The room fell silent once more after he left her. But this time, it didn't feel as empty.
Daemon stood in his basement room, staring at the single set of clothes laid carefully over the chair. His only proper attire. It hadn't been provided by the house, but by her. The fabric was simple compared to the silk of true noble wear, yet far finer than the rough tunics he usually wore. Dark-toned and well-fitted, the clean stitching followed the lines of his frame instead of hiding it.
It wasn't extravagant. But it was enough.
'…This is fine.'
The thought came quietly as he dressed. When he stepped back, the difference was clear. The same tall figure. The same sharp features. But now, he looked less like a servant and more like someone who actually belonged above ground. Daemon didn't linger on the image; he turned and left.
The hallway carried faint echoes of voices—something more focused and controlled than the usual murmurs of the staff. As he stepped forward, the source revealed itself. Viola and Aron stood a short distance away, facing a man in layered robes of deep blue lined with silver threads.
A mage. Their tutor.
The air around the man felt different—subtle, yet vibrating with a specific pressure. Seiryoku.
'Focus,' the mage said calmly, raising his hand slightly. 'Control comes before power.'
Aron rolled his shoulder, clearly uninterested in the lecture. Daemon didn't stop walking, passing them without a word. That's when Aron moved. With a lazy flick of his fingers, the ground just ahead of Daemon shimmered. A thin layer of ice formed instantly. Precise. Quick. A simple trick.
Or so he thought.
Daemon's step didn't falter. The moment his foot came down, his weight adjusted and his movement flowed. He stepped past the patch cleanly—no slip, no pause. It was as if the ice had never been there at all.
Silence followed for a heartbeat. Then, Viola laughed.
'That's it?' she said, clearly amused. 'Even he can dodge that.'
Aron's expression darkened. 'Tch… I wasn't even trying.'
The mage, however, was watching Daemon closely. He wasn't impressed or amused; he was observing.
Daemon didn't look back. Whatever they thought didn't matter.
The courtyard opened before him, the morning fully settled. A horse stood near the gate alongside a guard and a well-dressed man bearing the subtle insignia of House Vane. Waiting for him. Daemon's gaze shifted to the horse—black, tall, and strong.
Storm.
The name surfaced naturally, bringing brief, distant memories of a younger version of himself in a small arena. Noise. Competition. And at the end—that horse. Won. Kept. Raised. Unlike everything else in this house, Storm was his.
The horse let out a low breath as Daemon approached, its posture relaxing. Daemon raised his hand, resting it briefly against its neck.
'…You've grown.'
The guard exchanged a glance with the official but said nothing.
'Young master,' the man spoke, bowing slightly. 'We've been assigned to escort you to Thornsvillage.'
Daemon nodded once. 'We leave now.'
The three prepared quickly. The guard mounted his horse, the official adjusted the carriage, and Daemon climbed onto Storm with practiced ease. His posture was steady and controlled.
And then—they moved.
The gates of House Vane opened once more, and this time, Daemon didn't look back. The road stretched ahead, long and uneven, leading away from stone walls and structured silence into something far less predictable.
The ride was quiet at first. Only the sound of hooves, the shift of the wind, and the distant movement of life beyond noble boundaries.
'Thornsvillage is near the border,' the official spoke after some time. 'Not many pass through there.'
Daemon didn't respond.
'It's… not a well-known region,' the guard added, his tone uncertain. 'Even among us.'
'You've never been?' Daemon asked.
'No.'
'Nor have I,' the official admitted. 'It's quite far from the central lands.'
Daemon's gaze remained forward. '…I see.'
The road stretched long beneath them, winding through fields that slowly lost their color the further they rode. The rhythmic thud of hooves against dirt filled the silence—steady, unchanging, and heavy. Daemon's gaze remained fixed forward, his expression unreadable.
"How long will it take?" he asked after a long stretch of quiet.
The Vane official adjusted his posture, clearing his throat. "At this pace, young lord... about a day's journey."
"Half a day." The mage spoke calmly, his voice cutting through the air with quiet confidence. Daemon's eyes shifted toward him. "With enhancement magic, we can shorten the distance," the mage continued. "If we move efficiently."
The guard frowned, his hand instinctively moving toward the hilt of his sword. "That would mean cutting through the forest route. Monsters... that area isn't exactly safe."
The mage didn't flinch. "We could handle them, but it would slow our progress regardless."
Daemon listened as they weighed the risks. He wasn't looking for a fight, nor was he in a hurry to reach a place that felt more like a ghost than a home. "We take the longer path," he said finally. "Avoid unnecessary trouble."
Simple. Decisive. The mage gave a small, respectful nod. "Understood."
The journey continued, the sun climbing higher but feeling weaker. The official, seemingly unable to sit with the silence, spoke again. "Young lord… are you planning to stay there? As a Baron?"
The title felt heavier now, weighted by the dust of the road. "…Maybe," Daemon replied.
The man hesitated. "But I heard from the master… you'll be joining the Royal Academy."
"Yes."
"Then… how will you manage both?"
Daemon's gaze remained distant, watching the horizon blur. "…I haven't thought about it." It was an honest answer, stripped of the usual noble pretension.
The official straightened, gathering his courage. "If I may, young lord… I could take you to a magical shop in the capital. You could acquire a flying mount… or a carpet. Travel would no longer be an issue."
Daemon's expression didn't change, but his voice dropped an octave. "I'll think about it. But I don't have that kind of fortune. And I don't intend to burden them further."
A brief pause followed as the official blinked in confusion.
"They haven't seen their lord in sixteen years," Daemon added quietly. "I arrive, and the first thing I do is demand more? That doesn't sit right."
"My lord… they are commoners," the official said carefully, as if explaining a basic law of nature. "It is their duty to serve the nobility."
Daemon's eyes shifted toward him—calm, steady, and utterly cold. "…I don't see it that way."
The words weren't loud, but they carried a weight that silenced the carriage. Even the mage glanced at Daemon now, his gaze more attentive than before. After a moment, Daemon looked ahead again. "…It's too early to decide anything."
The conversation ended there, but a new tension lingered. It wasn't disagreement; it was curiosity.
Then, the land began to change.
At first, it was subtle. The air grew warmer—dry and unnatural. Then came the smell. Faint at first, then overpowering: the scent of rot, old blood, and stagnant decay. The horses slowed instinctively, their ears pinning back.
Daemon's eyes narrowed. The sky above had shifted, and dark shapes circled slowly. Blood Owls.
The greenery vanished. What were once lush trees now stood like hollow skeletons—branches bare, lifeless, and stripped of both leaves and fruit. The ground was cracked and parched, looking more like a wound than soil. Bones lay scattered in the gray dust—some small, some… much larger.
"…What is this place…" the guard muttered, his voice trembling.
The official's face had gone pale. "This… can't be right."
The mage's gaze sharpened, his fingers tracing a sigil in the air. "There's no natural cause for this."
Daemon said nothing, but his grip on Storm's reins tightened until his knuckles were white. The unease wasn't just in the air; it was pressing inward, heavy and suffocating. The temperature had risen noticeably, and the air no longer carried life. It carried something that had long overstayed its welcome.
"Lord Mount…" the official spoke, his voice tense. "In terms of land… this region is one of the largest under the Rose Kingdom. Third, if I'm not mistaken. It shouldn't look like this."
The mage nodded grimly. "This level of decay… it resembles something cursed."
The word hung in the air. Cursed.
Daemon's gaze swept across the desolation. Dead trees. Scavengers. Silence.
"…Or something worse," the mage added quietly.
They slowed to a crawl, senses heightened. No movement. No life. Only the remnants of what once was. Ahead, wooden structures finally came into view—broken, worn, and silvered by age. At the edge of the ruin stood a gate, half-collapsed, waiting for someone to claim it.
Daemon stared at the wreckage of his inheritance. His land. His people.