
He flung a dagger at her grasp, it bit into her forearm and she released him. "That's enough,"
he whispered, patience thinning. "I'll kill all of you."
He jammed a finger into an eye and twisted, the woman screamed and collapsed. He flipped behind another and slammed her down. The others seized the chance, slashing at his legs. Pain flared—but instead of crumpling, he twisted free, drove a heel into one attacker's skull and rose.
He planted a boot on a maid's throat and felt the brittle give of bone.
Crack~~
He heard it as a small, final sound. His voice came out rough. "Keep trying."
A figure moved behind him with impossible speed. A kick caught his flank, his body flew against a wall. He blinked stars, trying to find Mira among the blur.
Where is the other maid?
Mira's voice cut through the chaos, cool and deadly. "I sent her to your parents. It is time I finish this."
Kaelen met her gaze. He saw nothing human in her eyes—only a depth like an empty well. He smiled back; the expression felt like a mask and an invitation at once—a still thing in the center of the storm.
She blinked, and for a sliver of second something flickered in her mind.
An eye so deep… a hollow pain. What is it?
Despite wounds and shock that would have felled any pampered lordling, Kaelen rose. He steadied himself as if the pain were an instructional weight.
"Show me your proof of station, head maid," he said, every syllable muffled by blood and effort. The words were absurdly formal. They did not match the violence of the night—and that was the point.
They surged at one another. Kaelen scattered daggers with a sweep and Mira drew a rapier from her waist with a flash.
He slipped inside her guard, rotated, and stabbed at the joint of her shoulder. The blade bit home. He felt the strike, but she was not finished—she fought with both hands as if ambidexterity were a born talent.
Mira steadied, raised the rapier in a precise, practiced arc, and intoned as her blade traced the air. "Rapier of Arctic — Six-Point Vortex... Remember me."
A violent gust of wind roared into being, a cold, slicing force that tore at the garden and the mansion beyond. Stone cracked, loose masonry shuddered and the world buckled with a noise like a building exhaling its last breath. Debris stung skin and the ground heaved.
"An Arctic weapon art," Kaelen murmured to himself through grit and pain. "This is going to be troublesome."