I woke to the sound of knocking—soft, but urgent enough to slip through the fog of sleep and settle uneasily in my chest. For a moment, I stayed still, staring into the dimness of my room. Dawn hadn't yet broken; the air still tasted like night, and the embers in my small hearth glowed faintly, pulsing like a tired heartbeat.
"Master Ren," a voice called from behind the door. "Your father… the Count requests you in his study."
I swallowed, suddenly more awake. Father rarely called for anyone this early.
"Alright. I'll be there," I answered, though my voice cracked embarrassingly.
I pushed off the thin blanket and felt the cold stone floor prick at my bare feet. The room—once warm, once full of deep green drapes and carved shelves—felt hollow now. Most of the furniture had been sold off before winter, leaving only a narrow bed, a desk with a missing drawer, and a wardrobe that creaked like it resented being opened.
I dressed quickly, pulling on my tunic and brushing dust off the sleeves. Even that felt pointless. There was dust on everything these days. Dust and silence.
The hallway outside my room loomed long and dark, lit by a single flickering lantern hanging from a rusted bracket. I stepped into it and hesitated. The corridor used to shine—literally. The walls were once lined with delicate strips of gold filigree, curling like vines along the edges. I remembered running my fingers along them as a child, tracing their shapes while pretending I was following a secret map.
Now all that remained were jagged scratches, like claw marks where the gold had been ripped away.
Sold to keep the house warm. Sold to buy food. Sold to purchase medicine for those starving throughout the territory. Sold, sold, sold, until the once-gilded hallways of Count Barclay's estate looked more like a mausoleum stripped bare by thieves.
My breath fogged in the cold as I walked, and the sound of my footsteps echoed through emptiness that used to be alive—full of servants, full of chatter, full of life.
I passed the tall arched windows, their glass warped and cloudy. I remembered them being crystal clear once. You could see the entire stretch of the Grey Marshlands from here, a sight that terrified me as a child but fascinated me all the same. The fog rolling over the black reeds… the glimmer of strange lights deep within the mists… the whispers people swore they heard if they listened too long.
Lues had always been eerie. Mysterious. Seen as cursed by the other kingdoms.
But it hadn't always been dying.
I reached Father's study and paused. The heavy oak door was cracked slightly open, the faint glow of candles flickering within. I pushed it gently, careful not to disturb more than necessary.
Father sat hunched over his desk, sleeves rolled up, quill scratching furiously. His face—once strong, sharp, commanding—was now gaunt. Shadows clung beneath his eyes, and strands of gray hair had begun to break through the black, far more than the last time I looked closely.
"Father," I announced quietly.
He didn't look up.
He only made a curt motion toward the chair opposite him.
I shut the door behind me and sat.
The scratching of his quill continued a moment longer. Then, abruptly, he stopped. His hand froze over the page.
And he laughed. A hollow, defeated laugh that didn't belong to the man I knew.
"Oh, Ren… oh, my boy…" His shoulders shook as he laughed again, this time with bitterness sliding under the sound like disease seeping beneath skin. "The Dolus bastards refuse to assist us."
My stomach tightened. "They—what? But they've always—"
"Yes," he snapped, finally lifting his head to look at me. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with exhaustion. "For generations the House of Barclay and the merchants of Dolus traded like old friends. We protected their ships from the marsh tides, they supplied us when our harvests failed." He leaned back, neck cracking as he did. "And now? Now they say the plague is worsening in Lues, so they won't risk contamination."
His lip curled.
"Contamination! As if we're filth. As if we haven't upheld our end for decades."
I said nothing. I had learned long ago that silence was safer when he was like this—tired, cornered, unraveling.
Father continued, voice low and sharp. "Distrust festers in every kingdom now. Alliances crumble. Everyone fears becoming the next to fall. Castimonia shuts its gates the moment a rumor spreads. Fides sends messages full of sympathy but no supplies. Laetitia—" He scoffed. "They claim they're praying for us."
He rubbed his forehead with trembling fingers.
"And the Ipseans?" His tone darkened. "They ignore every envoy. Every plea. All they care about is themselves, as always. Their shining towers, their progress, their pride." He spat the last word. "Selfish cowards."
The candles flickered as if recoiling from his anger.
"Father…" I tried softly, but he didn't hear me—or didn't want to.
He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, voice dropping until it was barely a whisper.
"Our allies have betrayed us, Ren." His eyes locked onto mine, and for the first time that morning, I felt something cold trail down my spine. "They let our people starve. They let our lands rot. They condemn us to die, all because they fear catching a sickness they helped spread."
His words grew ragged.
"It was their trade ships that first brought it here. It was their negligence that let it fester. And now…" He exhaled, slumping back in his chair. "…now they pretend innocence while we drown."
The quill rolled off his desk and clattered to the floor.
He dragged a hand down his face and sighed—long, weary, soul-deep.
"I am in a tight position, my son. Tighter than you know."
A heavy silence settled between us. The kind that seemed to press on my chest until breathing hurt.
Finally—slowly—he straightened. Some of the wildness faded from his eyes, replaced by a heavy, resigned clarity.
"The seven kingdoms are sending diplomats to Arouz Academy," he said. "All of them. Even Lues."
I blinked. "Diplomats? To the Academy? But why—"
"To form bonds," he interrupted. "To save what balance remains. If the younger generation grows closer, perhaps the kingdoms might follow. Perhaps the future won't be as fractured as the present."
He paused.
"And I am sending you."
My tongue pressed against the back of my teeth. The reflexive protest rose immediately—Father, I can't leave now. Father, the estate needs help. Father, you're not well. Father, please. But I looked at him. Really looked.
At the gaunt cheeks.
The trembling hands.
The desperation simmering behind his exhaustion.
And the words died in my throat.
"…I understand," I managed.
He nodded once, sharply, as if afraid he'd change his mind otherwise.
"That is all," he said, his voice suddenly distant.
I stood. My legs felt stiff, like they didn't quite belong to me. I walked toward the door, each step sounding too loud in the suffocating quiet.
My hand hesitated on the handle.
Father had already bowed his head again over his scattered papers, scribbling frantically as though trying to outrun a tide only he could see.
I opened the door.
The cold hallway greeted me. Empty. Silent.
As the door closed behind me with a soft click, I felt the sound echo through my chest like a final, hollow note.
And for the first time…
I wondered if I would ever see this place the same way again.