The train plunged into the darkness of a tunnel, and with it, the flickering glow of lightning that had slashed through the windows was devoured by the void. All that remained was the dim, steady glow of the compartment's lanterns—pale halos shimmering against polished brass, their glow stretching into elongated shadows that swayed like silent phantoms on the velvet-lined walls.
Outside, the world ceased to exist. The glass panes, once portals to a sprawling countryside bathed in morning rain, now reflected only a murky darkness. Shadows gathered thickly, their weight pressing against the fragile barrier of glass as if trying to seep inside. The rhythmic clatter of iron wheels on steel tracks, once a comforting metronome, grew distant—muffled, as though the darkness itself drank the sound, leaving only an oppressive silence.
The rain, once a steady drumbeat against the train's exterior, became a dull echo in the depths of the tunnel, the droplets racing down the windows slowing to an eerie stillness. In that hollow quiet, something shifted.
At first, it was nothing more than a subtle change—a faint disturbance in the air, like the breath of a ghost brushing against the nape of my neck.
Then came the whispers—soft and indistinct—the fragments of voices unmoored from any mouth, slipping through the thin veil of silence like echoes from a place I couldn't see. They weren't words, not really—just faint murmurs, too distant to grasp but close enough to chill the marrow of my bones.
A cold shiver crept up my spine. My body tensed instinctively, as if some ancient instinct buried deep within recognized a threat my mind had yet to name. My palms grew clammy, slick with the cold sweat of suppressed fear. Without thinking, I rubbed them against the coarse fabric of my trousers—a habit etched into muscle memory, a relic of a life long gone. A small, futile gesture, as though friction alone could erase the creeping dread.
My hands bore the faint scars of that other life—thin, white lines criss crossing my pale skin. They weren't the marks of battle, not in the traditional sense. No heroic tales carved into flesh. They were remnants of quieter wars, fought in solitude, against enemies that wore no face: anxiety, despair, the crushing weight of isolation. Battles I'd often lost.
The sudden, sharp crack of a cane striking flesh tore through the stagnant air, abrupt and jarring—a sound too violent for the refined elegance of our compartment.
"Tsk. My cane is sullied by filthy blood."
My father's voice cut through the silence—detached, cold, untouched by the violence he left behind.
It sliced through the dimness with the precision of a scalpel, leaving behind an absence more profound than silence. His tone carried no trace of emotion—no anger, no triumph, not even disdain. Just an idle annoyance, as though commenting on the inconvenience of rain spoiling a crisp morning.
I dragged my gaze upward, defying every instinct that screamed to keep it lowered.
There he stood—Earl Frederick Ashbourne—an edifice of cold authority, chiseled from the same unyielding stone as the world he commanded. Not a crease marred his tailored coat, not a hair out of place, as though the violence that had just erupted dared not touch him. In one gloved hand, he held his cane—polished, regal—the silver handle catching the lanternlight with a muted gleam. From its tip, a single drop of blood slipped free, landing on the plush burgundy carpet with a soft, almost remorseful patter.
Beneath him lay the crumpled body of a man—a would-be assassin whose ambition had outpaced his skill. His form was twisted unnaturally, limbs splayed like a broken marionette, his face frozen in the slack-jawed surprise of someone who realized, too late, that death had come for him. Blood pooled beneath him, a dark stain spreading like ink spilled across parchment. A dagger had slipped from his lifeless fingers, its blade catching the lantern light one last time before becoming just another shadow.
My father regarded the corpse with the same detached interest one might afford an empty glass after the last sip of wine. No satisfaction in victory. No flicker of rage. Just… indifference.
With methodical precision, he knelt slightly—not to check for life, not to ensure the man was dead. No, he simply wiped the blood from his cane, using the assassin's tattered clothes as if they were nothing more than rags. When the silver gleamed clean once more, he straightened, adjusted his cuffs, discarded his gloves atop the corpse—an absent gesture, as if shedding the last traces of inconvenience. Then, without so much as a glance back, he resumed his place, as though the entire affair had been no more disruptive than a breeze stirring the autumn leaves.
My stomach churned—not with fear, but with something colder. Something like recognition.
Because this wasn't the first time I'd seen death. Not here, not even in my past life. But never had it been treated with such casual disregard. As if a life—its memories, its struggles, its quiet hopes—could be reduced to an inconvenience. A stain on polished leather.
The train screeched softly, the metallic wail of iron against iron marking our slow descent back into light. The oppressive darkness outside fractured, slivers of pale illumination seeping through the narrowing shadows until, with a final hiss of released steam, the train emerged from the tunnel.
The rain still fell—though gentler now, no longer the relentless downpour of before. Droplets clung to the glass, tracing slow, meandering paths like veins across a fogged surface. The sky, once bruised with storm clouds, had begun to lighten at the edges, the faintest hints of morning peeking through. And as the city came into view, the rain began to wane, tapering off into nothing but a lingering mist.
The grand station loomed like the open maw of some ancient beast, its towering arches etched with ornate carvings that spoke of wealth and history. Massive iron girders framed stained-glass windows, their colors muted by the ever-present shroud of industrial soot. Gas lamps burned along the platforms, casting pools of golden light that fought valiantly against the creeping gloom.
As the train shuddered to a halt, doors slid open with a hiss, releasing a burst of cold air tinged with the metallic tang of steam and coal. My father stepped out first, his polished boots striking the stone platform with purpose. I followed, my movements measured, deliberate—each step a silent echo of his, though my shadow felt heavier.
The station was alive with motion. Porters darted between carriages, hauling trunks and crates with practiced efficiency. Vendors shouted over the clamor, hawking roasted chestnuts and papers inked with bold headlines. The mingling scents of machine oil, coal smoke, and freshly baked bread created a tapestry of contradictions—rich and suffocating all at once.
A sleek black carriage awaited us at the platform's edge, its lacquered surface gleaming like obsidian under the gaslight. Silver filigree traced its edges, delicate yet sharp, much like the man it was meant to carry. A pair of midnight-colored horses stood harnessed at the front, their breath rising in clouds as the chill morning air kissed their flared nostrils.
Beside the carriage, a footman stood at rigid attention. His uniform was immaculate, brass buttons glinting like miniature suns against his dark coat. As we approached, he bowed deeply, one hand pressed over his heart—a gesture too precise to be mere politeness.
"Greetings, master. I have been awaiting your arrival."
The footman's voice was low, reverent—almost like a prayer, as though he addressed more than just a man.
My father gave a curt nod in response. No warmth. No words. Just acknowledgement.
Then the footman's eyes shifted to me. His posture eased, only slightly—enough to be noticed, though never crossing the line of proper decorum.
"Welcome, young master. I hope your journey wasn't too exhausting and that you've been keeping well."
"It was comfortable enough," I replied, each word deliberate. "I trust the estate has remained in order during my father's absence?"
The formality sat awkwardly on my tongue, but I kept my tone even, masking the tension that coiled beneath my skin.
"Yes, young master. We've managed as best we could—though the estate is never quite the same without our lord's presence."
"I see," I said simply.
Inside the carriage, the atmosphere grew denser, as if the very air conspired to crush the space between us. The seats were upholstered in dark leather, their surface cool against my palms. Opposite me, my father sat like a man carved from stone—unmoved, unmovable. His hands rested atop the polished wood of his cane, fingers relaxed yet poised, as if violence was never more than a breath away.
My gaze drifted to his right hand, where a ring of deep green adorned his index finger. The gemstone was an emerald, dark as forest shadows and etched with the emblem of an ash tree. It glimmered faintly, a quiet testament to a legacy older than either of us. That same symbol—the ash tree—was carved into the silver handle of his cane, its roots and branches entwined in an eternal, silent snare.
It wasn't just a family crest. It was a warning.
Outside the carriage window, Ashwood City unfolded like a living tapestry stitched together with threads of iron and steam. The streets were veins through which the lifeblood of industry flowed—carriages rattling over cobblestones slick with last night's rain, steam-powered vehicles coughing clouds of white into the cold air. Clock towers rose above the skyline, their faces solemn as they marked the passage of time with mechanical precision.
Gas lamps lined the avenues, their flickering flames casting elongated shadows that danced between towering buildings of soot-streaked stone and gleaming brass. The city was a contradiction—a place where elegance and decay existed side by side, where wealth polished its boots on the backs of the desperate.
When we arrived at the manor, its towering gates creaked open with the groan of old iron, revealing grounds meticulously manicured to the point of sterility. The gravel path crunched underfoot as we approached the entrance—a grand structure of cold stone, its facade adorned with more ash tree emblems than I cared to count.
Inside, the manor was a cathedral to power. Marble floors stretched beneath vaulted ceilings, their polished surfaces reflecting the flickering light of crystal chandeliers. Servants lined the hall like statues, each bowing deeply as we passed, their hands pressed over their hearts in that same precise gesture—the one that wasn't just respect.
It was submission.
Their eyes never lingered. Their expressions remained neutral. But beneath that facade, I could feel it—the undercurrent of fear woven into every perfectly timed bow, every carefully chosen word. This was more than deference to nobility. This was survival.
I clenched my hands, feeling the faint sting of old scars against my palms.
In this new life, I would have to be more than careful. The shadows here didn't just watch.
They judged and they remembered.