The day had been unusually still.
A hushed kind of stillness, like the world was waiting for someone to breathe before it dared resume its motion. Even the wind moved softer through the Vanhart estate walls, dragging across the frost-laced stone like a whisper withheld.
Inside the strategic chamber—once used by generations of Vanhart lords to command their borders—three figures stood around a heavy oak table. Scattered parchments, sealed reports and three lacquered wax stamps lay untouched.
Kel sat at the far end, bathed in the half-shadow of a towering window. His long coat fell around him like midnight draped in restraint. The air had thinned around him—not cold, not comfortable, but charged.
His fingers lightly grazed the edge of an unopened letter. By his silence, he resembled a scholar deep in thought.
But in his eyes…
In the faintest glint behind calm irises—
Something ancient had awakened.
The Report Arrives
The door creaked open.
A Vanhart scout, covered in dust and faint streaks of blood, dropped to one knee the moment he crossed the threshold.
"Count Vanhart, my lord," he spoke, voice hoarse from rushing, "we found—him."
Edward Vanhart, who had been standing rigid near the wall, turned sharply. His gaze, calm for days, fractured like thin ice.
"Say it," he commanded quietly.
The scout wiped his brow, then continued:
"Your elder brother—Lord Rodrik—he is hiding at the abandoned eastern watchtower on the last ridge before the mountain border. Three miles beyond old trade road. He has around fifteen men with him… none wearing the house crest."
Silence.
A silence thick with consequence.
Malloren, seated to the right, inhaled sharply, fingers curling over the table edge.
Count Vanhart closed his eyes.
Kel… did not.
He kept staring forward, unmoving.
Only when the scout finished did he slowly lift his gaze and whisper.
"Then…"
His smile surfaced.
Bloodless.
Refined.
Dangerous.
"…the last game begins."
Kel's Reflection (Internal)
So, that's where you chose to wait, Rodrik.
Abandoned watchtower… Eastern post. Right where you once defended the border before betrayal stained your crest.
You hide where you once lived as a commander.
A grave of your own making.
Kel rose from his seat with steady grace. His coat shifted, whispering across polished stone. The light caught his hair—now darker from refined health—casting it like ink bleeding under moonlight.
His shadow stretched long across the map.
"Count. Viscount," he addressed them formally, slipping into noble bearing as effortlessly as a blade into sheath. "Call your troops."
Malloren's expression hardened.
"You plan to move now?"
Kel tilted his head slightly, expression unreadable.
"You know as well as I do… allowing a curse-bearer of that level to roam freely is an insult to both justice and strategy."
Count Vanhart gripped the back of a chair to stabilize his breath.
"You intend to capture Rodrik yourself?"
Kel didn't answer immediately.
He glanced towards the window where snow was beginning to fall.
Slow.
Silent.
Relentless.
"I intend," he said finally, "to end what should have ended years ago."
The Weight Upon the Room
The scout bowed deeper. "Young Master… permit me to guide you there. We have terrain mapping ready—"
Kel cut him off gently.
"No need. I already know that place."
The scout's eyes widened.
Malloren's did too.
"How…?" Malloren began.
Kel's eyes softened, but held a quiet sadness.
"Because my father used to tell me of Vanhart's border lines," he answered. "I listened."
Count Vanhart exhaled. "I did not expect you to remember."
Kel looked at him then.
"You both underestimate how deeply a child listens—when he thinks there may be meaning in what is spoken."
His words weren't spoken with accusation.
But they landed like ones.
The count's shoulders sagged.
Malloren lowered his gaze.
A long moment of silent understanding passed.
Then Kel's demeanor sharpened.
"Have scouts keep surveillance. None approach. None retreat. No engagement until I'm there."
"But—" the scout began.
Kel's gaze flickered to him—just once.
The scout froze.
"Yes… my lord," he whispered.
Alone After the Report
They left.
Kel remained.
He approached the map slowly, tracing a finger toward the marked watchtower. His touch halted just above the point.
The candlelight glinted in his eyes.
Rodrik Vanhart.
You once held hope in battle.
But instead of carving strength from pain… you let your wounds define your vengeance.
People like that… cannot be allowed to remain in play.
The room's shadows thickened, as if drawn to his resolve.
Outside, the moon's pallid outline emerged through low clouds. Snow began to fall with greater weight.
Kel turned his head slightly, watching the descent of white.
A faint smile curved his lips.
"I did say it, didn't I?" he murmured.
"Tomorrow."
"…Tomorrow, we begin."
Nightfall – Kel's Quarters
Later that night, he returned to his room. The candle on his desk flickered softly, and his long hair fell forward as he unbuttoned his coat.
He sat on the bed's edge.
The room quiet.
The world waiting.
And behind his eyes—
A storm rustled.
Kel exhaled slowly.
"…Last movement," he whispered.
He leaned his back against the wall and closed his eyes.
Sairen's voice echoed gently in his mind.
"You carry both mercy and execution in your breath… Which will he receive?"
Kel remained silent for a while.
Then finally answered.
"That depends entirely on whether he dies as a criminal… or as a man."
The Wind Outside
The wind howled against the panes.
Branches scraped lightly against the mansion walls like skeletal fingers.
Snow piled deeper.
Within that hush, Kel's eyes opened again—no longer calm.
Not cold.
But resolute.
I saved what was broken.
Now…
I erase what shattered it.
He tugged the candle wick between two fingers.
And darkness swallowed the room.
A whisper beneath his breath, sharp and final:
"The last game should begin."