The day after the incident did not arrive with comfort.
It arrived with restraint.
Morning light filtered through the tall windows of House Andreas as it always had, painting pale bars across polished stone and embroidered rugs. The mansion woke to routine—the measured shuffle of servants, the distant clatter of breakfast trays, the shift changes of guards at the outer halls. Bells rang softly at the appointed hour. Orders were given and acknowledged. The estate functioned.
Yet something fundamental had altered.
It was not announced.
It was not spoken aloud.
But it existed—pressing against every corridor, clinging to every breath.
Conversations ended when Seth entered a room.
Not abruptly.
Not rudely.
They simply… ceased.
Voices lowered. Words trailed off into polite nothingness. Footsteps slowed, then adjusted their rhythm, as though the house itself was recalibrating around a presence it no longer understood how to categorize.
A blind son.
A disgraced name.
And yet—there was weight where there should have been absence.
Seth felt it.
Not with eyes.
With attention.
He sat alone in his chamber, the book resting open across his lap. His fingers traced the edges of the page, following the indentations of text he had memorized long ago. The book itself was old—leather-bound, its spine softened by years of use. He knew exactly where the ink thickened near the margins, where certain pages carried faint creases from repeated turning.
He was not reading.
He was remembering.
The silence in the room was not empty. It was layered—fabric brushing stone somewhere beyond the wall, a servant pausing just a second too long outside his door before continuing on. The faint metallic click of armor at the far stairwell. Even the fire in the hearth breathed differently when left unobserved.
Seth adjusted his posture, straightening unconsciously.
The knock came moments later.
Soft. Controlled. Considerate.
"Young Master Seth," Nelly said gently through the door. "Lord Andrea requests your presence in his office chambers."
Seth closed the book, fingers resting atop the cover for half a second longer than necessary. Habit. Closure.
"I understand," he replied.
His voice was steady. Not rehearsed. Not strained.
The door opened.
Nelly entered with care, as though sound itself might bruise him. Seth registered her immediately—the subtle shift in air displacement, the faint hitch in her breathing when she realized he had already turned his head toward her.
She needn't have worried.
He had mapped her presence before the door was halfway open.
She offered her arm without asking.
Seth accepted, resting his fingers lightly against the fabric of her sleeve. He did not grip. He did not lean.
He simply aligned.
They walked.
The corridors of House Andreas were wide, designed to impress visiting nobles and foreign dignitaries. Seth counted steps automatically, matching echo to memory. Thirty-seven from his chamber to the first turn. Eight more before the archway. Stone beneath his boots changed texture where the corridor widened—subtle, but familiar.
He did not stumble.
The mansion had been his world for years.
Now, it existed inside him.
Reconstructed. Indexed. Stored.
As they neared Lord Andrea's chambers, Seth felt the shift.
Not fear.
Expectation.
The office door opened.
"Thank you, Nelly," Lord Andrea said. "You may leave us."
There was a pause.
Brief—but revealing.
"Yes, my lord," she replied at last.
The door closed.
Silence settled.
Not the kind Seth had grown used to—this one carried history.
Lord Andrea's office was heavy with age. Ink. Parchment. Old wood polished by generations of hands. The hearth crackled faintly, not out of necessity, but tradition—an old man's defiance against change disguised as comfort.
"Seth," Lord Andrea said. "Sit."
Seth did.
The chair creaked beneath him, unchanged from memory. He remembered sitting here as a child, legs dangling above the floor, listening to lectures about lineage, responsibility, and legacy—concepts delivered with care, but never affection.
His father shifted.
Not pacing.
Not still.
A man deciding where to anchor himself.
"I wanted to speak privately," Lord Andrea said. "About what happened. And about you."
Seth folded his hands neatly in his lap.
"The healers report that your condition is… stabilized," his father continued. "The injury itself was unnatural. Precision-inflicted. Deliberate."
Seth inclined his head.
"The pain has reduced," he said. "The treatments help."
A pause followed.
"And your state of mind?" Lord Andrea asked.
That was the question beneath every other.
Seth considered it—not the words, but the intent behind them.
"I am still myself," he answered. "If that is what you wish to confirm."
Lord Andrea exhaled quietly.
"I know you never cared for politics," he said. "Nor succession. You were never interested in the paths your brothers walk."
Seth said nothing.
"But circumstances have changed," Lord Andrea continued. "Your injury changes how the world will treat you—whether we like it or not."
Seth listened.
"If you wish," his father said carefully, "I can assign you a position suited to your condition. Records. Administration. Research. A role befitting your name—without placing expectations that would be… unfair."
Mercy.
Measured. Calculated. Offered with good intentions.
Seth did not flinch.
"I have not thought that far ahead," he said. "The incident was sudden."
Lord Andrea's fingers tapped once against the desk.
"When the time is right," Seth added, "I will come to you myself."
Silence stretched.
His father studied him—this son who spoke calmly despite everything that had been taken from him. There was no desperation in Seth's voice. No pleading.
Only restraint.
"I will not force a decision," Lord Andrea said at last. "A choice made under pressure breeds regret."
He stepped back.
"You are dismissed."
Seth rose.
"Thank you, Father."
The words were respectful.
They were not warm.
Steel rang against steel.
The training grounds were alive with exertion—controlled breathing, footwork, discipline refined through repetition.
Seth felt it before he heard it.
Hostility.
Nelly guided him along the outer path, but the rhythm of strikes drew his attention. Adnos moved with practiced restraint—precise, efficient. Dave's strikes were sharp, aggressive, overextended.
They stopped when they noticed Seth passing.
Murmurs followed.
Low. Tight.
Words of resolve. Of honor. Of future responsibility.
Guilt disguised as ambition.
"Seth," Adnos called. "How are you holding up?"
"Alive," Seth replied.
Dave said nothing.
Metal scraped stone.
The air shifted.
The throw was clean.
Intentional.
Seth noticed it—not because he couldn't avoid it, but because he chose not to.
It never reached him.
Nelly moved faster than expected. Her hand snapped out, catching the broken blade mid-air. The impact jolted her arm.
"Young Master Dave," she said sharply. "Please be careful."
"What are you doing?!" Adnos snapped.
Dave looked away.
Seth continued walking.
Inside his chamber, Seth closed the door.
"Nelly," he said quietly, "please leave me alone for the remainder of the day."
She hesitated.
"…As you wish."
The latch clicked.
Silence.
Seth turned.
Counted steps.
Three. Four. Five.
He reached the wardrobe, slid it aside, knelt, and rolled back the rug. The hidden compartment waited.
He unlocked it by touch alone.
Metal. Components. Incomplete thoughts.
He removed two items.
The first was a strip of black cloth.
The second—a pair of gloves.
When he pulled them on, a faint hum resonated.
Information flowed.
Not sight.
Understanding.
He worked.
By nightfall, the drone stood complete.
It was small—no taller than a foot when resting idle—but dense with intent. The octagonal frame was forged from layered alloys scavenged from discarded mechanisms and broken tools, each plate angled to reduce stress concentration. Two compact wings extended from opposite sides, each fitted with triple-stacked propellers designed not for speed, but stability. Redundancy mattered more than elegance.
Seth ran his gloved fingers along its surface.
Density registered first. Weight distribution followed. He mapped its internal structure through touch alone—battery placement, rotor alignment, micro-actuators seated just beneath the outer shell. Every component responded exactly as calculated. There were no loose tolerances. No wasted space.
He exhaled.
Then powered it on.
A low vibration thrummed through the floor as the propellers spun to life. Not loud. Not smooth either—this was a prototype, not a showpiece. The drone lifted slowly, correcting itself in minute increments as its internal stabilizers compensated for uneven thrust.
Seth held the remote in one hand.
The device was crude compared to what he envisioned, but functional. The feedback channel transmitted data directly through the gloves—pressure shifts, air resistance, spatial orientation. He did not see the drone.
He understood it.
He guided it forward.
It responded.
He increased altitude by half a meter. The drone complied, wings angling subtly to counterbalance. Seth rotated it in place, testing yaw control, then abruptly cut thrust to one wing.
The drone dipped—corrected—hovered.
Acceptable.
Battery output stabilized within predicted parameters. Heat dispersion remained within safe margins. The propellers emitted a faint harmonic imbalance, but nothing that couldn't be corrected with better calibration.
Seth allowed himself a small nod.
This wasn't escape.
It wasn't surveillance.
It was proof.
Proof that loss had not ended function—only forced adaptation.
He was about to initiate a stress test when something interrupted the flow of data.
Footsteps.
Not close.
Measured.
Seth froze.
He did not turn. He did not rush.
The vibrations carried through the floor first—rhythmic, familiar. A single presence, approaching at a steady pace. Fifty meters. Forty-five. No armor. No weapon weight.
Nelly.
Seth cut power instantly.
The drone descended into his palm. He disengaged the remote, folded the wings inward, and dismantled the outer shell with practiced efficiency. Components vanished back into the compartment, hidden beneath false panels and layered cloth. The gloves came off last.
The blindfold remained.
By the time the footsteps reached his door, his chamber was once again unremarkable.
A knock.
"Seth," Nelly said. "Dinner is ready."
"I would rather not attend," he replied.
There was a pause.
"Lord Andrea has requested your presence."
Of course he had.
Seth exhaled once.
"…Very well."
Nelly entered and offered her arm. He accepted.
The dining hall was already full when they arrived.
Seth felt it immediately—the subtle reorientation of attention, the shift in breathing patterns, the scrape of chairs adjusting. No one spoke as he was guided to his seat. Cutlery rested untouched.
The family waited.
Not out of courtesy.
Out of expectation.
Seth sat.
Silence stretched.
Then plates began to move.
Conversation resumed in fragments—carefully chosen topics, voices restrained, nothing that might brush against the truth sitting at the table. Seth ate slowly, methodically, listening more than participating.
No one asked about his day.
No one asked about the future.
They did not know they were already behind.
And Seth let them believe it.
After dinner, Seth was taken back to his room.
The walk through the mansion was quieter than usual. Servants moved aside with practiced courtesy, footsteps measured, words carefully withheld. The household had resumed its rhythm, but Seth could feel the artificiality beneath it—like a structure holding itself together through habit alone.
When Nelly guided him to his chamber, she lingered at the door.
"Will you need anything tonight?" she asked.
"No," Seth replied. "You may rest."
There was hesitation in her breathing.
"…Very well. Good night, Young Master."
The door closed.
Seth removed his gloves, folded them carefully, and placed them back into the compartment beneath the wardrobe. He did not patrol that night. He did not test his devices or review mechanisms.
For once, he allowed his body to sleep.
The disturbance came hours past midnight.
It was not sound.
Not movement.
Not even the subtle vibration of footsteps carried through stone.
It was a smell.
Faint.
Foreign.
Seth's eyes opened instantly.
He sat upright, breath controlled, heart steady. The scent lingered at the edge of perception—thin, unfamiliar, almost clinical. Not incense. Not oil. Not sweat.
Something processed.
It was already fading.
That was what unsettled him most.
Someone had been close.
And had already moved on.
Seth rose silently, changing into black clothing prepared long before this night—a habit, not paranoia. He wrapped a black cloth mask across the lower half of his face, secured it, and opened the window without sound.
Cool night air greeted him.
He stepped out.
The rooftops of House Andreas were uneven but familiar. Stone tiles, narrow ledges, old decorative spires long since abandoned by guards who preferred walls and gates. Seth moved with practiced restraint, tracing the diminishing scent across balconies and parapets.
It led him west.
Toward the inner residential wing.
He slowed.
Then stopped.
From the shadowed angle of an adjacent rooftop, Seth observed.
One window glowed faintly.
Dave's.
A figure stood just outside it.
Clad in dim navy-blue overalls, the stranger blended unnaturally well with the night. The clothing was tight, functional—no loose fabric, no insignia. A short sword rested horizontally across his lower back, secured for quick draw.
An assassin.
Seth remained still.
Dave opened the window just enough to pass something through.
An envelope.
Their exchange was brief. No raised voices. No hesitation. The figure accepted the envelope, gave a short nod, and stepped back.
Dave closed the window.
The assassin vanished from sight almost immediately, movement smooth and deliberate as he headed toward the outer grounds.
Seth followed.
They left the mansion grounds without alarm.
The assassin moved fast, but not recklessly—keeping low, avoiding torchlight, cutting through shadowed paths toward the forest bordering the estate. Seth matched him step for step, careful to stay outside auditory range.
For several minutes, the pursuit continued unbroken.
Then—
The assassin reacted.
Without stopping, he reached behind himself and flung something backward.
Seth halted instantly.
A double-edged shuriken embedded itself into a tree trunk where Seth's head would have been had he continued forward.
The assassin turned.
Too late.
Seth surged from concealment, closing the distance in a heartbeat. His palm struck forward with precision, aimed not to kill, but to disrupt.
The assassin blocked with his left forearm, grunting as the impact jarred his stance. He shoved Seth back and flipped away, landing cleanly, blade already in hand.
They faced each other beneath the canopy of the forest.
"Interesting," the assassin said, voice muffled by cloth. "Didn't think anyone noticed."
Seth said nothing.
He moved.
The Clash
The assassin struck first.
A short knife flashed from his sleeve, cutting toward Seth's throat. Seth leaned just enough for the blade to pass harmlessly, his hand snapping out to deflect the wrist. Steel kissed skin as the assassin twisted free, already drawing a second knife with his other hand.
Twin blades.
Fast.
Precise.
The assassin pressed forward, slashing in tight arcs meant to overwhelm. Seth retreated half a step, reading the rhythm, letting the attacks pass just close enough to feel the air split.
A feint left.
A thrust right.
Seth slipped inside the assassin's guard and drove his elbow into the man's ribs. The assassin grunted but twisted with the blow, minimizing damage, then slashed downward.
Seth caught the wrist.
Pain flared as steel bit shallow into his forearm—but Seth didn't release. He wrenched the arm sideways, slammed his knee into the assassin's thigh, and shoved him back.
The assassin rolled, regained footing instantly.
"Not bad," he muttered. "But you hesitate."
Seth advanced.
The assassin hurled a knife. Seth knocked it aside with his forearm and lunged, striking the assassin's shoulder with a sharp palm blow. Bone cracked faintly.
The assassin hissed and retaliated, blades flashing again. One cut across Seth's side, shallow but stinging.
They traded blows—short, brutal exchanges. Seth blocked, redirected, struck. The assassin was skilled—trained, disciplined—but he relied on weapons.
Seth relied on timing.
A knife grazed Seth's cheek.
Seth responded with a headbutt that snapped the assassin's mask partially loose.
The assassin stumbled back, blood dripping from his nose.
"You're not blind," he spat.
"No," Seth replied calmly. "You're sloppy."
The assassin snarled and drew his short sword.
Steel rang as it cleared its sheath.
The forest seemed to hold its breath.
The blade came down in a powerful diagonal cut. Seth stepped inside the arc, taking the strike across his forearm guard, then drove his fist into the assassin's throat.
The man choked, staggered.
Seth struck again.
And again.
Elbow to jaw.
Palm to sternum.
Kick to knee.
The assassin crashed into a tree, bark splintering beneath his back.
He slid down, gasping.
Seth stood over him, breathing steady.
The assassin laughed weakly.
"You really have no idea," he rasped. "You've just dug your grave."
He slammed something into the ground.
Smoke exploded outward, thick and blinding.
By the time it cleared—
He was gone.
Seth stood alone beneath the trees.
He touched the shallow cut on his arm, assessing damage.
Minor.
He turned back toward the mansion.
A smirk tugged faintly at his lips.
"Come," he murmured into the night.
"I'll put you all six feet under."