The great bell in the central tower tolled three times. Its heavy tone echoed sharply, slicing through the stillness of the night before dissolving into the blizzard that cloaked Castle Romario. This was the hour when the entire estate sank into sleep—when the nobles slept soundly beneath warm fur blankets, and the guards huddled around watch-fire hearths, swilling cheap wine.
A perfect hour for a breathing corpse to move.
I pulled my worn coat tighter around myself, fastening its thin fabric to ward off the biting chill that seeped straight into my bones. My left ankle still offered a dull, persistent throbbing whenever I bore weight upon it, but that physical ache was merely a minor inconvenience. I unlatched the decaying wooden window frame, letting the ruthless night wind sweep across my face, before stepping out onto the stone terrace covered in a slick layer of ice.
I moved in silence, like a ghost slipping along the stone walls of the West Tower. Evading the reach of the oil lamps carried by the guards patrolling the main corridor was ridiculously simple; they were far too lazy and far too busy cursing their night duty in this freezing weather to notice a coward who was supposed to be curled up under a blanket.
My limping steps carried me further toward the rear of the castle grounds, into an old garden long forgotten by time.
There stood the Old Greenhouse.
The structure resembled the giant skeleton of a dying era. Its iron frame had blackened, eaten away by rust, while the glass panels encircling it were mostly shattered, leaving jagged shards protruding like the broken teeth of a monster. Heavy snow accumulated atop its gaping domed roof, and wild briars crawled upward, twining around the cracked stone pillars.
It was in this very place, a few days ago, that the original Benedict was ambushed by Raymond's men. I slowed my pace, staring at a corner near the collapsed stone steps. Upon the frozen red-brick ground, a dark stain of dried blood was still visible, trapped beneath a thin coat of ice. The blood of this body.
I felt no trauma. I merely felt pity for how easily this boy had been broken by those who held power.
I stepped past the lopsided iron door, entering the greenhouse interior filled with the scent of damp earth, decay, and a humid chill. The air in here felt slightly calmer, sheltered from the direct assault of the wind. Beneath the remaining ruins of the glass roof, a specific humidity was trapped, creating a microclimate that allowed a few wild plants to survive the freezing winter.
Utilizing the herbal knowledge remaining in my mind, I searched along the base of the stone wall overgrown with ancient moss. And there, hidden behind a dense cluster of briar roots, I found what I was looking for.
Moonlight Nightshade.
The dark-leafed plant with frozen bluish petals appeared utterly insignificant. To an untrained eye, this was merely a deadly poisonous weed if ingested. But to someone who understood basic alchemy, the low-dose toxin from this plant possessed a corrosive property capable of dissolving the bond of the mana-suppressing poison binding my heart.
I knelt on the cold ground, carefully picking several leaves so that its sap would not touch my bare skin. But as my fingers parted the wild briars at the base of the wall, my fingertips brushed against something hard and sharp-cornered.
Not a stone.
I cleared away the pile of dead leaves and thin snow covering it, revealing a small carved teakwood box hidden inside a decayed stone compartment. The carvings on the wooden box had faded with age, yet I could still recognize the emblem: it was not the symbol of the Romario clan, but the chrysanthemum crest of Benedict's late birth mother.
My heart beat a fraction faster. I pulled the box out and unlatched its rusted lock.
Inside, resting upon a frayed piece of silk, lay a small glass vial containing a frozen clear liquid and a neatly folded sheet of worn paper. With fingers trembling from the cold, I unfolded the paper. The handwriting upon it was delicate, filled with desperation and a mother's warmth.
My poor Benedict... If you find this box, it means you have survived long enough to understand the cruelty of this place. The poison in your chest is not fate, but Eleanor's deceit, fed into my drink since you were born. This vial contains a pure neutralizing extract, the recipe for which I have written on the back of this sheet. Cleanse your blood, my child. Live... even if the entire world wishes you dead.
I stared at the writing in a long, unbroken silence. The riddle of this body was finally answered in full. Benedict was not born talentless; he was intentionally poisoned from the womb so Eleanor could ensure her own son became the sole heir to the Romario legacy.
I folded the paper back up, slipping it into my coat pocket alongside the glass vial and the newly picked herbs.
The process of dissolving this poison within my body would not be easy. It would be agonizing, burning my veins from within and forcing me through immense physical torture. But I did not care. I had already died once, and a little pain would never be enough to stop me.