It was more a Ruin than a mansion, crouching in silence like a vanquished giant breathing its last. The peeling black paint resembled the skin of a dead animal, veiled in dust accumulated over the years like a transparent shroud wrapping an extinguished memory. Carved upon its walls was the family crest, now disfigured by a long sword scar.
The wind seeped through every crevice, as if passing through an ancient coffin exhumed and shaken loose by the earth itself. Within this dying edifice, where wood groaned and stone sighed, Valerian sat alone on his threadbare chair. The wine glass trembled gently in his hands, as if the dark crimson liquid was colder than his weary body could bear.
His neck tilted slowly to one side, and his flat eyes beneath heavy lids stared fixedly at an old portrait hanging on the wall. Its frame was faded, covered in dust stains and cobwebs that swayed gently with the whisper of an intruding draft.
His trembling hands froze for a moment on the dusty glass, as if afraid to touch the crumbling memories of his family. Those faces, whose echoes had faded to a faint whisper within his inner silence, tore apart any lingering shred of hope he had left.
A heavy silence filled the room, broken only by the ragged rhythm of his breath. Upon his face, the gnawing marks of weariness and defeat—long hidden behind a mask—now lay exposed. Then, a single tear escaped the corner of his eye, slow and distant, tracing a path through the dust veiling his mother's portrait like a sip of cold, bitter water upon the wounds of the soul.
Suddenly, a thin, gray smoke began to seep from his chest, coiling like a faint, apologetic creak—droplets of sorrow beyond words. This exhalation was no ordinary smoke, but something more; wrought from his very being, it emerged from the depths of his fractured soul.
Its particles seemed to transform into a sensory extension, settling in the mansion's atmosphere—secondary eyes and ears, bearing both precision and transparency. The smoke was not just a manifestation of his pain—it was a conduit, a power he had yet to understand.
The smoke flowed fluidly through the abandoned halls of the mansion, slipping into the kitchen where fading shadows intertwined with the scent of ancient dust. There, in a voice not quite clearly heard, Valerian caught entangled whispers—a maid, her tone trembling with fear and anticipation, speaking to her son Davin, who tried to reassure her with an unsteady, quivering tone:
"The capital… feasts… wine… masks… on the twenty-second of this month…"
A faint movement in the rocking chair, where Thomas lay asleep—his ragged breaths falling into rhythm with his familiar snore. Meanwhile, the smoke carrying those fragmented whispers crept in, filling Valerian's ears. He caught words that did not fully form, yet felt their weight seeping into him like a pulse that could not be ignored.
With eyes tracing the undulations of the smoke, Valerian stood in silence. His thoughts plunged between what the days once were and what they had now become: a memory faded, a past crumbling, and a present that would not wait.
His hand trembled violently, as though captive to the weight of a tragedy buried deep within—not from the chill of the dust or the cold of the mansion, but from the burden of a scattered king, besieged by the nightmares of memory.
With weary eyes, like the page of a neglected manuscript, he tried to wet his parched lips with the last drop of that crimson liquid, hoping to quell the fires of despair in his chest. Then, he called out faintly:
"Thomas… where are you?"
The call echoed back hesitantly, as though carrying the heavy weight of the world.
"Thomaaaas…"
Each call rose from a buried question: Where did I stray? And with a disappointment that set his soul ablaze, he suddenly cried out in suppressed fury:
"Thomas… where are you, in God's name?!"
No answer came.
He rose, his steps heavy with sorrow, descending the old wooden staircase with care—each creak a bitter testament to the passage of time.
He entered the dimly lit kitchen to find his servant Thomas asleep in his rocking chair, his belly distended. Meanwhile, Ann, his wife, paused from preparing the chicken soup, turning toward him with eyes full of fear and deference.
"Ann, wake your husband…"
She nodded, trembling, and wiped her hands on her worn apron before nudging the chair to rouse Thomas.
Thomas rose sluggishly, his expression a mix of anger and bewilderment.
"What is it, Ann? Have you lost your mind?"
She silently gestured toward their master, a warning in her eyes.
Thomas turned with a jolt toward the doorway where he stood—a ghost from a bygone era. His black coat was veiled in the dust of years, his piercing blue eyes sharp with the resolve of a man whose will had not bowed to time. Silver strands fell amidst lingering black, and his broad shoulders bore the weight of a past he never yielded to.
The master sighed with a rough voice.
"Thomas, the time has come. In four days, we must be in the capital."
His tone still carried the echo of a faded authority—a man whose will destiny had once obeyed.
Outside, as Thomas prepared the carriage, Valerian drew his twisted cigar from the folds of his coat, muttering faint words his memory had forgotten—yet they clung to his lips like an old habit.
He lit it with a despondent breath, then drew a long drag. The gray smoke rose slowly, coiling like a serpent seeking warmth without aim. Suddenly, the smoke contracted for a few seconds, then parted, forming flickers of fleeting images flashing before his eyes: Ann weeping silently in a dark corner of the kitchen, and Thomas dusting off the saddles.
Muffled whispers reached his ears: "…what has… his sleep…?" These hazy messages were filled with fear and guilt, yet held no clear meaning. It did not ease his anger—only deepened his confusion and resentment.
He whispered to himself, "Has everyone left? Have they all turned coward?"… and chased the last ember of his cigar.
He turned his gaze outward, where the blue moon shone in a clear sky, studded with shimmering stars like pearls on a black cloak—a sight that spoke only to the eyes of sorceresses and desperate lovers.
They stopped before an old, dilapidated carriage, its paint peeling, groaning with every movement like the body of a suffering elder. Valerian looked at it with bitter pessimism, then said:
"No need for this now. We ride on horseback only."
Valerian glanced at the empty stable, save for the two gaunt carriage horses.
He thought to himself: Strange… Where is 'Cyclone'? He's not in his usual spot.
He approached the right horse and noticed the saddles hanging, covered in thick dust—as if no one had touched them in a full season.
A strange feeling crept over him… This neglect and silence weren't just a disregard for him—they were a sign of something deeper, something that had ended long ago.
A profound frustration etched itself across his face, like a man discovering his memory had betrayed him. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if trying to escape a pursuing pain, then said weakly:
"Very well… prepare the carriage horses."
He turned toward the kitchen where Ann stood and said in a hoarse voice laden with suppressed anger:
"Where is everyone? Has silence drowned their hearts so soon?"
Ann hesitated, her voice faint and tense.
"No, master… Everyone… has gone."
Valerian erupted, trying to shatter the barrier of silence.
"Speak plainly! Is silence choking you, or are you afraid of the truth?"
Ann sighed, gathering her courage.
"They have all left, master… a year ago, right after the incident."
She fell silent for a moment, as if her words carried less weight than the silence they left behind.
Valerian received these words with a new heaviness. He saw the fear clearly in Ann's eyes, but the smoke surrounding him conveyed only a sense of hunger and despair—never explaining the true reason behind their departure.
This lack of information cooled his anger into something sharp and rigid.
He placed a hand on his sweaty brow, leaning against the old kitchen table as a wave of frustration spread through his body like a slow poison. He felt as though the ground had been pulled out from under him.
Whispering, he tried to steady his breath.
"Very well… hand me a glass of water."
As he drank, his pulse did not calm, and the smoke's whisper assailed him once more: «His sleep…», like an irritating hum echoing over a slumbering memory.
Then, that moment invaded his mind—clear and forceful, like a bolt of lightning in a dark night.
It was not a complete memory, but a bleeding fragment trembling in the depths of his mind: his father's footsteps echoing in the distance, and his sister's broken cry pursuing him:
"Why are you doing this? Has the humiliation not been enough?"
Then the door closed on his cold voice, saying:
"Weaklings… and here you are, fleeing into your slumber like a fool."
Valerian's hand trembled, the glass shaking between his fingers like a frightened bird.
The water did not quench his thirst—it was a poison, dripping regret into his soul.
In that moment, he realized he was not merely a witness to the ruin, but its cause.
His arrogance and his mistakes had paved the way for the old tyrant, turning his own father into a hammer of destruction that shattered everything around them.
He was the one who had driven everyone away, and yet Valerian himself remained both the spark and the source of the ruin.
In the moments before he emptied the glass, as the cold water flowed down his parched throat like rain on barren land, Thomas entered and said:
"Master, we are ready…"
Valerian looked at Thomas, then at Ann. He no longer saw servants, but victims of his arrogance and harsh commands.
He said nothing. The revelation brought by the distorted smoke, and the returning memory, was stronger than any dialogue.
But he did not leave. Instead, he sat still, weighed down by the burden of the truth his treacherous smoke had unveiled.
Ann raised her voice softly, calling to her children:
"Maggie, Dan… come for supper. It's time."
Ann set a modest table in the dining room, laid with what remained of the provisions: a pot of chicken soup simmering with a humble aroma that spoke of scarcity and deprivation.
The children entered with sluggish steps, and Ann hurried to greet them, saying:
"Greet the master of the house, with respect."
The children turned to Valerian, who could not conceal the lingering tenderness he still held, though he quickly regained his stern expression.
Everyone sat and began to eat in silence, surrounded by the scent of soup that filled the space.
As the atmosphere grew heavy with the weight of silence after the modest supper, Valerian sat alone in a corner of the room, shaken by memories as heavy as pillars of stone. His weary eyes traced the quiet, enigmatic life of the household, the echo of words fading deep within him.
A cold breeze drifted through the ancient corridors, carrying faint whispers like distant echoes from a buried time. Thoughts tangled in his mind, as though the wind itself bore a message from the past—more than just passing air.
Those whispers, seeping through thresholds and corners, led him to a wooden door hidden behind a veil of dust—a place known to few, a forsaken corner of the mansion.
With a trembling gaze, Valerian stepped into the darkness that embraced his solitude. No sound spoke but the confused beating of his heart and the lightness of his steps on the cold floor.
There, amid the ruins of hope, rested an ancient dagger, veiled in the ashes of time, stamped with the family crest that still bore scars from the past. Wrapped around it was a fold of paper, written in a hesitant, guarded hand:
"My son, blood does not lie… What was stolen from your legacy remains caught between shadow and light, and it will return when the spirit awakens."
In that moment, the mystery washed over his soul, and a flame ignited in his chest. His breath trembled between past and present, and it seemed the breeze was not merely a whim of the world, but a faint echo carried by time to rouse him—to urge him toward the capital, where the unknown awaited, and where the fate of the family would be reshaped.
Valerian had not yet taken a step, but the world around him began to stir with the winds of memory, and the doors of fate opened at his feet, heralding a new journey—a dream taking shape from the ashes of the past.
By the horses, where the air mingled with the scent of dry grass and aged leather, Valerian and Thomas paused for a long moment. This was no fleeting stop, but a silent possibility between them—like a temporary tattoo etched into their memory.
Valerian turned slowly, his eyes capturing the last shadows of the mansion, where crumbling walls whispered secrets wearied by time. Behind him stood Ann and her children, shrouded in misty anxiety and longing, their movements hesitant, their heart's cries stifled behind a silence choked with waiting.
Ann watched them with eyes that spoke more than words allowed—glances that struck the edge of a pain with no escape.
Meanwhile, the silent question in her eyes reached Thomas, who rose under the weight of responsibility and whispered to her with a burdened heart,
Charged with duty:
"This is what my master has left in your hands… a meager amount, scarcely enough. Guard it wisely, and act as one walking on the edge of a sword, until we return with the glory and wealth befitting the family's lineage."
Ann nodded in agreement, trying to hide the tremor in her voice as she said hoarsely:
"We will endure, for their sake and for the mansion."
The two mounted their horses and began their journey toward the capital. The horses moved with difficulty, their steps slower, as if the years had weighed heavily on their shoulders.
Valerian spoke, his voice wrapped in the nostalgia of ancient forests:
"These horses are not what they once were, are they, Thomas?"
Thomas replied in a weary, broken voice:
"Yes, master… sometimes they find nothing to eat but the rotten leaves of oak trees."
They continued on together, the sky cloaking them in its blue mantle, memories ringing in their ears like the wind's moan through ancient branches.
The smell of the stable clung to their clothes like a fragile spider's web, while the horses moved quietly, and the fog slowly cleared before them like a curtain rising on a forgotten stage.
Hours had not passed before they reached the edge of the Eternal Twilight Forest, its tangled branches blocking the moonlight.
They dismounted, and as Valerian tried to light his cigar, a thick column of smoke rose from his breath, its ghostly arms intertwining with the air like a barrier between him and the fierce wind that suddenly rushed from the depths of the forest.
A cold storm blew, breathing like the breath of the dead, carrying harsh winds that made the horses stagger and cower in fear. The gale threw Thomas to the ground, yet he held firm, while Valerian remained standing, unshaken by a single gust.
Valerian turned to him, his voice a blend of astonishment and bitterness:
"I did not expect this… When did this accursed forest expand so much? How long have I been lost to the world?"
Thomas replied, flustered:
"You have been distant from the world, lost in your slumber, for at least five years, master…"
Valerian closed his eyes for a moment, as though weighing those heavy years upon his shoulders, then admitted with a pained tone:
"Very well… five years. It has been a long time."
His voice carried the echo of a man who had suddenly realized the world had turned without him.
He drew from his coat a twisted opium cigar, brown and brittle like an old memory.
"Thomas… do you have a match?"
With a trembling hand, Thomas retrieved a matchbox from the horse's saddlebag and said quickly:
"Here, master."
The box was quiet and heavy, as though holding a buried secret. Within seconds, a small spark burst forth, like lost stars searching for a home in the darkness.
Valerian passed the flame along the edge of the cigar, then drew a long, steady breath, rooted in place.
From between his lips swirled a vortex of gray smoke—not ordinary smoke, but a phantom entity taking shape in the air. It transformed into a semi-material mass pulsing with emotion, teased by the breeze like a visible heart beating with memories.
The smoke curled gently around his neck, carrying a nostalgic warmth that filled Valerian's soul with a sense of long-lost familiarity.
"It has been too long since the last time…" he whispered, running his fingers through the smoke, which responded to his touch like a ghostly embrace.
Suddenly, the smoky entity contracted, conveying a sense of anguish and longing, then expanded, releasing waves of narcotic tranquility. It rippled around his face like an invisible hand wiping away his worries, carrying within its motion memories of lost nights and abandoned dreams.
Every swirl of smoke was a pulse of emotion, every ripple a whisper of feeling.