Rowan's legs threatened to give out beneath him as he stared at the sprawled body. Tomas lay crumpled on the floorboards, the sharpened chair leg jutting from his chest like a grotesque banner. Blood seeped in thick rivulets, soaking into the sheets, dripping between the cracks of the wood. The metallic tang clung to the air—thick, suffocating, inescapable.
Rowan swallowed hard, but bile still burned the back of his throat. His hands shook. His shoulder throbbed where the dagger had sliced shallow, and his knuckles were still slick with another man's blood.
This wasn't supposed to happen. Tomas had been sent to finish him—clean, quiet, forgettable. Poison left no scars, no witnesses. But now the ending Selene scripted had collapsed into chaos: a servant's corpse, bleeding out in the bastard son's chamber. A scandal sharpened into a noose.
If anyone found this mess, if anyone saw the body—
His mind snapped into sharp focus. Panic hardened into cold calculation. Poison erased traces; this was the opposite. Here was blood, steel, a corpse that screamed murder.
He dragged a trembling hand down his face. "No one can see this," he whispered hoarsely. "Not like this."
His gaze flicked from the dagger on the floor to the spreading pool of red. There was no lie, no excuse, no story that could save him now.
Unless…
The thought cut through him like a blade: the System.
Rowan's eyes narrowed, chest heaving as he forced himself to look again at the body.
"Tomas," he muttered through clenched teeth. "Even dead, you're still trying to kill me."
But maybe—just maybe—Tomas's death could buy Rowan's life.
"System Trade Tomas body for something that can help me escape"
[trade successful]
[veil of concealment acquired: active for 45 minutes]
Rowan tore strips of cloth from the sheets and scrubbed desperately at the blood. It smeared, dull streaks across the floorboards, but better than leaving pools. His shoulder burned with each motion, his stomach roiled, but he didn't stop. Every stain left behind was another noose waiting to tighten.
When he finally staggered to the door, his palm left a slick print on the handle. He wiped it quickly against his shirt and eased it open. The hinges creaked. He froze, breath trapped in his chest. No footsteps. No voices. Only the manor's timbers groaning in the night.
He slipped into the corridor.
The Veil of Concealment clung to him. He could feel it—a thinning of himself, as though the world's gaze slid past his shape. Still, every torch seemed too bright, every shadow too thin.
A servant padded by carrying a tray. Rowan pressed flat to the wall, body taut with panic. The man's eyes swept across him… and didn't linger.
The servant walked on. Rowan exhaled shakily.
He moved again, step by step, his frail body trembling with each stride. The poison's residue gnawed at his gut, his breath came ragged, and his shoulder throbbed with each heartbeat. More than once, he thought his body might collapse beneath him. But the thought of Selene finding Tomas's corpse—or worse, finding him alive—pushed him forward.
The halls stretched on, oppressive and silent. Portraits of grim-faced ancestors stared down from the walls, eyes painted to scorn weakness. He ignored them. His path twisted past the kitchens, where firelight flickered under the door. Beyond it, half-hidden in shadow, waited the narrow servants' passage.
His fingers found the latch.
The door scraped open, letting in a sliver of moonlight and a rush of cold air. For a long moment, Rowan just stood there, breath shuddering, staring at the dark beyond. Ten years in this cage—and now freedom waited only a step away.
He stepped out.
The night swallowed him whole. Behind him, the manor's silhouette loomed black against the moonlight. His body was frail, trembling, half-poisoned still. But for the first time since he had opened his eyes in this cursed body… he was not trapped.
Rowan pulled the Veil tighter around himself and melted into the shadows of Ironcrst's grounds.
Hours later, the manor slept under heavy silence.
A lone servant crept up the back stairwell, lantern in hand. His instructions had been clear: check the boy's chamber before dawn. By now, the poison should have done its work.
The servant pushed open the door with a cautious hand. Lantern light spilled across the chamber—
And froze.
The bed was empty.
The sheets stained dark with blood and bile.
The air stank of sickness and copper.
But there was no body.
The servant's eyes darted wildly. No Rowan. No Tomas. Only silence—and the damning evidence of struggle.
His throat worked around a lump of fear. Abandoning caution, he spun and hurried down the corridor, nearly tripping over himself in his rush for the east wing.
Selene's chamber door loomed, carved with curling ivy. He knocked once—then twice harder.
"Enter."
The voice was calm, cool, and laced with authority.
He pushed inside.
Lady Selene sat at a polished writing desk, a single candle illuminating her sharp features. Her hair was black as ink, shoulder-length, framing eyes that gleamed like cut obsidian. Eyes that never rested—always watching, always calculating.
The servant bowed, words tumbling out. "My lady— forgive me, but the boy's chamber— it's empty. The sheets— bloodstained. But no body. And Tomas— Tomas is nowhere to be found."
Selene stilled. Her quill hovered above parchment, ink dripping in silence. Slowly, she set it down.
Her gaze lifted, sharp as a blade.
"Empty," she repeated.
The servant nodded frantically. "Yes, my lady. Gone."
Selene's lips pressed thin. Tomas was not the sort to fail. If Rowan lived, he should be dead. If Tomas succeeded, he should have returned. Neither was true.
Either the ghost son had survived when he should not have… or Tomas had betrayed her. Both possibilities soured like rot in her mind.
The boy meant to fade into nothing had instead left a trail of questions.
Selene rose from her chair in one fluid motion, candlelight casting her shadow tall across the wall.
"Find him," she said coldly. "Before anyone else does."
The command to hunt him still echoed through the manor's halls when Rowan pressed his back against the outer wall, chest heaving.
The night air was sharp and merciless, cutting through his thin, bloodstained shirt. Every breath burned. His shoulder throbbed with each beat. Poison's residue gnawed at his insides. Yet compared to the suffocating rot of his chamber, freedom tasted sharper than pain.
His knees threatened to buckle, but he forced himself upright, one hand braced against the cold stone. Above him, Ironcrest's towers loomed like jagged teeth, black against the moon.
He dared not linger. The hounds could be loosed, or some sharp-eyed guard could stumble across him. But for the first time in ten years, he was not behind a locked door.
Rowan drew a ragged breath and whispered into the night:
"No body, no proof."
The words steadied him. A bitter mantra, but his shield nonetheless. Tomas was gone. The corpse erased. And if Selene wanted his head, she had no evidence left to strike with.
He crouched by a puddle, moonlight rippling across its surface. The water showed him a stranger's face—blurred at the edges by the Veil of Concealment. Unremarkable. Forgettable. Not the ghost son of Ironcrest. Not a boy marked for erasure.
Rowan stared at that reflection, jaw tightening. Slowly, he curled his bloodstained fingers into a fist.
"This is only the beginning."
The night wind swallowed his words as he pushed off the wall and stepped into the outer grounds, every ounce of his frail body straining against collapse. The manor loomed behind him, black and silent, but he did not look back.
Because Rowan Ironcrest was no longer a ghost waiting to die.
He was a ghost who had chosen to live.
And the first thread of his new path had just been spun.Rowan's legs threatened to give out beneath him as he stared at the sprawled body. Tomas lay crumpled on the floorboards, the sharpened chair leg jutting from his chest like a grotesque banner. Blood seeped in thick rivulets, soaking into the sheets, dripping between the cracks of the wood. The metallic tang clung to the air—thick, suffocating, inescapable.
Rowan swallowed hard, but bile still burned the back of his throat. His hands shook. His shoulder throbbed where the dagger had sliced shallow, and his knuckles were still slick with another man's blood.
This wasn't supposed to happen. Tomas had been sent to finish him—clean, quiet, forgettable. Poison left no scars, no witnesses. But now the ending Selene scripted had collapsed into chaos: a servant's corpse, bleeding out in the bastard son's chamber. A scandal sharpened into a noose.
If anyone found this mess, if anyone saw the body—
His mind snapped into sharp focus. Panic hardened into cold calculation. Poison erased traces; this was the opposite. Here was blood, steel, a corpse that screamed murder.
He dragged a trembling hand down his face. "No one can see this," he whispered hoarsely. "Not like this."
His gaze flicked from the dagger on the floor to the spreading pool of red. There was no lie, no excuse, no story that could save him now.
Unless…
The thought cut through him like a blade: the System.
Rowan's eyes narrowed, chest heaving as he forced himself to look again at the body.
"Tomas," he muttered through clenched teeth. "Even dead, you're still trying to kill me."
But maybe—just maybe—Tomas's death could buy Rowan's life.
Rowan tore strips of cloth from the sheets and scrubbed desperately at the blood. It smeared, dull streaks across the floorboards, but better than leaving pools. His shoulder burned with each motion, his stomach roiled, but he didn't stop. Every stain left behind was another noose waiting to tighten.
When he finally staggered to the door, his palm left a slick print on the handle. He wiped it quickly against his shirt and eased it open. The hinges creaked. He froze, breath trapped in his chest. No footsteps. No voices. Only the manor's timbers groaning in the night.
He slipped into the corridor.
The Veil of Concealment clung to him. He could feel it—a thinning of himself, as though the world's gaze slid past his shape. Still, every torch seemed too bright, every shadow too thin.
A servant padded by carrying a tray. Rowan pressed flat to the wall, body taut with panic. The man's eyes swept across him… and didn't linger.
The servant walked on. Rowan exhaled shakily.
He moved again, step by step, his frail body trembling with each stride. The poison's residue gnawed at his gut, his breath came ragged, and his shoulder throbbed with each heartbeat. More than once, he thought his body might collapse beneath him. But the thought of Selene finding Tomas's corpse—or worse, finding him alive—pushed him forward.
The halls stretched on, oppressive and silent. Portraits of grim-faced ancestors stared down from the walls, eyes painted to scorn weakness. He ignored them. His path twisted past the kitchens, where firelight flickered under the door. Beyond it, half-hidden in shadow, waited the narrow servants' passage.
His fingers found the latch.
The door scraped open, letting in a sliver of moonlight and a rush of cold air. For a long moment, Rowan just stood there, breath shuddering, staring at the dark beyond. Ten years in this cage—and now freedom waited only a step away.
He stepped out.
The night swallowed him whole. Behind him, the manor's silhouette loomed black against the moonlight. His body was frail, trembling, half-poisoned still. But for the first time since he had opened his eyes in this cursed body… he was not trapped.
Rowan pulled the Veil tighter around himself and melted into the shadows of Ironcrst's grounds.
Hours later, the manor slept under heavy silence.
A lone servant crept up the back stairwell, lantern in hand. His instructions had been clear: check the boy's chamber before dawn. By now, the poison should have done its work.
The servant pushed open the door with a cautious hand. Lantern light spilled across the chamber—
And froze.
The bed was empty.
The sheets stained dark with blood and bile.
The air stank of sickness and copper.
But there was no body.
The servant's eyes darted wildly. No Rowan. No Tomas. Only silence—and the damning evidence of struggle.
His throat worked around a lump of fear. Abandoning caution, he spun and hurried down the corridor, nearly tripping over himself in his rush for the east wing.
Selene's chamber door loomed, carved with curling ivy. He knocked once—then twice harder.
"Enter."
The voice was calm, cool, and laced with authority.
He pushed inside.
Lady Selene sat at a polished writing desk, a single candle illuminating her sharp features. Her hair was black as ink, shoulder-length, framing eyes that gleamed like cut obsidian. Eyes that never rested—always watching, always calculating.
The servant bowed, words tumbling out. "My lady— forgive me, but the boy's chamber— it's empty. The sheets— bloodstained. But no body. And Tomas— Tomas is nowhere to be found."
Selene stilled. Her quill hovered above parchment, ink dripping in silence. Slowly, she set it down.
Her gaze lifted, sharp as a blade.
"Empty," she repeated.
The servant nodded frantically. "Yes, my lady. Gone."
Selene's lips pressed thin. Tomas was not the sort to fail. If Rowan lived, he should be dead. If Tomas succeeded, he should have returned. Neither was true.
Either the ghost son had survived when he should not have… or Tomas had betrayed her. Both possibilities soured like rot in her mind.
The boy meant to fade into nothing had instead left a trail of questions.
Selene rose from her chair in one fluid motion, candlelight casting her shadow tall across the wall.
"Find him," she said coldly. "Before anyone else does."
The command to hunt him still echoed through the manor's halls when Rowan pressed his back against the outer wall, chest heaving.
The night air was sharp and merciless, cutting through his thin, bloodstained shirt. Every breath burned. His shoulder throbbed with each beat. Poison's residue gnawed at his insides. Yet compared to the suffocating rot of his chamber, freedom tasted sharper than pain.
His knees threatened to buckle, but he forced himself upright, one hand braced against the cold stone. Above him, Ironcrest's towers loomed like jagged teeth, black against the moon.
He dared not linger. The hounds could be loosed, or some sharp-eyed guard could stumble across him. But for the first time in ten years, he was not behind a locked door.
Rowan drew a ragged breath and whispered into the night:
"No body, no proof."
The words steadied him. A bitter mantra, but his shield nonetheless. Tomas was gone. The corpse erased. And if Selene wanted his head, she had no evidence left to strike with.
He crouched by a puddle, moonlight rippling across its surface. The water showed him a stranger's face—blurred at the edges by the Veil of Concealment. Unremarkable. Forgettable. Not the ghost son of Ironcrest. Not a boy marked for erasure.
Rowan stared at that reflection, jaw tightening. Slowly, he curled his bloodstained fingers into a fist.
"This is only the beginning."
The night wind swallowed his words as he pushed off the wall and stepped into the outer grounds, every ounce of his frail body straining against collapse. The manor loomed behind him, black and silent, but he did not look back.
Because Rowan Ironcrest was no longer a ghost waiting to die.
He was a ghost who had chosen to live.
And the first thread of his new path had just been spun.