The carriage passes through the Mathers estate gates with a muffled creak.
No welcome. Not even a servant in the distance.
The air itself feels frozen—as if the manor is holding its breath.
Guts holds the reins. His back straight, his face shut. He looks at neither the trees nor the stones. Only the road. He slows. Stops.
A groan of wood: he steps down, walks a few paces, then opens the door.
Not a word. He doesn't need one.
Emilia steps out after him. Their eyes do not meet.
They haven't spoken since the hunt. The silence between them has become armor: too heavy to break.
The front door opens slowly.
Petra.
She looks at them. First Emilia. Then Guts.
Her hand trembles slightly on the handle.
She says nothing.
She simply steps aside, as if opening the door for revenants.
The manor is silent.
Guts walks alone through the corridors, his steps muffled by the worn carpet. Every wall, every curtain, every threshold—he knows them. Yet nothing is familiar anymore.
The place has not changed.
He passes a mirror.
A brief pause. His reflection stares back—dirty, broad, drawn, his eye lifeless.
He looks away.
At the turn of a staircase, a figure appears.
She stops short. Surprised.
Tall—slightly shorter than him. Straight posture, impeccable bearing. She wears the uniform of the manor maids.
A stranger.
In the place of the one he no longer wants to name.
He raises a hand. A neutral gesture. Without tension. Without expectation.
She bows, wordless.
Then quietly steps aside, letting him pass.
He continues on.
He needs no one.
The parlor is steeped in half-darkness. The drawn curtains filter the evening light, washing the walls in a calm almost sacred.
Frederica is already waiting. Upright, composed, without stiffness.
Emilia enters without a sound. She lingers at the threshold for a moment—then steps forward, slow, weary.
Frederica invites her to sit with a simple gesture. No wasted words.
She asks nothing. She understands everything at a glance.
Then, after a silence:
Frederica : She still sleeps… she says softly.
Her voice speaks as much to the air as to Emilia.
Frederica : But sometimes, she speaks. Fragments, barely. And… she cries, Emilia.
The name, breathed with care, carries the weight of all waiting.
Emilia lowers her eyes. Her hands tremble on her knees.
She does not answer. She cannot.
In the corridors, only the faint sound of Emilia's steps remains. Slow. Light.
She stops.
Something… no, someone.
She turns.
He is there.
Guts.
Standing a few meters away, frozen in shadow like a statue time forgot.
His face hidden in the dark.
But she knows. She feels it.
She hesitates, then dares:
Emilia : Guts…?
No answer.
Emilia : Are you… alright?
His eyelid closes. Slowly. As if the question hurt him.
Emilia waits. A breath. A reaction. Anything.
Guts : I'm sorry,
He parts his lips.
Nothing comes. Even the pain seems mute.
Guts walks away from Emilia without another word.
The corridor of the manor swallows him at once into its silence.
The walls seem to choke the sounds, letting through only vague, irregular footsteps in the distance.
The familiar scent of the place returns to him—a faint mix of polished wood and cold stone. The perfume is comforting… yet fixed, as if it had never changed since the day he first came here.
He climbs the stairs unhurried. His steps find their way to his chamber by reflex, etched deep into his body. Yet nothing in the routine brings rest. His muscles feel heavy, his head heavier still. The calm of the manor only sharpens the turmoil knotted tight in his chest.
At his door, he lays a hand on the handle.
That is when he hears it.
A breath, almost a sigh… then his name, spoken distinctly.
Not a cry. Not an order. Not a threat.
Only a call, light, hanging in the air as if from far away.
He freezes.
It is Ram's voice.
For days now, it hasn't left him. It lingers somewhere behind him, in a corner of his mind—or perhaps beyond.
In his world, such presences were nothing rare. Ghosts, whispers, echoes of the dead… they were a daily thing he knew too well. Usually, those voices carried hatred, malice, or the bloody imprint of a past he longed to forget.
But this time, there is none of that.
No venom. No grudge.
Only a lingering trace… and he knows he is the cause.
He closes his eye for a moment, not knowing whether what he hears is memory, remorse… or something more real.
His hand tightens on the cold metal.
He draws a deep breath, then turns the handle.
The door opens.