Part One: The Cold of the Stone
The cold of the stone was climbing his bones.
This was the first truth Ryan had acknowledged since his feet touched the ground of the fortress. Not fear. Not nostalgia. But this cold, seeping from the floor of the room, through his leather soles, to his ankles, then his legs, then his spine, until it settled in his ribcage like a dead man's grip.
Even though summer was at its peak.
He stood at the window of his cramped room in the eastern tower. The room was no bigger than a cell, but it overlooked the only side that mattered: the back wall of the fortress, where there were no windows, where a man could enter and leave without being seen. The moon was climbing the sky, heavy, slow, creeping behind the fortress walls like a spy afraid his footsteps would expose him.
On the stone windowsill, he placed his father's letter.
He didn't need to read it. The ink had faded into the folds of the paper from being folded and unfolded so many times, but the words were etched into his memory like scars. He would repeat them sometimes in his prayers, in moments of weakness, and on nights when he smothered his pillow just to keep from screaming:
"Things here are not as they seem. Trust your instincts, and beware of trusting anyone."
Two years.
Two years had passed since his father's death. A "hunting accident," they said. A stray arrow. Ryan would laugh to himself whenever he remembered that phrase. His father had been hunting since he was ten. At forty-five, he knew the deer before they were born, knew the wind before it blew, knew his enemies before they even thought of enmity. He did not die by a stray arrow.
And so he returned.
He returned to this fortress where he was born. Not as a lord, but as the Emperor's personal bodyguard. The perfect cover. Who would suspect a personal guard working day and night to protect the Emperor? Who would accuse a man who sleeps on the threshold of the very room he guards?
His limbs.
Three light knocks on the door brought him back from his reverie.
The knock was unusual. Three quick, consecutive raps, then complete silence. As if the one knocking was afraid someone other than Ryan might hear.
He opened the door.
A young servant boy stood there. He was no more than twelve, but his eyes were wide, glinting in the darkness of the corridor like the eyes of a gazelle being hunted by two dogs. His breath was ragged, rising as if he had run a full mile without stopping. The smell of sweat emanated from his thin body, mixed with the scent of wax that stained his clothes. He stood panting, watching Ryan, then turned quickly behind him before speaking.
"Sir Ryan... the Emperor requests you."
Ryan raised an eyebrow. "At this hour?"
"Yes, sir. He said it was... urgent."
There was something in the boy's hesitation. The pause before the word "urgent." As if he had been searching for it in a dictionary of fear.
Ryan nodded. He closed the door behind him and followed the boy.
Part Two: The Corridors
The stone corridors were narrow as shrouds.
That's what Ryan thought as he walked behind the boy. The walls on either side were so close he could touch them with his arms outstretched. The torches hanging on the walls created dancing shadows, shrinking and stretching like evil spirits trying to escape the fire.
The fortress was quiet.
Too quiet.
At this hour, he was supposed to hear the footsteps of the night guards in the towers. He was supposed to see the glint of their swords under the moonlight. But nothing. Even the usual night guards were absent.
Or hiding.
The boy stopped suddenly at the gateway to the throne hall. He didn't enter. He didn't open the door. He just stood there and nodded his head towards the massive wooden door.
"He's in there. Alone. He ordered me not to enter with you."
Then he turned his back and walked away. He walked quickly, as if the ground were burning beneath his feet.
He left Ryan alone in front of the door.
Ryan pushed it open.
Part Three: The Emperor
The hall was so vast that his breath caught in his chest.
White marble columns stretched up to a ceiling the light couldn't reach. The few lit torches created small islands of light in an ocean of darkness. And on his heavy stone throne, the Emperor sat.
Alone, indeed.
The man appeared to be in his sixties, but tonight he looked ten years older. His wrinkles weren't ordinary lines, but deep furrows carved by years and illness. His pallor was the color of wax under the dim torchlight. He was fidgeting with something in his hand. Turning it over. Wiping it. Looking at it as if he expected it to speak.
"Come closer, Ryan."
His voice was different. It wasn't the Emperor's voice Ryan was used to hearing in the celebration halls. It was the voice of a frightened man.
Ryan took two steps forward. He heard the squeak of his shoes on the stone echo in the empty hall. Then he stopped.
"Do you know why I summoned you at this hour?"
"No, my Lord."
The Emperor sighed. A heavy, long sigh, like a man exhaling the last breath in his chest. Then he raised his head and looked directly into Ryan's eyes. His eyes were blue, cold, but with a strange glint. Fear? Or accusation?
"Because you are the only person in this fortress whom I... trust."
He paused. Swallowed. Then added:
"Or perhaps, the only person I want to test before it's too late."
Ryan felt a cold tingle creeping up his spine. That same cold he'd felt in his room. The cold of the stone. The cold of truth.
"Tomorrow I will announce my heir. I have no sons. I will adopt one of the young nobles."
"I know that, my Lord. Everyone knows."
"Everyone knows what I want them to know. But there is something they do not know."
The Emperor opened his hand. In it was a small, old dagger with a dark blade. He reached out with it to Ryan.
"Do you recognize this?"
Ryan approached. He took the dagger. The metal was cold, heavy. Unlike any dagger he had seen before. The blade was unnaturally dark, as if it had absorbed the darkness itself. On the blade, there was a strange engraving: a circle with three dots inside it. A primitive drawing, but carved with precision and skill. He ran his thumb over the engraving, feeling its sharp edges.
"No, my Lord. This is my first time seeing it."
"This dagger was found tonight. Under my son's pillow. My dead son's pillow."
Ryan raised his head quickly. He felt a stronger tingle in his spine.
"But my Lord, your son's room has been sealed for twenty years."
"I know. I am the only one who enters it. Yet, this dagger was there. Tonight."
They looked at each other. A long, heavy moment of silence. As if the air had turned to stone.
Then they heard the scream.
Part Four: The Corpse
The scream came from afar, from deep within the fortress. It was muffled, short, as if it had been choked in the owner's throat before it could complete itself. As if the screamer wanted to yell but a hand had strangled them mid-sound.
Both men froze.
Ryan looked at the Emperor. The man's face had turned into a white mask, his eyes widened until they nearly popped from their sockets.
"Go. Go quickly."
Ryan ran.
His footsteps echoed in the corridors like the beats of funeral drums. He ran, his heart pounding so violently he could hear its beats in his ears. The corridors branched out before him like petrified arteries, and the torches passed by him like blurry lines of light.
He was thinking.
The dagger. The sealed room. The scream. Everything was racing in his mind, intertwining, creating blurry images. Who puts a dagger in a room sealed for twenty years? Who breaches the sanctity of the dead? And what does the engraving mean? A circle and three dots. Had he seen it before? No. But it was familiar. Sickeningly familiar.
At the door of the great feast hall, he stopped.
The door was ajar. Through the crack, a faint light seeped. Yellow. Warm. He pushed it gently. The creak of the door was loud in the silence. A long, sharp creak, as if the door was groaning to be opened.
He saw the corpse immediately.
The young man lay on the floor, on his back. His eyes were open, staring at the stone ceiling in eternal astonishment. His mouth was slightly parted, as if he had tried to scream but his voice died before him. Around his neck, a blue silk scarf was wrapped, pulled so tightly it had sunk into his flesh. The Emperor's color. The color of betrayal.
On his chest, a small piece of paper was placed.
Ryan approached. He knelt. Blood was still dripping from the corner of the dead man's mouth, forming a small puddle on the stone. Red drops gathering slowly, reflecting the torchlight. He took the paper. The lines were written in a hurried hand, but clearly:
"The first falls tonight... let the rest beware. The Emperor is not the only one who decides who inherits the throne."
His hand trembled.
His pulse was deafening in his ears. He read the words once, twice, three times, unable to believe what he was seeing. This was not just murder. This was a declaration of war. This was a message to everyone who coveted the throne.
Suddenly, he heard a sound.
Footsteps.
Light, quick, fading into the back corridor. Ryan turned swiftly, but he saw only a shadow. A long shadow, merging with the darkness of the corridor, then vanishing. As if the darkness had swallowed him.
On the ground, where the shadow had been moments before, remained a small crow's feather. Black. Soft. Like a piece of fallen night upon the stone.
Part Five: A Drop of Blood in an Ocean of Darkness
Ryan stood alone.
Blood pulsed in his temples, and the smell filled his nostrils. The smell of iron from the blood, the smell of wax from the torches, and the smell of fear. His own fear. He could smell it as if it were perfume.
He looked at the corpse again. At its glassy eyes. At the suffocating blue scarf embedded in the flesh of the neck. At the blood pooled under the dead man's mouth.
Then he looked at the letter in his trembling hand.
And he remembered his father.
He remembered his words burning in his memory like fire in dry twigs: "Trust your instincts, and beware of trusting anyone."
He looked at the black feather on the ground. He raised his head towards the darkness that had swallowed the killer. The corridor behind him was dark, desolate, like an entrance to another world.
And he realized, in that moment, that the first night in this fortress would not be the last.
And that his bones weren't just feeling the cold of the stone.
But the cold of the truth that was just beginning to unfold.
A single drop of blood in an ocean of darkness.