Sunlight slipped through the tall windows of House Andreas, pale and steady, touching stone and silk alike. The manor awoke as it always did—quiet footsteps in the halls, the distant chime of bells, servants moving with trained efficiency.
Nothing appeared out of place.
Seth noticed the difference immediately.
He lay still for a moment after waking, breathing evenly, allowing the familiar sounds to settle around him. The air felt unchanged. The room smelled the same—linen, polished wood, faint incense. If there was tension in the manor, it hid itself well.
Good.
He reached for his cane with a small, deliberate pause, fingers brushing the bedside before closing around the handle. The motion was practiced—slightly hesitant, carefully imperfect. He rose, adjusted his blindfold, and stood as though orienting himself anew, even though he already knew the room's dimensions by heart.
A knock came.
"Young Master Seth?" Nelly's voice, warm and steady as ever.
"Yes," he answered, turning slightly in the wrong direction before correcting himself.
The door opened. Two sets of footsteps entered.
Nelly approached him at once, her presence grounding, familiar. Mariel lingered behind, lighter on her feet.
"Good morning," Nelly said. "Shall we prepare you for breakfast?"
"Yes, please."
Mariel spoke up quickly. "I'll tidy the room while you escort him."
"That would be helpful," Nelly replied.
Seth inclined his head in Mariel's direction, just a little too late. "Thank you."
Her breath hitched before she answered. "Of course, Young Master."
Nelly guided him gently from the room, her hand firm at his elbow. Seth allowed his weight to shift slightly toward her—just enough to sell the image. Behind them, the soft sounds of cleaning began, drawers opening, fabric folded.
As they walked the corridor, Seth kept his steps measured, cane tapping softly against the stone. He misjudged a corner by half a step, recovered smoothly, and apologized under his breath.
Nelly said nothing, but her grip tightened briefly.
"Everything alright?" he asked.
"Yes," she said at once. "Just… the house feels busy today."
He smiled faintly. "It usually does."
The dining hall greeted them with layered sound—cutlery, quiet conversation, chairs being moved. Seth paused at the threshold as though listening for direction.
"This way," Nelly murmured.
At the table, more voices were present than usual.
His mother's voice reached him first—soft, composed, carrying the gentle authority she rarely needed to assert. Across from her sat Sly, her lighter tone weaving in and out, curious and unguarded.
"Seth," his mother said when he was seated. "Good morning."
"Good morning, Mother."
Sly leaned forward. "Brother! You're up early."
"Only a little," he replied, angling his face toward her voice.
She watched him closely. Seth could feel it—not her suspicion, but concern carefully masked behind familiarity.
Breakfast unfolded quietly.
Lord Andrea spoke of weather affecting trade caravans. His mother commented on correspondence from extended relatives. Sly complained—cheerfully—about her lessons. Seth listened, nodded when addressed, responded simply when spoken to.
He spilled a small amount of tea when lifting the cup. Just a drop. Enough to justify Nelly's quick movement to assist.
"Careful," she said gently.
"Sorry," Seth replied.
His mother's fingers stilled on her utensil for just a moment before resuming.
Conversation never faltered—but it adjusted around him, subtly. Voices softened when directed his way. Topics shifted when they risked growing sharp.
He remained exactly what they expected him to be.
After breakfast, Lord Andrea rose. "Seth."
Seth turned his head, searching briefly before finding the direction of his father's voice. "Yes, Father?"
"Walk with me."
Nelly hesitated.
"I'll be fine," Seth said, lifting his cane.
Lord Andrea did not correct him when Seth followed half a step behind instead of beside him.
They walked the garden corridor, sunlight warming the stone beneath their feet. Guards stood at intervals, silent as statues.
"You'll be turning nineteen soon," Lord Andrea said.
"Yes."
"There are formalities to address. Records. Household roles. External perception."
Seth nodded. "I understand."
"You've remained… quiet," his father continued. "That has kept things stable."
"I try not to be a burden."
Lord Andrea stopped walking.
"That is not your responsibility."
Seth inclined his head. "Then I apologize."
A pause.
"I'll be assigning you a role soon," Lord Andrea said. "Something that keeps you occupied. Useful. Within your limits."
"I'm grateful."
"Your condition will be considered," his father added.
"Of course."
No accusation. No probing. Just careful, administrative distance.
They turned back.
When Seth returned to his chambers later, the room smelled freshly cleaned. Mariel had done her work well.
"Everything is where you left it," she said quickly.
"Thank you," Seth replied, offering a polite smile.
As the door closed and footsteps faded, Seth sat alone.
He relaxed his posture. Just a fraction.
The cane rested untouched beside him.
The manor had not changed.
But the way it moved around him had.
They were cautious now.
And caution, Seth knew, was the first sign that balance had begun to shift.
Seth sat alone in his room, the afternoon light slanting across the stone floor in narrow bands. The manor beyond his walls carried on with its routines, distant footsteps and muted voices flowing past like water around stone.
On the table before him lay something that did not belong in House Andreas.
The bodysuit was folded carefully, dark fabric absorbing light rather than reflecting it. Seth's fingers moved across it with familiarity, not sight—measuring seams, testing flexibility, tracing the faint grooves where thin channels had been integrated into the material. It was light. Too light for its durability. Reinforced where it mattered, forgiving where it needed to bend.
He worked slowly, tools arranged with deliberate disorder, as if placed absentmindedly. In truth, every piece sat exactly where he expected it to be.
A subtle adjustment here. A reinforced clasp there.
The suit was nearly complete.
Footsteps approached the corridor outside his room.
Seth's hands stilled instantly.
In one smooth motion, he folded the bodysuit back into itself and slid it beneath the loose panel in the side of his worktable. He brushed his hands against his trousers, adjusted his posture, and angled his head slightly toward the door—just enough to look attentive without precision.
A knock followed.
"Seth?" Sly's voice carried through the door, bright and hopeful. "Can I come in?"
"Yes," he replied at once. "Come in."
The door opened. Light footsteps crossed the threshold, followed by the faint rustle of paper.
Sly entered with a book hugged to her chest, its leather cover worn at the corners from frequent handling. She closed the door behind her with care, then approached him with the quiet eagerness of someone who didn't want to disturb but couldn't help herself.
"Hi," she said.
"Hello," Seth replied, smiling faintly. "how are you going about your day Sly?"
She lifted the book slightly. "Stories, The old ones. About mythical creatures, beasts and… things."
"Things," he repeated.
She sat beside him on the edge of the bed, close enough that he could feel the shift in the mattress. For a moment, neither of them spoke. It was comfortable. Familiar.
"I was reading," Sly said, flipping pages, "and there's this part I don't understand."
"Which part?"
She cleared her throat, trying to sound serious. "It talks about relics. And it says they're not artifacts. And not divine gifts. And not made by anyone. But… it doesn't really explain what they are."
Seth leaned back slightly, hands resting on his lap.
"Relics," he said, choosing his words carefully, "are lost items. Powerful ones. They were birthed at the time of creation."
Sly tilted her head. "So… really old?"
"Older than 'old,'" Seth replied. "They aren't ancient artifacts, and they aren't man-made. They weren't forged or carved or blessed."
"Then how do they exist?"
"They simply do."
She considered that.
"If a mortal were to possess one," Seth continued calmly, "they could warp reality."
Her head snapped toward him. "Warp reality?"
"Yes," he said, emphasis soft but deliberate. "The power to change how things appear. How they behave. How the world responds."
Sly's eyes widened.
"Like… illusions?"
"Sometimes," Seth said. "Sometimes more than that. All relics are said to have different attributes, Different rules, Different concepts."
She leaned back, processing.
"Wow…" she breathed. Then she grinned suddenly. "Where can I find one?"
Seth's brow lifted. "You're asking casually."
"Well," she said, swinging her legs slightly, "there's this pair of shoes I saw at the classic boutique after tea with my friend. If I had a relic, I'd use it to make myself a lot of shoes."
She smiled, unabashed.
Seth chuckled softly. "I see."
"But," he said, "all relics are different. They're not the same, even in power. And even if someone did obtain one, it wouldn't be just called luck. They're few. Scattered. Many have searched and found nothing."
Sly smiled again—but this time, it was smug. Confident.
"Don't worry, brother," she said, standing up. "I know how to get one."
Seth turned his head toward her voice. "Oh? Do tell. When great men have tried and failed?"
She stopped at the door, hand on the handle.
"I'll pray to the goddesses," she said matter-of-factly. "They'll answer my call. I prayed once for Father to take me to the capital, and he did. So don't worry. I've got this."
The door opened.
Seth laughed lightly. "You go, girl."
She giggled and left, footsteps retreating down the corridor.
Only when the sound had completely faded did Seth's smile disappear.
He rose, returned to the table, and retrieved the bodysuit once more.
Night came.
The manor slept.
At midnight, when even the guards' routines grew predictable, Seth stood in the darkness of his room. He brought out the bodysuit and began to wear it piece by piece.
The pants went on first—tight, flexible, anchoring at the waist. The upper layer followed, sealing smoothly around his torso and neck, forming a partial mouth covering. Gloves slid into place, thin enough to feel texture, strong enough to resist blades. Boots locked around his ankles, soundless against stone.
The utility belt settled last—dim blue accents catching no light.
He adjusted his blindfold.
Then, as always, he placed a decoy on his bed.
A weighted form beneath blankets. A faint breathing illusion crafted from simple mechanisms. Enough to deceive anyone who didn't know what to look for.
Seth slipped from his chamber unseen.
He moved across rooftops and shadows, through alleys and along walls, leaving the manor behind.
The town district lay quiet, but not peaceful.
Near the outskirts, he heard it—the muffled struggle, a sharp intake of breath. He paused, listening.
A child.
A sack being dragged.
Seth followed.
The man moved fast, avoiding lantern light, slipping past the town's boundary into thick brush and forest beyond. Seth did not rush. He tracked patiently, memorizing cadence, weight distribution, breath patterns.
They reached a clearing.
A settlement emerged—rough structures, torchlight, guards at the perimeter. Bandits. Organized. About two hundred meters wide. Two central duplex-like buildings. Activity everywhere.
The child was taken inside.
Seth counted.
Fifty-one.
He walked toward the entrance openly.
Two guards spotted him.
"Hey—"
Seth closed the distance before the words finished forming.
Two precise strikes. One to the throat. One to the jaw.
Both collapsed silently.
He passed through.
The camp erupted.
Men poured from structures, weapons drawn—swords, axes, daggers, crude armor clattering. They rushed him without hesitation.
Seth inhaled.
Then moved.
The first blade swung wide. Seth stepped inside the arc, elbow snapping upward into the attacker's throat. Bone cracked. He pivoted, fist driving into another man's sternum hard enough to lift him from the ground.
A dagger flashed. Seth twisted, letting it skim past his ribs, then hooked the wrist and broke it. He struck again. And again.
He flowed through them—no wasted motion, no hesitation. Fists blurred, bodies dropped.
When numbers pressed too close, thin wires sang.
Lines shot from his gloves, nearly invisible. They wrapped around necks, limbs, torsos. A pull—sharp, controlled.
Men fell apart.
Blades clattered uselessly as tendons severed. Heads snapped sideways. Blood sprayed dark against torchlight.
Seth released the wires, already moving.
The karambit appeared in his hand.
Curved steel flashed. One. Two. Three.
He slipped beneath a swing, blade opening a man from hip to ribs. He spun, cutting the back of a knee, then the throat above it.
They tried to surround him.
He refused to stay still.
Wire. Fist. Blade.
He broke and shattered bones with his fist.
Chop off body parts with his wire.
Cut and torn vital points with his karambit.
Bodies piled up, Screams cut short, The ground slicked beneath his boots.
The bandit boss emerged last.
A man in reinforced armor, eyes wide, weapon humming with energy. He raised the magic gun and fired.
Blue bolts screamed through the air.
Seth dodged at pin-point distance—leaning, twisting, stepping through gaps thinner than breath. Heat grazed his skin.
Another shot.
Miss.
Another.
Seth threw the karambit.
It buried itself in the man's shoulder.
The boss screamed, staggering.
Seth was already moving.
Wires lashed out, wrapping the man's limbs.
A pull.
A twist.
The body came apart in pieces.
Silence followed.
Seth stood alone among the dead.
He retrieved the child, cutting the sack open gently outside the vicinity.
Going back to the bandit settlement, "Go," he said softly.
She ran.
He scavenged methodically—gold, weapons, valuables. Piled them for later retrieval.
A wooden box fell.
He picked it up.
Opened it.
Light poured out.
Energy Immense.
His breath stilled.
Whatever lay inside pulsed with power—old, vast, unmistakable.