The alley was quiet, except for the occasional flicker of a dying streetlight. My footsteps echoed against the crumbling walls, the shadows stretching and twisting with every step. I had walked this path countless times, but tonight felt different—heavy, ominous.
A scream cut through the night.
My heart froze.
"Mother?" I whispered as my legs sprinted toward the source, as though they had a mind of their own.
The iron gates of Castle Myreil loomed ahead. I shoved them open. Overgrown vines wrapped around the bars, as though the castle itself had been abandoned by time. I passed the magnificent structure that had once commanded power, fear, and respect—its walls darkened by age, its grand doors sealed shut, cobwebs clinging to stone like silent witnesses.
Another cry—closer this time.
I turned sharply toward the smaller structure behind the castle.
My house.
What once was the maids' house of the mighty castle.
It stood crooked and forgotten, its walls cracked, the roof sagging unevenly. A jagged hole near the center allowed moonlight to spill inside, illuminating dust and broken tiles. It had been passed down through generations to my mother.
I burst inside.
Blood.
The smell hit me first—sharp, metallic, unreal. My mother lay on the floor, her body still, her breath shallow. For a heartbeat, my mind refused to understand what my eyes were seeing.
Then I saw him.
Alaric—my brother—stood over her, a knife in his hand. His eyes, once familiar, were hollow and empty.
"Alaric?" My voice trembled.
He turned toward me.
Time shattered.
He lunged, the knife raised.
Then my father stepped in.
I felt the sharp sting of steel as the knife plunged into him. He fell to the floor, blood pooling beneath him, yet his eyes met mine. A look of apology, of love, of finality.
Alaric froze.
For a moment—just one—he looked like my brother again. His hands shook. His knees buckled. Then he fell unconscious, the knife slipping from his grasp.
A soft groan pulled me back to myself.
"Mother—"
I crawled to her side, hands slick with blood, tears blinding me. She was pale, but when her eyes met mine, she smiled. A small, tired smile.
Her fingers closed around my wrist and pressed something into my palm.
The knife.
The same black pocketknife she had given me years ago. The one she told me never to part with. And the one my brother had stabbed her with.
"You are strong, Mira. You always will be."
Her voice was barely there, but her grip was firm as she closed my fingers around the handle.
"Follow your will. Fight for it."
She took a breath that never quite returned.
"Let this guide you."
Her hand went limp.
I screamed.