"Sir knight, trust me. We're done here. We have other places to be. The Lord expects punctuality. Any more delays..."The butler's voice didn't raise, but the pause lingered."...and we'll be forced to consider this an act of retaliation."
A ripple of tension passed through the group.
A faint pressure leaked from the butler—just enough to suffocate the air around them. Even Markram felt it bite at his breath.
It was a warning. A reminder.
Whoever these people were… they weren't weak.
Sigh.
"That was a misstep on my part," Markram admitted. "Lead the way, butler. Let's finish the tour."
The knights reformed, quiet but alert. The butler offered a shallow nod and led them on. He walked as if nothing had happened.
They passed through the estate again—gardens, halls, side wings. Everything was balanced… too balanced. Lavish on one side, rotten on the other. Like it was built to confuse the eye.
By dusk, the so-called tour ended. The group was returned to their assigned dormitories. Markram wasted no time.
"Meet after dinner. My quarters. Quietly."
Later that night.
The captain's room was modestly bigger than the others. Slightly more refined. But that wasn't what mattered.
What mattered was the spell seal on the door—silent and heavy.
Markram stood with arms folded.
"Sit down, boys. Right now we're not knights. Just men. Speak freely. I've muted the room. No eyes, no ears."
He looked around the circle. Eyes serious. Tone tight.
"We're here to talk—not complain, not whine. Straight observations. One by one. I'll tell you how much this mansion's changed since thirty years ago."
One knight stepped up.
"First thing—the atmosphere. The blind eye. Everyone sees what's happening here. The women being... abused. But no one's doing anything. It's routine. It's normal to them."
Another added, "Captain... I used mana to scout ahead. But the place is locked tight. There's suppression all around—no gaps, no leaks. They're hiding something… and they're damn good at it."
A third voice came through, cautious. "One thing struck me hard. There's barely any inner patrols. No guards around the Lord, none near the advisors. The whole central wing is practically open. Either they're overconfident, or... they don't need protection."
The room fell silent.
Markram didn't speak.
Instead, his gaze landed on Ram. "You've been too quiet. Thoughts?"
Ram looked up slowly. Calm. Calculated.
"My brothers here caught some sharp points. I'm not as good at observation—but I'm decent at reason."
He stood.
"There are only two explanations for the silence. Either the Lord has something on everyone here. Something that binds them, controls them. Maybe a weak point, something sensitive. Maybe something worse. Or..."
He paused.
"They're waiting. Biding time. Planning a coup."
A few of the knights looked up.
Markram tapped his chin. "...I thought about that too. The coup idea's logical. But this place? It's too guarded. The marriage, the preparations, even the air we breathe—it's all under watch."
"If the rumors are true... if the Lord's really taking support from the Obscurum, then even a coup might get stomped before it starts."
Ram continued, "There's something else. Back when the Lord spoke about Lady Vadia—about us visiting her—I noticed it."
He looked around.
"You felt it too, didn't you? That sudden pulse. Not lust. Predator instinct. From the staff. The maids. Even the butler."
Markram's eyes narrowed.
"They were scared," Ram said. "Not of us. Not even of the Lord."
"But of her."
Silence again.
Markram scratched his bald head. "Good deduction, kiddo. I've got a few theories myself... but it's not time yet."
He stood and looked around at them all.
"Listen close, boys. Tomorrow, the real game begins. This house isn't what it used to be. The family... twisted. The halls, rotten. I'll brief you on how it was thirty years ago when I served here. But know this—"
His voice lowered.
"Stay sharp. Especially in the shadows. That's where the Obscurum likes to move."
No one spoke. The weight of it all pressed down.
Markram finally looked away, toward the window. "No matter what happens... we serve the Lord. We protect this place."
His hand trembled. Just once.
"...That duty is unchangeable."
Ram watched him closely.
And after a few heartbeats, he reached into his coat and took out the rune messenger. He activated it silently and whispered under his breath.
"Move the plan forward. The knights are too loyal. They'll protect that old bastard to the end. I'll bring the rest. Be ready."
He gave one final glance at the others before slipping the stone back into his robes.
Outside, the night grew colder.
And deep within the mansion... something stirred.
The moon shifted west, its light barely brushing the surface of the silent barracks. Sleep came like a thief—brief, restless, and gone too soon.
The dawn cracked open the sky.
HUP! HUP!
The knights moved like a single entity, blades flashing under the morning light. Sweat clung to their bodies as the drills continued. Form. Step. Swing. Breathe.
Ram stood opposite a fellow knight, blades raised.
Clang!
They exchanged swift blows. No anger. No edge. Just rhythm.
Step, slide, deflect. Duck, parry, advance.
Their swords kissed briefly, sparks flicking off the edge before they both pulled back. The tension was thick—but not hostile. It was the calm before something inevitable.
"Well done," the knight said. "You've gotten sharper, Ram."
"Thanks. But you're still faster," he replied, shaking out his wrists.
The whistle blew. The morning session wrapped.
By mid-morning, the knights had already dispersed across the estate for their patrols.
Ram was assigned to the eastern wing—where the hallways felt colder, older. The corridor was silent, save for the dull tap of his boots.
Then he saw it again.
The paintings.
Lining the walls, frames of gold and wood stood with pride, each depicting scenes of celebration and grandeur—banquets, weddings, hunts. Smiles, all smiles.
But that wasn't what caught his eye.
It was the shelves beneath—those subtle plinths carved into the stone to hold etched plates. Each one bore a name and description of the artwork. The letters were clean—but a few had been scratched. Altered. Just slightly.
He knelt near one. The nameplate read:
"Lady Eronia's Second Feast – Year 658."
The picture above, though… didn't match. It wasn't a feast.
It was a caged ballroom, women dancing, eyes hollow. One at the center looked oddly like—
Ram leaned closer.
A soft chill ran down his back.
"Curious, aren't we?"
The voice was calm.
Expressionless.
The butler stood just behind him.
Ram didn't startle. "Just doing my patrol, sir. These paintings… feel different."
"Art is subjective," the butler said with a half-smile. "But you are right. Many things feel different in this house."
He paused, eyeing the scratched plate. "That one has always drawn attention. A shame, really. Beauty fades fast in places like these."
Ram stood. "Tell me… are you aware of what's going on in this mansion? What the Lord's doing?"
A beat of silence.
The butler turned away, gaze distant.
"The Lord may be flawed. But I serve him. I was assigned to him by blood and bond. I do what I must."
"Even if what he does is—" Ram stopped short.
The butler met his eyes.
"I never said I agreed. But orders… must be followed."
Ram narrowed his gaze. The man was hiding something. His loyalty was real—but the kind that covered something deeper.
A plan. A motive. A secret?
As the butler walked away, Ram stared at the altered painting again.
There was a truth buried here.
And he'd find it.