Evening in the manor was always thick with silence. Not peace — never peace — but that hush that wrapped around secrets, waiting for someone reckless enough to pull at the threads.
Lucian stood by the corridor's bend, in front of the broom room, arms folded, shadows licking the hem of his tunic. His grey eyes were focused on the far end, where a familiar set of footsteps echoed.
Alger.
That smug little weasel had let it slip earlier — about his magic being sealed. Not a mistake. Not a guess. A fact.
The idiot knew something.
Lucian waited. Footsteps grew louder. Sloppier.
The moment Alger passed, Lucian's hand shot out.
"Wha—?!" Thud.
The door to the broom closet slammed shut, muffling the world outside.
Inside, Lucian shoved his cousin against the wall, one arm like an iron bar across Alger's chest.
"What the hell—Lucian?!"
"You've got one chance to explain what you meant." Lucian's voice was ice. "About the seal. The potions. Everything."
Alger tried to push him off. "I don't know what you're talking—!"
Lucian's fist slammed into Alger's gut. A messy, wet retch filled the room as he doubled over, gagging.
"Try again."
"Okay, okay—!" Alger coughed, practically sobbing. "It was my mother! She… she said your mana was 'unstable,' that sealing it was for your own good! The potions were part of it — they kept the seal from breaking too early!"
Lucian didn't move.
"You were supposed to stay harmless," Alger rasped, still hunched over. "They said you were dangerous. That… that you took after her."
Her. His mother.
A chill swept through Lucian's chest, slow and steady.
He loosened his grip, just a little.
"Anything else I should know?" he said.
Alger blinked, hesitating.
Lucian's eyes sharpened. "I'm in a generous mood today, if you didn't know."
"Th-the letters," Alger stammered. "From your mother. You do get them. Every couple months. But they're blank, I swear. Maybe cursed or something — I never read them. I just overheard a servant saying they always came."
Lucian stared at him.
Blank. Right.
Not cursed. Hidden. Old-fashioned lemon ink— the kind you could reveal with light. Obviously these fools would not know.
How many did they toss away without checking…?
"I… I didn't think it mattered!" Alger added, raising his hands. "I'm not part of this!"
Lucian raised a brow. "You are now."
He brought a hand up and slammed the side of his palm against Alger's neck. The boy dropped like a sack of grain, out cold and snoring against the floor.
Lucian rubbed his knuckles, glancing over the body.
Sealed magic. Drugged. Letters hidden. All under their noses. No— under mine.
He had minutes, maybe less, before Alger's absence was noticed.
He needed proof. And if anyone kept records, enchantments, or backup plans—it would be her. His demoness aunt.
Time to pay dear Auntie a visit.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was late noon.
The manor came alive in its own stiff, unpleasant rhythm. Cutlery clinked against polished plates downstairs, voices drifted like fog through the hallways. Lucian could hear the servants moving about, plates clattering on silver trays, muffled footsteps.
And more than once…
"Has anyone seen Master Alder?"
Lucian sneered.
Master. That pathetic slug of a cousin, getting praised for existing. As if mediocrity was a crown.
He walked with purpose now — not rushed, not timid. A calculated pace. Casual enough to pass for just another spoiled noble on his way to nowhere.
His aunt's room was upstairs, at the east wing. Oversized and over-decorated, of course.
Her door stood shut, but not locked. Nobility loved the illusion of privacy more than the reality of it.
He slid inside.
The scent hit him first — bitter, cloying — some herb she always smoked in her pipe. Sage, maybe. Or something foul pretending to be it.
The curtains were pulled halfway. Light crept in like a guilty thing, casting long shadows over velvet furniture and rose-gold trim. A vanity smothered in perfume bottles. Jewelry scattered across a cushioned chair.
But Lucian ignored it all.
He moved straight for the desk in the far corner. Her little study nook — where the real dirt was buried.
The bookshelves groaned with leather-bound volumes, most unopened. Shelves above held trinkets and old scrolls. The desk was a mess of ink bottles, unfinished letters, and stacked ledgers.
He dug through the top drawer first. Nothing.
Second — loose envelopes. Receipts. Old invitations.
Then the third.
Lucian paused.
There they were.
Stacked haphazardly in the back, half-hidden beneath old tax records and enchanted seals that had long since lost their glow — envelopes marked with an old crest.
And each was signed at the back in the same precise hand, one word:
Seraphyne.
His breath caught.
Some of them were still sealed. Others had been opened — a few looked like they'd been burned at the edges. Destroyed before they could be read.
Lucian didn't think. He grabbed them — a handful, careful not to bend them — just as—
Click.
The door opened.
Lucian dropped to the floor, sliding under the desk like a shadow.
Footsteps.
A voice. "Master Alder? Are you in here?"
It was a maid. Young voice, probably new. She sounded annoyed — not suspicious. Just annoyed to be looking for the pampered rat while the food got cold.
Lucian held his breath.
Shoes shuffled. The door creaked again. Closed.
Silence.
He waited another heartbeat. Then another.
Then he moved, smooth as a wisp. Papers tucked into his coat, he left the room, retracing his steps back to his side of the manor.
He didn't stop until he was in his room again. Door shut. Curtains drawn.
He placed the letters on the bed like they were holy.
And sat.
Eyes locked on the name written across each one.
Seraphyne.
His mother. The one they cast out. The one they tried to erase.
And here she was, reaching out to him from six years of silence.
Lucian stood, pulled out a candle, and lighted it.
Let's find the truth.