I have never considered the northern provinces a place worth returning to, and the fact that I find myself approaching them again on this unwelcome afternoon is proof that even centuries of discipline cannot entirely shield a man—if I may still call myself that—from the persistent failures of others.
The road stretches ahead in a long, indifferent line, its quiet surface carrying none of the urgency that accompanies every step I take in the city. In the capital, movement is purposeful; everything exists to serve ambition. Here, the world seems to exist only to remind me that time, when not filled with intention, becomes a slow and irritating burden.
The car hums steadily beneath me, a sound too faint to break the silence outside. I watch the passing landscape through the window, not because I find it pleasing but because there is nothing else worth observing. Endless rows of trees, a pale strip of sky, and an air of stillness that borders on suffocating. Nothing here resembles the world I built, the world I conquered, the world that bends to my decisions. Out there—beyond these useless fields and narrow roads—men panic when I raise my voice, women lower their gaze when I enter a room, and entire markets shift because of a signature I have not yet placed.
And yet here I am, removed from all of it, exiled for the sake of a corporate dispute that could have been resolved in a single afternoon if those responsible had possessed even a fraction of competence.
I had entrusted a simple negotiation to a group of executives who claimed years of experience and stability, only to watch them set fire to an agreement that should have secured our dominance for the next decade. When the scandal surfaced—loud, exaggerated, and irritatingly dramatic—the board insisted I "withdraw temporarily" to avoid drawing further attention.
Withdraw.
The word itself was an insult.
If I had followed my instincts, I would have dismissed the entire board, crushed the rival firm into dust, and walked back into the market the next morning as though nothing had occurred. But power, when exercised too visibly, attracts a kind of scrutiny I prefer to avoid. One must allow lesser men to believe they can influence events; only then do they remain predictable. So I nodded, listened to their suggestion, and agreed to "step away" for a short period, though inside my thoughts were far less agreeable.
If these fools had not mishandled a straightforward deal, I wouldn't be trapped on this pointless road, I told myself for the fourth time in an hour. Fucking incompetence disguised as professionalism.
I do not sigh. I do not show frustration. My face remains composed, the same calm façade that has served me well across more years than any human is capable of understanding. But inside, beneath the surface where no one will ever see, the irritation coils like a wire pulled too tightly.
The driver does not speak. He knows better. Those who work for me have long since learned that silence is preferable to unnecessary attempts at conversation, and I reward that understanding. I do not need chatter, nor do I care for the polite questions people often feel compelled to offer. I require efficiency. Nothing more.
The car turns onto the long private road leading to the estate—a property I have not set foot in for years, and would have happily ignored for several more if circumstances had allowed. My family valued this land far more than I do; I inherited it out of obligation, not affection. The manor was built by hands that believed in permanence, tradition, and some kind of sentimental attachment to ancestry. I have never shared those beliefs. What matters to me is control, not the illusion of roots.
The house appears slowly through the thinning line of trees: large, quiet, and unmistakably distant from the world I prefer. It is not an old castle nor a romantic portrait of the past. It is simply a structure—modern renovations wrapped around old foundations, a fusion of practical design and historical stubbornness. I observe it without emotion. It is, for the moment, merely the place where I will continue working while the rest of the world waits for the scandal to lose its novelty.
I step out of the car the moment it stops, the northern air settling around me with a coldness that feels almost offended by my presence. There is something harsher in this climate, something that lacks the artificial warmth of city life. It slips against my skin with an indifference that reminds me of years long buried, winters endured without shelter, nights filled with hunger so sharp it could drive a man—any man—to madness.
Those were different times.
Times I do not intend to revisit.
I walk toward the entrance, my footsteps echoing faintly against the stone path. The staff stands waiting—half a dozen people dressed in professional black, their faces composed, their postures straight. They greet me with the same subdued respect I demand in the capital, though here it feels more like formality than fear. Perhaps they believe distance grants them a measure of safety. It does not.
I acknowledge them with a brief nod, not slowing my pace. They fall into movement behind me, eager to prove their usefulness, though I have already determined that most of them will be irrelevant. I prefer to handle important matters myself. Delegation is efficient only when the individuals around me are not completely incompetent—a rarity I have learned not to expect.
Inside, the manor feels precisely as I remember: spacious, restrained, and quiet in a way that suggests the walls have grown accustomed to solitude. The air is cool, faintly scented with the polish used on the wooden floors. The lights are soft, casting long shadows across the hall in a manner that some might find atmospheric. I simply find it neutral.
I remove my coat, hand it to the nearest staff member, and begin walking through the main hall toward my study. I have not used the room in years, yet I know exactly what I will find: a space untouched by time, ordered to my specifications, and prepared for the work I refuse to postpone simply because the board wishes me to pretend I am on some kind of retreat.
Retreat.
The idiocy of that word continues to irritate me.
If the world believes I am resting, let them. It changes nothing about the reality of my existence. I have never rested. I do not require it. What I require is control, precision, and purpose. The mind becomes dangerous when left idle, and mine—after so many lifetimes—is capable of wandering into places no one should enter.
My footsteps slow as I reach the study door. I place my hand on the handle, feeling the faint chill of metal beneath my fingers. For a moment, an old memory brushes against me—one I did not summon and do not welcome. A winter night, long ago. A hunger that clawed at my ribs. A decision that altered everything. I force the recollection away before it can fully take shape.
I enter the study.
The room is exactly as it was. The long desk, the shelves lined with books I have not opened in decades, the high window that overlooks the forest, allowing the last of the afternoon light to settle across the floor like a pale reminder of the outside world. I walk to the desk, place my phone on its surface, and take the chair I once chose for its comfort over its aesthetics—a rarity for me, though practicality sometimes demands small concessions.
I open the laptop the staff prepared earlier. Messages flood the screen immediately, each one a reminder of the chaos I left behind in the city. Requests for confirmation, questions from departments too afraid to act without my approval, updates on the scandal that brought me here in the first place. I scan through them with the ease of someone who has navigated far worse.
If any of them had possessed the ability to think beyond their own panic, I tell myself, I would not be sitting in this place, surrounded by trees and silence, pretending to be "resting."
The word tastes wrong even in my thoughts.
I reply to several messages with brief clarity, correcting mistakes, issuing instructions, and ensuring that no one makes decisions I will later have to undo. My fingers move quickly across the keyboard; efficiency remains the one constant in my existence. When I finish, I lean back in the chair and allow the silence of the room to settle around me.
It is heavier than I expected.
The city never allows for silence. Its noise becomes a shield, a distraction, a pulse that keeps the mind anchored to the present. Here, the quiet presses differently—steady, patient, almost deliberate. It invites reflection, and reflection is something I have avoided for a very long time.
I look out the window.
The forest stretches toward the horizon, its edges blurring into the approaching dusk. The sky is dimming, shifting from pale light to muted grey. It is not beautiful. It is simply there, vast and indifferent, much like the centuries I have lived through. Time does not care for sentiment. Time moves, unbothered by what it leaves behind.
I straighten in the chair, unwilling to indulge the direction of my thoughts any further. I did not come here to remember. I came because the world required me to disappear for a short while, and I intend to use that while productively, not drown myself in recollections of a history that no longer serves me.
There is work to be done.
There are enemies to dismantle.
There is an empire to maintain.
The northern estate may be quiet, isolated, and maddeningly still, but it cannot change who I am. I built my world through discipline, through patience, through decisions most men would never have the courage to make. I did not survive centuries by allowing inconvenience to dictate my steps.
I close the laptop, rest my hands on the desk for a moment, and allow one final thought to surface—sharp, precise, unfiltered.
This had better be worth the fucking trouble.
And with that, the silence of the estate settles once more, unbroken, watching, waiting.
....
The night arrives faster here than in the city. The sun barely touches the horizon before it slips away entirely, leaving the estate coated in a darkness that feels older than the house itself. I've always preferred the night—the quiet, the distance it creates, the way it strips the world down to essentials. But tonight, it feels less like a preference and more like a reminder that I am, for now, trapped in a place I did not choose.
The staff informed me earlier that some supplies had been arranged in advance—groceries, files, equipment, and whatever else they assumed I needed. Predictably, half of it was unnecessary. People tend to overcompensate when they are uncertain of my expectations. Fear makes them generous. But one item stands out: a small sealed package placed discreetly near the main entrance, delivered sometime after sunset. Whoever dropped it off did so without ringing the bell, without waiting, without attempting conversation. Efficient. Quiet. Exactly how I prefer things.
I pick it up—not out of curiosity but because routine demands it. Covering all variables has kept me alive, in business and beyond. I bring the package to the study and set it on the desk. There is no urgency in opening it. There rarely is. But the faint chill lingering on its surface suggests it wasn't left long ago.
I check the time. Past eight. The city is just beginning to settle, but here the world has already fallen into that suffocating silence that pretends to be peace. I open the package. Inside, everything is in order—nothing missing, nothing unexpected. Just the contents I require to maintain stability while away from the capital. Necessary. Practical. Controlled.
Exactly as it should be.
I close the box and set it aside. Then I return to my work, reviewing documents with the same precision I've carried through every decade of my life. Hours pass without notice. Time has stopped mattering to me in ways most people will never understand; it stretches and compresses depending on how I choose to use it. Tonight it drags, not because I am tired, but because the quiet of this place presses against my thoughts like a weight.
A notification vibrates through the room, breaking the silence. Not a call—people know better than to call without reason—but a message from the head office. Another update. Another attempt to involve me in a situation I already corrected earlier. I ignore it. Let them panic. Let them drown in their own incompetence for a while.
I close the laptop.
Remaining inside this room feels pointless now. The air is still, too controlled, too familiar in its emptiness. I stand, straighten my sleeves, and decide to walk the perimeter of the estate. It's a habit, one I've kept throughout every place I've stayed. Movement sharpens the mind. Darkness calms it.
The night outside is colder than expected, sharp enough to settle on the skin like a warning. I follow the stone path leading away from the manor, letting the quiet fold around me. The forest stretches outward, dense and dark, a wall of shadows shifting gently with the wind. Most people would avoid walking here at this hour. I find it easier to breathe when the world finally shuts up.
The path eventually curves toward the back of the property, where a narrow trail leads deeper into the trees. I have not walked it in years, but my body remembers the way even when my thoughts don't. The northern provinces change slowly; nothing here evolves unless forced. The land remains stubborn, unmoving, as if unwilling to acknowledge the passing of time.
I take the trail anyway.
The forest swallows sound with alarming efficiency. Even the crunch of gravel beneath my steps fades quickly, absorbed by the thick blanket of night. I welcome the isolation; it feels honest in a way the city never does. In the capital, silence hides behind noise. Here, silence stands plainly, without pretense.
After several minutes, I catch something unexpected in the distance—a faint glow, soft and warm, cutting through the dark like an unwelcome intruder. It flickers, disappears, then returns. Not light from my estate. Something else. Something… smaller.
A house.
No—more accurately, a shack. Old, weathered, barely standing, tucked among the trees as though trying to disappear. I stop, narrowing my eyes, attempting to recall if such a structure existed when I last lived here. It didn't. I would have noticed. I remember everything that matters.
Someone lives out here.
A foolish choice, considering how far it is from any town or road. Only two types of people choose places like this: those who want to vanish, and those with nothing left to lose. I'm not interested in either category, but the presence alone irritates me. The estate's territory should be empty. Unoccupied. Controlled.
I take a step closer, intending only to assess, nothing more. But before I approach the clearing, movement catches my attention—subtle, almost insignificant. A figure steps out of the shack, carrying a woven basket. Small frame. Slow steps. Someone young, or at least young enough to still move lightly.
She heads toward a narrow footpath leading deeper into the dark—the direction of the river, if memory serves.
I should have turned back.
I don't.
Not because I care who she is, but because people who appear where they shouldn't often lead to problems I prefer to eliminate early. So I follow, keeping distance, not out of caution but because presence alone would be unnecessary.
The river appears gradually, the faint reflection of the moon cutting across its surface. She stands near the edge, sets the basket down, and rolls her sleeves with a familiarity that suggests this place belongs to her, not to the silence it sits in.
Then she steps closer to the water.
Her dress—white, thin, far too fragile for the cold—moves with the breeze, and it takes her all of three seconds to do something astonishingly careless.
She begins to wash clothes.
At night.
Alone.
In the middle of the forest.
I stare, incredulous. Not because of innocence. Not because of modesty. But because the sheer stupidity of believing she's alone in these woods is almost offensive.
Her dress clings to her legs, becoming translucent under the moonlight with every movement. Not intentional—just naïve. She has no idea anyone is watching. No idea anyone could be. That kind of ignorance is dangerous. It's the type that gets people killed.
I remain in the shadows, expression unreadable. I am not here for her. I did not come to the north to involve myself in the lives of people who exist in corners of the world forgotten by progress.
And yet… I do not move.
She continues working, humming faintly, completely unaware of how exposed she is. Completely unaware of the pair of eyes tracking her every careless step.
The night presses deeper.
I do not look away.
Not because I want to be here.
But because something about this moment—her presence, her recklessness, her intrusion into the solitude I had claimed—grates against me in a way I cannot immediately define.
I stay until her basket is full again, until she gathers her things, until she turns back toward the path leading home.
Only then do I step away from the shadows, returning to the estate in silence, my mind steady, disciplined—but carrying a single thought I had not expected.
Someone lives too close.
Closer than I prefer and I do not like that.
Not at all