Four hours after the fall
The night had long surrendered to stillness.
Outside Kel's chamber, the snow-speckled wind brushed against the stone walls of Rosenfeld Manor, carrying with it the biting scent of winter pine and iron-laced frost. Moonlight filtered through arched windows carved from black crystal, casting pale ribbons of luminescence across the corridor like the tail of an ancient spirit gliding past.
The hallway was quiet… almost reverent.
Only the soft echo of hurried steps interrupted its mourning silence.
When Marine reached Kel's chamber, her breath came light and shallow — not from exertion, but from dread restrained so carefully it could pass for calm. She paused before the door made of darkwood oak, engraved with the Rosenfeld crest — a sword wrapped in ash branches.
Her hand hovered in the air, just above the silver door-handle.
She knocked once.
Softly.
As if more sound would offend the unseen.
There was no answer.
She opened the door.
The Room Where Pain Sleeps
The chamber was dim, lit only by the silver of the moon, seeping through parted curtains of deep burgundy velvet. The air felt heavy — laced with something raw. It smelled faintly of copper and snow.
Kel lay on the floor beside his bed, his formal banquet attire still worn — a suit of obsidian black trimmed with muted gold embroidery, now slightly creased. The coat had fallen earlier, but he had not removed the vest or loosened the cravat that constricted his throat like a silent mark of discipline.
Blood — darkened, almost black in the moonlight — trailed from his lip to the floor.
Marine's eyes trembled for a heartbeat.
But her face did not.
She stepped inside, the door closing behind her with a sound no louder than a breath.
Marine's Approach
She approached slowly, the fabric of her maid uniform — a muted blend of slate and ivory — whispering in small movements. Her hands were clasped in front of her, fingers intertwined so tightly the knuckles showed white.
Her expression remained composed…
But her steps betrayed urgency.
When she reached him, she knelt beside him without hesitation.
Up close, he looked less like a collapsing noble, and more like a fallen statue — posture slumped, but still elegant in defeat. One knee remained half-raised, as if even unconscious, he refused full submission to weakness.
Marine reached out… her fingertips hovering just above his cheek, then retreating.
Touching him felt… intrusive.
She rested instead her hand near his heart.
It was slow.
Too slow.
Scene of Silent Loyalty
"...Young Master," she whispered.
There was no response.
Marine hesitated — then carefully removed his cravat, loosening the silk knot with delicate precision. She placed it aside, her movements controlled, efficient.
She wiped the blood from his lip with a folded handkerchief of black cotton.
Her hand lingered when she recoiled the cloth. Her eyes lowered.
She did not sigh. She did not cry.
But the trembling of her eyelashes spoke for her.
Inner thoughts — Marine
You continue forward as if chased by something no one else can see.
Even on the nights you bleed... you do not allow the world to witness it.
But I have watched long enough, young master… Nothing that grows in darkness remains small.
Marine placed one arm beneath his shoulders, another beneath his knees, and with measured strength — surprising for her slender frame — she lifted and guided him onto the bed.
The sheets were of white linen, embroidered with silver threads representing constellations… an irony not lost on her.
She covered him, dimmed the lantern by the bedside to a near-flicker, and stepped back.
She looked at him once more.
Then, in a voice as soft as falling snow:
"If you must break…
break only where you can stand again."
She turned to leave.
His fingers twitched.
She stopped.
Her head turned sharply back toward him.
And then—
Kel Awakens
His eyes opened.
Slowly.
The irises — a muted storm-grey — focused through the haze of exhaustion, settling on Marine like someone adjusting to light after too long in darkness.
He breathed — shallow but steady.
He did not sit up immediately.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Only the small tremor in his hand resting atop the sheet indicated his still-present strain.
Marine bowed her head respectfully as she stepped closer.
Kel's voice came low, slightly fractured — but composed.
"What… happened, Marine? Why did you come suddenly?"
He pulled himself up slowly, supporting his back with his left arm. His movements were clean but visibly restrained. Pain whispered under his breath, but he did not allow it the courtesy of being seen.
Marine straightened.
Her tone remained formal, but gentler than usual.
"Young Master… Duke Arcturus has summoned you."
"He is waiting at his study. He wishes to… discuss something with you."
The brief pause was intentional — a silent warning.
Kel's gaze did not shift.
His heartbeat quickened, but his eyes remained unflinching.
He exhaled quietly.
"I see."
"I will go."
He lowered his gaze for half a second.
Then looked at her.
"...Thank you, Marine, for informing me."
Marine's Silence
Marine bowed slightly, but not just out of etiquette — there was something reverent in the motion.
She turned to leave.
But before she reached the door, she stopped. Without turning back, she spoke:
"Young Master…"
He waited.
"There is no shame in breathing slowly… if it lets you walk further."
She stepped out.
Closed the door.
Kel Alone
Kel sat in silence, eyes tracing the delicate silver constellation stitching on the sheet.
The irony.
The game.
Destiny.
He wiped his lip with his thumb, noticing no fresh blood. The micro-core at his root chakra pulsed subtly — like distant drums beneath the earth.
Pain lingered.
Exhaustion weighed on his limbs.
But his posture was straight.
He touched his chest over his heart, eyes narrowing slightly.
"If survival demands a price…"
"I must learn to pay it without cracking."
He stood.
Walked to the mirror.
His reflection greeted him slowly — pale, but calm.
He re-tied his cravat, adjusting the knot with such precision it might belong to someone preparing for political chess, not physical strain.
He donned his coat.
Gloves.
Straightened his shoulders.
He did not check if the blood trail was gone.
He already knew it was.
The Corridor
As he exited his room, the manor felt different — as though the shadows themselves shifted their eyes toward him. The air remained cold. Ancient.
He walked.
Each step measured. Controlled.
No one witnessing him would suspect he had collapsed hours before.
Only one person had seen.
And she… would not speak.
Before the Duke's Study
Kel arrived before a heavy obsidian door — carved with a single unbroken sword.
A symbol of the Rosenfeld family.
Two guards stood at either side, armored in silver-black plate etched with frost-like filigree. They bowed silently and opened the doors.
Kel straightened his collar once more.
His expression did not shift. Yet beneath that calm — something deeper stirred.
The system's last words echoed softly.
[ Destiny Override Initializing ]
He walked in.
The door shut.
The study's air turned heavy.
The presence within it — colder even than the winter outside.
Duke Arcturus lifted his gaze.
Eyes like ancient steel.