The wax cooled slowly.
A thin curl of smoke rose from the seal, twisting in the lamplight before dissolving into the still air of the study.
Duke Arcturus von Rosenfeld watched it fade, his hand still resting atop the folded parchment he had just finished. The sigil pressed into the red wax was not his public crest, but a lesser mark—a quiet brand used only in shadows and unspoken dealings.
He lifted his hand.
The parchment lay there, motionless.
Complete.
Arrangements… set in motion.
For now, it was enough.
Or so he thought.
He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking faintly beneath his weight. The study's lamplight cast long shadows across the stone floor, pooling beneath the legs of the desk like congealed darkness.
His gaze drifted—door, shelves, map, sword.
The room was as it had always been.
Yet some knot of tension inside his chest did not loosen.
Not with the decision made.
Not with the path opened.
It tightened.
A fraction more.
He frowned.
Annoyance brushed against the edges of his composure—at first vague, directionless—until a single, simple thought flared fully into clarity.
Helena.
His fingers stilled.
His breath paused for half a beat.
Helena von Rosenfeld.
His wife.
Kel's mother.
A woman whose calm, gentle voice rarely rose… and yet whose questions had, on more than one occasion, made seasoned war-captains falter and junior nobles rethink entire strategies.
Arcturus stared at the parchment on his desk.
Then slowly… pressed two fingers against the bridge of his nose.
Ah.
There it was.
The problem he had not yet named.
The storm he had just, unknowingly, invited into his own house.
Not a rebellion.
Not a cult.
Not an imperial decree.
His wife.
He let his hand fall, exhaling soundlessly.
She will ask about him.
Of course she would.
Helena was no fool. She had tolerated the whispered pity, the hidden glances, the careful euphemisms thrown around court like fragile glass whenever Kel was mentioned. She had weathered the sorrow alone where no one saw it—inside her rooms, behind closed doors, in the way her fingers lingered over Kel's old toys in the storage closet others assumed she never visited.
And now, when their son had finally taken a visible step into the world…
Arcturus had agreed to let him vanish from the estate.
Like a ghost.
A humorless, faintly desperate sound escaped his throat—something between a sigh and the shell of a chuckle that died before it could form.
He had negotiated with generals, vassals, princes.
He had faced down cult-leaders with eyes too bright and priests whose smiles were carved into their faces like masks.
He had not yet devised an effective strategy for explaining to Helena why her cursed son—the one everyone expected to die slowly and quietly under her watchful gaze—was not in his room, or on the training grounds, or within reach.
His jaw tightened.
That… may be an issue.
He sank further back into his chair, lifting his eyes to the high ceiling. The beams of darkwood disappeared into shadow above, thick and old, like the ribs of some ancient beast lying on its back, the stone between them stained faintly by time and smoke.
His thoughts turned.
Slowly at first.
Then faster.
Like an avalanche that had started with a single dislodged stone.
His Wife
Helena was not loud.
She was not dramatic.
She would not storm his study, demanding answers in front of servants.
No.
She would simply appear at his door at some quiet hour—draped in her usual layered gown of pale ash and dusk-blue, hair bound with understated silver, her eyes soft and steady.
She would fold her hands.
She would tilt her head.
And ask, in that gentle tone that gave no room for lies to breathe:
"Arcturus, I did not see Kel at breakfast. Where is he?"
He could already see it.
Already hear it.
He imagined answering carelessly, as he did with vassals:
"Occupied."
Helena would not argue.
She would just look at him.
Long.
Silent.
With eyes that saw battlefields in small things—missing cups, unread books, the absence of a certain pair of footsteps in the corridor.
And then, perhaps hours later, when he thought the topic had passed, she would reappear.
"He was not in his room either."
And again.
"The servants say his bed is not slept in."
And again.
"Arcturus."
He closed his eyes briefly.
No.
He could not tell her the truth.
Not all of it.
Not yet.
If she knew Kel had gone into the world carrying a curse and a will that barely fit inside his fragile body, she would—
What?
Beg him to bring their son back?
Curse him for letting Kel go?
Or simply… look at him with quiet disappointment?
That last possibility, he decided, was worse than any shouting.
His fingers curled against the armrests.
You asked to walk the path of ghosts, Kel, he thought. And I agreed. Now I must weave a lie sturdy enough to hold your absence.
His Brothers
And then there were his brothers.
Arcturus exhaled, his expression tightening further.
Men of his bloodline—less burdened than he, less chained by the weight of the ducal title. They watched the estate from peripheral angles, vultures and guardians both, depending on the day.
Some of them pitied Kel.
Some of them despised the complication he represented.
All of them would eventually notice if the cursed heir was not seen on the grounds for an extended period.
"Brother, I have not seen your eldest in the training courtyard recently," one might say with feigned nonchalance.
"Has he finally collapsed?"
Or worse:
"We heard you allowed him to duel. Are you hiding him now to avoid embarrassment?"
Arcturus's lip curled faintly in contempt at the imagined voices.
He had little patience for their hidden jabs.
But their attention was still a factor.
He could not simply say: Kel has left the estate and is walking alone in the Empire.
He might as well send formal invitations to every viper to begin moving their pieces.
His fingers drummed once on the desk.
Then again.
The Vassals
The vassals were another problem.
Every steward, knight-commander, and household adviser with enough sense of self-importance would eventually ask about Kel.
Not out of concern.
Out of interest.
A Duke's heir was not merely a child.
He was an asset.
Even a cursed one.
Especially a cursed one—because curses could be exploited just as surely as blessings.
"My Lord, shall we adjust the projected allocations for the heir's future household?"
"My Lord, rumors from the banquet say the young master showed promising swordsmanship. Shall we increase the training budget?"
"My Lord, the healers request another examination schedule regarding the curse—"
He could not have them searching.
He could not have them asking.
No.
He needed a story.
Something simple.
Something consistent.
Something that would satisfy Helena, silence his brothers, and redirect his vassals.
A single… common excuse.
Arcturus pinched the bridge of his nose again, this time with more pressure, his eyes closing.
"I have commanded troops in winter sieges with fewer complications than this," he muttered, barely audible.
He let his hand fall, opening his eyes once more.
He stared at the door.
He imagined the estate beyond it—halls, courtyards, rooms, all carrying the quiet hum of winter routine. Servants moving like organized shadows. Knights pacing training grounds. Advisors lingering near doorways, watching, always watching.
They would all believe Kel was here.
For now.
Soon, the absence would become too sharp to ignore.
And then the questions would start.
He needed something that could hold.
Considering the Lies
His mind began to sort through possibilities with the same cold efficiency he used for battlefield logistics.
Illness.
Too obvious. Too dangerous.
If he claimed Kel had fallen ill, Helena would demand to see him, to sit by his bedside, to ensure the healers were doing everything possible. She would not accept being barred from her own son's side.
His brothers would whisper about the curse worsening.
Vassals would start preparations for contingencies.
Illness would invite concern.
Concern would dig for truth.
No.
Not illness.
Secluded treatment.
Better.
If he said Kel was undergoing a specialized treatment—dangerous, delicate, requiring strict isolation—it might explain his prolonged absence.
But Helena…
She would still attempt to see him.
Even if he told her a healer required privacy, special conditions, rare rituals—she would only accept that excuse for so long before demanding entry.
He could bar knights from her path.
He could not bar a mother from a door meant for her child.
He frowned.
No.
Treatment was not enough.
He needed something…
Secluded training.
The thought came quieter.
But it stayed.
Training…
Closed-door training.
A noble phrase, used often by houses with ambitious heirs. Eldest sons going into seclusion, returning with sharpened skills and new power.
Inside the estate.
Visible only in rumor.
He studied the thought, turning it like a blade, examining every edge.
Secluded training could explain Kel's absence from public eyes. If he declared that he himself had ordered Kel into strict indoor training—isolated, heavily regulated, no visitors allowed—it would silence many questions.
Knights would accept it as a matter of discipline.
Vassals would accept it as a sign of seriousness—that the Duke was finally forging the cursed heir into something usable.
His brothers would be irritated but appeased. They'd assume Arcturus was trying to save face by hiding the boy's weakness until he improved.
That was fine.
Let them think that.
But Helena…
He pressed his lips together.
Could he tell her that Kel was in seclusion?
Yes.
Would she accept that she could not see him?
Not easily.
He could add one more layer.
Not just training.
Something older.
Something sacred.
Ancestral Rite.
The words flickered at the back of his mind—half memory, half invention.
Their family had ancient rites, practices passed down in fragments. Old disciplines, old meditation methods, old… restrictions.
If he claimed that Kel was undergoing a sealed ancestral discipline—one that demanded isolation, silence, and the absence of familiar emotional interference—
Helena might still hate it.
But she would understand its weight.
Arcturus's fingers stopped moving.
His expression smoothed.
Slowly, the shape of the lie began to form.
Not a small lie.
A large one.
A structured one.
If he declared to the estate that Kel had entered a period of "Inherited Seclusion"—a Rosenfeld-only discipline, under the Duke's personal supervision, no access granted except to those he explicitly permitted—he could keep everyone at bay.
He could even make it sound like Kel's recent duel had been… a test.
A prelude.
The young master showed promise, he could say. I have decided to personally enforce an intensive regimen. No interruptions. No audience.
Helena would come.
She would ask.
He would look her in the eyes and say:
"It is dangerous for him to be seen right now. The training he is undertaking… requires that he break away from all previous patterns. Even from you."
He did not enjoy imagining the look she would give him in response.
Her fingers might tighten around the fabric of her dress at her sides.
Her eyes might grow still.
She might whisper, "And this was his decision…?"
He could at least tell the truth in that part.
"Yes," he would answer. "He wishes to stand on his own feet."
It would not be a complete lie.
Not entirely.
Kel had asked to face the world without spectators.
The world simply would not know that "seclusion" meant roads and danger and the taste of foreign air.
He inhaled slowly.
Let the breath out.
The knot in his chest loosened.
Slightly.
Not much.
But enough.
"Secluded training, under my order," he said quietly, testing the words in the air. "No visitors. No exceptions."
His brothers could grumble all they wished.
His vassals could mutter among themselves.
None of them would challenge a Duke's personal discipline decree on his own heir.
Not publicly.
Not if they valued their positions.
It was a common enough story among noble families:
The heir is in seclusion.
How much seclusion was anyone's guess.
No one ever pressed too hard.
Arcturus sat up straighter, resting his forearms on the desk again. The tension in his shoulders shifted, rearranging itself into something more manageable.
He had his excuse.
Now it needed structure.
Formalizing the Lie
He reached for another blank parchment.
The quill slid once more into ink, dark fluid clinging to its tip.
This time, his hand moved with certainty.
No hesitation.
He began to write:
To all household division heads, knights of the inner estate, and steward councils under the Rosenfeld name—
His script was sharp, disciplined, each stroke reflecting the man behind it.
By direct order of the Duke, effective immediately, Young Master Kel von Rosenfeld will enter a period of closed seclusion within the estate grounds.
The lie wove itself between threads of truth.
This seclusion will serve as both intensive discipline and specialized curse-stability regulation, conducted under protocols originating from ancestral Rosenfeld doctrine.
Ancestral doctrine.
Old enough that no one would dare claim full understanding.
During this period, the young master will not attend public functions, will not be available for visitation, and shall not be approached without explicit written permission from myself.
He paused.
Then added, without mercy:
Any attempt to violate these conditions will be considered an intrusion into Duke-level affairs and treated accordingly.
His mind wandered briefly to Helena.
He did not write her name.
He would speak to her personally.
No letter would do.
He signed the proclamation with his full title and crest, then set it aside to dry.
Later, it would be copied, distributed, read in formal monotone by trusted voices across the estate's administrative branches.
Whispers would rise.
The cursed heir is in seclusion.
The Duke has finally decided to shape him.
Perhaps he means to salvage the bloodline after all.
Arcturus suspected some would even be… pleased.
Let them.
Their understanding was irrelevant.
Their obedience was not.
He leaned back once more, letting the quill rest, the ink slowly drying at the edge.
The study felt the same.
Yet something within him had adjusted, like a sword settling more securely into its sheath.
He had a lie.
He had a shield.
He had, in his own way, woven a subtle cloak around the absence of his son.
A cloak made of words, authority, and fear.
It would not hold forever.
But for two years…
It might.
He closed his eyes briefly.
Helena's face rose again in his mind—soft, sharp, clear-eyed.
He would still have to speak to her.
He would still have to endure whatever silence, or tears, or quiet acceptance that conversation summoned.
But at least now…
He had something to place between her heart and the raw truth.
Our son is in seclusion, he would say.
He did not add:
Beyond these walls. Beyond our reach. Beyond your line of sight.
The curse had already stolen so much from her.
He would not hand her this fear all at once.
Not yet.
The snow outside the window thickened, the flakes swirling more heavily against the glass.
Winter deepened around Rosenfeld Manor.
Inside the study, Duke Arcturus von Rosenfeld sat alone beneath the weight of his own decisions, staring at the empty space in front of his desk—
And quietly, ruthlessly, finished knotting the lie that would let his son walk the world as a ghost…
…while the estate slept believing he was still within their walls.