The sharp click of my boots echoed through the cavernous hall, each step carving through the silence like a blade against polished marble. The sound belonged to me, and yet, in this vast space—where time itself seemed to slow and linger—I felt as though I were trespassing upon something ancient, something unyielding.
The foyer stretched endlessly, its grandiosity magnified by the cold, pale glow of the chandelier above. Shadows writhed across the walls, distorted figures born from the flickering gaslights, twisting and recoiling as if unwilling to bear witness to what was to come.
At the top of the grand staircase stood a lone figure, his silhouette sharp against the dim light. Still as stone, yet his presence filled the space as though he had long since fused with it, an immutable part of the estate itself.
A voice, deep and edged with a biting frost, sliced through the silence.
"Finally crawled out of your hole, did you? After hiding like a rat all this time."
I had heard that voice countless times before—stern, unyielding, stripped of warmth. It was the voice of a man who had forged my father into the legend he became. The same man now stood before me, his gaze locked onto mine like a predator assessing whether its prey was worth the effort.
Demetrius Ashbourne.
The former patriarch of the Ashbourne family. The specter that had loomed over my father's entire life. If my father had once been a dragon, a force of nature in his prime, then Demetrius was something even greater. He was the mountain upon which all storms crashed and broke. Ancient. Relentless. A being that bowed to no one.
A cane rested in his gloved grip, its handle adorned with the Ashbourne crest—an ash tree with wide-spanning branches, a symbol of an enduring legacy that had withstood the test of time. His hawk-like gaze swept over me, piercing, dissecting. He made no movement, and yet, it felt as though an invisible wall had risen between us. Not one of stone or steel, but of sheer, unshakable will.
I met his stare without faltering. "It appears so, Grandfather."
The corner of his mouth twitched, a trace of something unreadable flickering across his sharp features before vanishing into the abyss of his usual indifference.
Then came a sound—low, drawn out, and disturbingly amused.
A chuckle. The kind that dragged through the silence like a knife across silk, slow and deliberate, steeped in something too knowing to be kind.
"Oho… what do we have here?"
His voice reached me before he did, resonant and laced with mockery. And then, he appeared—descending the grand staircase with the measured grace of a man in complete command. Each step was punctuated by the tap of a cane striking the marble floor, sharp and rhythmic, like a metronome set to the beat of inevitability.
Click. Tap. Click. Tap.
Not a single motion wasted. Not a single breath out of place. It was the gait of someone who had made power his second skin, and now wore it like finely tailored clothing.
"It seems 'rat' no longer fits what you've become," he murmured, lips curling in a half-smile that held no warmth. "That monster raised a wolf—sharp, silent, and patient enough to keep his claws sheathed until the moment was right."
The people of this kingdom often whisper his name with fear—The Monster of Ashbourne. But what I hadn't known… was that even his own father called him that.
His gaze locked with mine.
"But tell me, boy," he continued, each word deliberate, heavy with calculated weight. "Have you mastered your fear... or do you still quiver at the slightest provocation?"
The air in the room thickened. His presence, oppressive yet eerily calm, settled over me like an iron shroud. It was not magic, nor was it anything as tangible as power. No, this was something far more insidious—a force woven into his very being, carved into his bones, shaping the way the world bent around him.
I forced my breath to steady, my hands clenching at my sides. And yet, no matter how much I fought it, my mind betrayed me.
A memory surfaced, unbidden.
The scent of rain-soaked earth. The weight of a cloak too large for my small frame. The firm arms of a man holding me against his chest as we stood at the foot of these very stairs.
My father stood where I stood now. My grandfather loomed above, watching, waiting.
"Why did you let that happen?"
My father's voice was cold, edged with something dangerous.
Demetrius' expression darkened, his grip tightening on his cane. "Do not lay the blame for your failures upon me."
My father spoke coldly, his voice slicing cleanly through the silence that hung between them. "But you and I, we both know that it all began to unravel the moment you chose to turn a blind eye."
I couldn't understand if they were speaking of the past or the present.
"I've no interest in quibbling over old missteps," Demetrius said, his tone flat, dismissive—like the very conversation was an irritation he could scarcely be bothered to entertain.
His gaze, sharp and unwavering, flicked back to me. "The boy should rest before he embarrasses himself further."
My father's shoulders stiffened. "My successor's training is no concern of yours, Father."
A warning. A command.
My father rarely spoke with such steel, but at that moment, I understood.
I had been kidnapped, sold off like livestock to a nobleman who saw me as nothing more than an exotic trinket to break. In the body of a child, powerless and alone, I had endured—until my father found me. Until I was standing here once more.
Demetrius had let it happen.
He had not lifted a finger.
His only response to my father's words was a sharp click of his tongue before he turned and strode away.
The next day, he departed for the Ashbourne townhouse.
But now, he had returned. And I knew why.
The disappearance of his son—the head of the Ashbourne household. My father.
The past bled into the present, and I forced myself to anchor my mind back to the moment.
"I shall rest for today, Grandfather. We can speak in detail tomorrow," I said, maintaining the calm edge in my voice.
Demetrius regarded me in silence, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. Then his lips curved—not quite a smirk, not quite a sneer, but something cold and knowing that settled like a weight in the room.
"I'll be overseeing your training from this point forward," he said, his voice iron-clad and final. "Clear your schedule, boy."
Boy.
I was eighteen—an adult by all standards. Yet in his eyes, I was still nothing more than a child.
My jaw tightened, the taste of iron lingering on my tongue, but I did not argue. It would serve no purpose.
Demetrius lingered for a moment longer, watching me with an expression I couldn't quite decipher—expectation? Indifference? Or Perhaps… both.
Then, without another word, he turned and ascended the stairs, vanishing into the shadows above.
"Haa..." I let out a slow, measured breath, then shifted my gaze to the butler. "Robert, have a room prepared for Ralph in the servants' quarters."
"As you wish, master," Robert replied with a respectful nod.
Ralph did not question it, nor did he express any particular gratitude. He simply accepted the arrangement with the same quiet understanding that had carried him through the evening thus far.
With that matter settled, I departed without another word, the weight of Demetrius' presence still lingering like a storm cloud on the edge of my consciousness.
My steps carried me through the silent halls of Ashbourne Manor until I reached the room that had once belonged to my father—now awkwardly mine. I hesitated at the threshold for a moment before pushing open the heavy door.
A soft glow greeted me from within. The gas lamp on the bedside table burned low, casting shifting shadows across the walls, its light valiantly holding back the encroaching darkness.
The chamber was vast, divided into two distinct sections: one for rest, the other for work. The sleeping quarters exuded quiet luxury—an immense four-poster bed stood at its heart, its canopy draped in thick fabric embroidered with the Ashbourne crest. The bedding was impossibly soft, a warmth against the chill of the evening air.
To the right, an arched window overlooked the manor grounds, its heavy velvet curtains partially drawn, allowing silver moonlight to spill across the floor in delicate slants.
The other half of the room—the study—was a different beast entirely. A grand desk of dark mahogany dominated the space, its polished surface scattered with parchment, quills, and ink bottles. Books lined the shelves behind it, their leather-bound spines untouched for years, more for display than actual use. A single chair, high-backed and worn at the edges, stood before the desk like a throne of contemplation.
And then there were the bottles.
Near the study's corner, a cabinet of fine crystal decanters sat atop a sideboard, remnants of my father's indulgences still lingering within. The scent of aged whiskey and brandy clung faintly to the air, a ghost of past nights when he had drowned himself in silence rather than company. A half-filled glass sat abandoned on the desk, the amber liquid within reflecting the dim glow of the gas lamp. It seemed he had been drinking here, in solitude, as was his habit.
I let out a slow breath, my shoulders sinking as I stepped further inside. The sheer scale of the room, its deliberate grandeur, felt suffocating. Every corner, every fine detail was designed to impress—to intimidate. Yet now, stripped of my father's presence, it felt strangely hollow.
I moved toward the bed and collapsed onto it, the mattress sinking beneath my weight as exhaustion clawed at me.
"Haah… it was an exhausting day," I murmured to myself, my voice barely disturbing the silence.
My gaze wandered over the ceiling, tracing the intricate moldings that decorated its surface. A room like this was meant for someone who commanded power, someone whose very existence demanded space. It was not a place for a mere successor fumbling his way through shadows left behind by the previous generation.
Just then, a stray thought surfaced in my mind—I had forgotten to retrieve my briefcase from Lock & Key Mercantile.
I exhaled through my nose, too drained to summon even the faintest irritation.
"Whatever… I'll have a servant fetch it tomorrow."
With that, I let the weight of the day press me into the mattress, the scent of old whiskey and ink lingering in the air as my eyes slowly drifted shut.