The Baron stirred in his chair, discomfort cracking the mask of composure he had so meticulously worn until now. His fingers twitched against the armrest, betraying the tremor of unease.
"Arthur, what is the meaning of this sudden command?"
I turned to him, my expression calm, almost serene.
"Is something bothering you, Baron?" I asked, my tone dipped in silken malice. "I'm merely reminding a disobedient hound its place. Surely, that's no cause for concern… is it?"
His lips parted, then pressed into a thin line. A flicker passed through his eyes—offense? Apprehension? It was difficult to say. He cleared his throat as though mustering the courage to speak again, to challenge what hung in the air between us.
But the moment passed. And with it, whatever resolve he thought he had.
Then came the sound.
The sound of paws against marble.
The doors swung open again, and Alfred entered—flanked by them.
The hounds.
They moved with lethal grace, muscles rippling beneath thick coats of fur. Their eyes gleamed with primal instinct, catching the firelight in brief flashes of gold and red. The chains that held them taut were thick, iron links straining under the pressure of restrained power. Their snarls cut through the air, low and guttural, the breath from their muzzles rising in clouds against the cool air.
They were beautiful in their violence.
I did not move. There was no need. I was the eye of the storm, untouched by the chaos I had summoned.
With deliberate calm, I raised my hand and Alfred released the chains. The beasts surged forward.
The Baron shot to his feet, his chair scraping violently against the floor as he stumbled back, hands raising instinctively to ward off the advancing beasts.
"Arthur! Are you crazy?"
His voice was thick with fear, his earlier confidence shattered as the dogs snapped at his heels, herding him toward the door like the prey he had unknowingly become.
I did not move.
My hands remained loosely clasped together, my chin resting atop them, my expression impassive.
"Baron Westwood," I said, my tone devoid of warmth. "Since when have we grown so familiar that you feel entitled to address me so casually?"
The panic in his eyes was evident now, raw and unguarded.
I observed as the final remnants of his arrogance crumbled, consumed by the weight of my words.
"And let me remind you. All Ashbourne Masters, as some would say, were never quite in their right minds."
He hesitated for only a moment longer before turning and bolting.
The dogs chased him down the hall, their barking echoing through the manor long after he had disappeared from sight.
Moments later, they returned, panting, their fur damp from the morning rain. One of them dropped something at my feet—a torn scrap of fabric, soaked in saliva.
I chuckled, reaching down to pat their heads.
"It appears they still recognize their 'master' after all."
The dogs barked in agreement, their loyalty unquestionable.
I reclined in my chair, the weight of my newfound power settling comfortably around me.
The path ahead would not be easy.
But this estate, this name, this legacy—everything that had once belonged to my father—was now mine.
***
The amber light of the setting sun bled through the towering arched windows, its glow spilling across the polished mahogany floor in a slow, creeping tide. The walls, once imposing, seemed to soften under its embrace, their deep wooden panels illuminated in hues of crimson and gold. Shadows stretched long and sinuous, shifting with the breath of the evening breeze that stirred the heavy velvet drapes.
I stepped into the room with measured precision, my boots making a muted sound against the thick carpet. The air here was thick with history—an amalgamation of aged wood, ink-stained parchment, and the lingering scent of cigars long extinguished. A scent that had once been synonymous with authority.
It was my first time stepping into this room since my father's departure. Though the servants had occasionally entered to dust and tidy the space, it had otherwise remained untouched—frozen in time.
But now, it was no longer my father's office—it was mine.
The thought settled heavily within me, an unfamiliar weight that neither comforted nor suffocated. My gaze swept across the space, each corner alive with the ghosts of a past that still clung stubbornly to the present. The massive oak desk loomed at the center, its lacquered surface reflecting the dying light. Its presence was absolute, built for command, for decisions that altered the course of lives.
I approached it slowly, the silence between each step amplifying the quiet hum of my thoughts. My fingertips brushed against the cool edge of the desk, tracing the delicate brass inlays. A desk not meant for hesitation.
A deep breath. A flick of the wrist. the central drawer slid open—its movement quiet, deliberate, like a secret being revealed in the hush of dusk. Inside, everything was arranged with eerie precision: a stack of ivory envelopes sealed in red wax and a singular ring—obsidian black with a coiled viper etched into its surface, gleaming faintly as if alive.
I reached in, fingers brushing past the paper edges with idle detachment… until they halted against something unexpected. A firm, worn surface. Leather—aged and cracked, its spine brittle to the touch.
A book. No, a diary.
The moment I lifted it from its resting place, something slipped loose between the pages, catching the air like a dying whisper. It floated to the floor, delicate as ash.
A photograph.
I stooped down, careful not to crumple its fragile corners. The image was old—burned slightly at the top edge, the blackened marks biting into its surface like a lingering curse. And yet, the figures captured within remained—frozen in time, their expressions solemn and sharp.
Seven men.
Arranged with quiet purpose. Some seated, others standing, dressed in fine coats and dark cravats, the air around them heavy with unspoken power. My father sat at the center, far younger than I had ever seen him—his face carved in stoic silence, a man not yet hollowed by the years.
A flicker of unease ran down my spine.
Could this be… a clue?
I returned to the drawer, prying open the envelopes with practiced care. Their contents were few—short, cryptic lines penned in golden ink. The words shimmered faintly under the light, twisting in loops and flourishes I couldn't immediately decipher.
The ring lay where I'd left it—cold and heavy in my palm, its viper emblem wrapped tightly around itself like a secret too dangerous to voice. There was a meaning buried here, just beneath the surface. An emblem of an organization? An assassin's mark? I didn't know. Not yet.
The diary offered little comfort. Its pages were half-burned, charred at the edges, brittle and crumbling beneath my fingers. What words remained were fractured—broken sentences, interrupted thoughts.
But then at last.
My gaze drifted back to the photograph. A group of strangers, their faces captured in time, their expressions unreadable beneath the grain of age. One of them—perhaps—had a hand in my father's death. But the photo was too old. Even if I were to meet them face-to-face now, I wouldn't recognize them.
I'll have to dig deeper and uncover more clues. I'll have to narrow down the list of suspects.
But above all… I couldn't shake the question that echoed loudest in my mind.
Why did my father leave this to me?
I turned back to the photograph, gaze drifting across their faces once more. Time had worn them down—some reduced to smudges, their features devoured by the years. And yet, one face cut through the haze like a blade.
Dominic Crowndale.
The current King of the Crowndale Kingdom.
Even without his crown, the arrogance was unmistakable—an air of certainty, of command. His name alone could tighten every throat in the empire. And he was here… beside my father.
The royal family had long feared the Ashbournes—feared that one day, we might claim more than just loyalty. That we might reach for the crown itself.
It would hardly be surprising if the king had orchestrated my father's downfall, spurred by the quiet terror of living beneath his shadow.
My fingers curled tighter around the photograph, the edges creasing beneath my grip.
I reached into my coat pocket and withdrew the crumpled piece of parchment—the one I had retrieved from the hollow of the cigar. Its surface still carried the scent of tobacco and secrets, as if the very paper had absorbed the weight of what it revealed.
I turned toward the hearth, where dying embers pulsed like a slumbering heart, their glow soft and sullen against the ash.
Without hesitation, I released it.
The parchment floated gently into the flames, its edges curling as the fire licked at it with silent hunger. Ink blistered and blackened, letters vanishing in tendrils of smoke until there was nothing left but ash.
I stood there, unmoving, watching as the last trace of it vanished into the glow.
So this was to be my first case in this world.
Not one of power. Not of courtly intrigue.
But of blood—My father's blood.
The silent vow settled in the air, thick and unyielding. It latched onto me, sinking into my very bones, binding me to the path I had now chosen.
Then, the rain came. A steady patter against the windows. Slow at first, then heavier, the scent of wet earth creeping into the manor's halls.
And then—a noise, subtle and almost imperceptible, yet undeniably wrong.
I turned, stepping out of my office and into the dim corridor beyond. The flickering sconces cast elongated shadows against the stone walls, their weak flames doing little to dispel the pressing darkness.
And then I saw it—a cloaked figure. A body.
Crimson spilled across the marble floor, a deep pool that reflected the wavering candlelight. A weapon lay forgotten beside its owner, fingers twitching with the last remnants of life before stilling entirely.
But it was not the corpse that held my attention.
It was the man standing above it.
Alfred.
His dagger still gleamed with fresh blood, the edge catching the light in a dull, muted glow. His posture was composed, the steady rise and fall of his chest unfazed by the violence that had just transpired.
But his eyes were a peridot green, cold and unreadable.
"What are you doing, Alfred?"
He turned fully, meeting my gaze without hesitation. The blood on his cheek glistened, yet he made no move to wipe it away.
"I was merely getting rid of a rat that slipped in, master."
His tone carried no remorse, no hesitation.
The scent of rain mixed with the metallic tang of blood, seeping into the air, into the very foundations of this house.
I took a step forward, then another. My gaze drifted briefly to the corpse, the manner of death clean, efficient.
Alfred had always been like this, hadn't he?
A shadow with a blade.
I stepped away in silence, my back to him.
At the threshold, I spoke—my voice smooth and measured, yet beneath it stirred a quiet, irreversible resolve.
"Clean up the mess quickly. And try not to make more noise than you already have."
Alfred inclined his head, ever the obedient servant.
"I'll make sure to keep that in mind, master."
I shut the door behind me.
The weight of the encounter settled, but it did not linger.
My decision had already been made.
I'd have to leave for the capital by tomorrow morning's train.