The heavy wheels of the carriage ground into the wet gravel, finally coming to a halt at the iron gates of the Ahmed Estate. The horses stood shivering in the morning mist, their breath coming out in thick, ragged plumes.
Azgaar Ahmed stepped down into the mud. His ash-black hair moved slightly in the wind. He wore ceremonial robes threaded with gold, a stark, expensive contrast to the gray gloom of the village. He adjusted his thin-framed glasses, his eyes remaining as flat and cold as a dead man's.
It was the kind of calm that made people lower their gaze without knowing why.
Behind him, Natasha followed. Her hair was secured with an intricate bone clip, exposing her pale neck. Her yellowish eyes scanning the treeline with a distance that felt like a physical wall.
The driver scrambled off his seat, his boots splashing into a puddle. He didn't look at them. He kept his head down, staring at the hem of Azgaar's robes.
"Five hundred and fifty Baowa, Master," the man whispered. His voice was thin, catching in the back of his throat. "From Old City to Shitapur Villege."
Azgaar flicked his wrist. A stack of banknotes slid from his sleeve, drifting through the air to land in the driver's palms.
A silent use of Sentira.
The driver clutched the money and climbed back onto the carriage, snapping the reins before the horses were even ready. As soon as the estate gates were a blur in the distance, he pulled a lead-alloy locket from under his shirt.
"The Eagle is in," he said. His voice was flat and bored. "Target is inside. No suspicion."
A voice like grinding stone answered from the metal: "Proceed to Jughirghoul. Your payment is waiting."
Back at the gates, Azgaar let out a short, dry sound—something between a cough and a laugh. He had heard the driver's report carried through the vibrations in the air.
Natasha glanced at him. She knew his subtle shifts in mood. "What is it?"
"Nothing," Azgaar adjusted his glasses, looking out into the mist. "Just thinking about how eagerly some people dig their own graves for a few coins."
The Head Servant, Shirin, and her daughters appeared from the shadows of the main house. They bowed low, their starched uniforms crinkling in the damp air. Azgaar ignored them, waving a hand to signal for his luggage to be taken.
Azgaar looked up at the sky. The faint hue of the Bloodmoon still lingered in the breaking dawn.
"The seventh day is approaching," he said quietly.
Natasha's expression softened. "Ruhan's birthday."
"Yes." Azgaar said, his voice dropping. "Tomorrow, I will announce a mandatory three-day vacation for all the staff. The estate will be completely empty."
"Empty?"
"No listening ears. No one to report to the Clan Elders. We will break the rules just this once. We will celebrate our son's birthday as a family."
Natasha's throat tightened with emotion, but her gaze fell to the dark leather suitcase Azgaar held in his hand.
"You... you aren't staying?" she asked, her voice faltering. "You just arrived."
Azgaar turned to her. He stepped forward and gently kissed her forehead.
"I cannot stay," he said softly. "Do you not want me to lift the curse that binds our son? I am close. The mission is dangerous, but for Ruhan... I will find a way."
He stepped back. The air around him began to hum.
In the village, the elites stood at Rank 5, while the elders were Rank 4 Masterers. Azgaar, however, was Rank 3.
A rank that placed him on par with a village leader.
"Wait for me."
In a blink, Azgaar dissolved into the morning wind, leaving behind only the faint scent of his cologne and Tobacco.
Natasha stood alone in the courtyard. She let out a trembling breath and turned her gaze toward a small, neglected building at the edge of the estate.
The Storeroom.
"Ruhan..." she whispered into the cold air. "Just a little longer. We haven't forgotten you."
(Editing... Do not proceed for now.)
✦✦✦
5:30 AM.
The storeroom was freezing. The gray light of dawn made the dust in the air look like floating ash.
Tasnim entered, the hinges of the door giving a long, high-pitched shriek. She carried a tray with a glass of water and a rough towel. She looked at Ruhan, who was curled up under a thin, gray blanket, and felt a dull pang of pity. But she needed the money.
"Young Master... wake up."
Ruhan stirred, his brain a fog of fever and the lingering terror of the axe. He saw a figure standing over him, offering a tray. In his delirium, the shape looked soft. Familiar.
"Mom...?" he slurred, reaching out a hand. His fingers brushed against the rough fabric of Tasnim's apron.
The slap was sharp.
The sting on Ruhan's cheek brought the room back into focus. The dream of his mother vanished, replaced by the damp stone walls and the cold light. He scrambled back against the headboard, clutching his face.
Tasnim stood there, her face red, clutching her collar. "What... what was that?" she hissed.
Panic hit Ruhan. He saw the trap. He was the exiled heir, and she was the help. If she screamed, his life was over. The Elders were just waiting for a reason to throw him into the street.
"I—I was dreaming—" his voice was a pathetic rasp.
The door clicked. Aspia stepped in and turned the key. She didn't look angry; she looked like she was conducting a business meeting.
"You crossed a line today, Ruhan," she said. Her voice was level, almost gentle.
"I didn't do anything!" Ruhan's heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
"It doesn't matter," Aspia said, stepping closer. "If I call the guards, who do you think they'll believe? A 'failure' who touches the maids? Think about what Linara would say."
Ruhan felt a sickening hollow in his stomach. The fight went out of him. He pointed a trembling finger at the bottom drawer of his desk. "Take it. Just go."
Aspia moved quickly. She pulled out the stash—seven thousand Baowa. It was every coin Ruhan had saved over two years to fix his sword. She stuffed the notes into her pocket. Then, she saw the mahogany box in the back.
"Not that," Ruhan whispered, his voice cracking. "Please. It's my grandmother's."
Aspia picked up the box. She didn't look at Ruhan. She just felt the weight of it and slid it into her apron. "If you have a problem with it, I can always open that door and start screaming," she said.
Ruhan didn't move. He watched them turn. He watched the door click shut.
Then, the rage hit. It was a hot, suffocating heat in his chest. He clenched his fists until his nails drew blood. I'll kill them. I'll wait for them in the dark and I'll—
Then it stopped.
Abruptly.
The anger didn't fade; it was simply gone. It was as if a file had been deleted from his brain.
Ruhan blinked. He looked at his bloody palms, then at the empty drawer. The memory of what happened was there, but the feeling of it was missing. It felt like a story he'd read about someone else.
"...What was I thinking?" he murmured.
A strange, artificial calm settled over him.
"They're poor," he said to the empty room. His voice was flat, almost pleasant. "They needed the money more than I did. It's fine."
He lay back down on the mattress and closed his eyes. He felt perfectly content, entirely unaware that the thoughts in his head no longer belonged to him.