"When the darkness falls, only light you will see is the flicker of your soul dissipating."
- Dreamer of Worlds
My first step was complete. Now came the second: finding out who had sent the assassin. For that, I needed to descend into the underbelly of the city to the slums, to the secrets. But going there unarmed? That would be suicide.
I needed a weapon.
A sword would be ideal. I remembered how I used to carry one, always strapped to my hip. I wasn't exactly a master back then, but the mere sight of it had impressed more than a few young ladies. A shame, really. That version of me had wasted so much time on posturing.
"Hope!" I shouted toward the door.
There was a faint gasp, a thud, and then hurried steps. The door creaked open, and Hope entered flushed, flustered, nearly tripping over his own feet. He rushed toward me as if his life depended on it.
"You called, young lord?"
"I can't find my sword. Do you know where it is?"
His face twitched just for a second. A sour flicker of memory passed through him, but he smothered it quickly and answered with a practiced tone.
"Your sword was… confiscated, young lord. By the head butler, after your last… night out."
My brow furrowed. "Confiscated? Why? What did I do?"
A beat of silence.
Hope's face paled, his voice quiet as if invoking a cursed memory."During that night, you… threatened an heir of a baron's family with war. Then tried to execute him. In public."
I let out a long sigh and rubbed my temple. "Gods. I was drunk, wasn't I?"
He didn't answer, but the look in his eyes told me everything.
"Request a meeting with the head butler. Let's do this the proper way."
"Yes, young lord," he said, retreating like a man who'd just escaped a dungeon cell.
.
.
.
A knock came not long after. Slow. Measured. Authoritative.
"Young lord," came a hoarse, gravelly voice. "You requested to see me."
"Enter," I called.
The head butler entered with the presence of a man used to wrangling nobles and lunatics alike. His stern eyes met mine. "You wanted your sword returned."
"I did," I said plainly.
"That… will be difficult. The lord himself took your sword. He ordered you not be given any sharp weapons."
So Father had already predicted this. Smart man.
"I see. Thank you for letting me know."
He squinted at me, clearly suspicious of my sudden politeness. "Then, if there is nothing else..."
"You may go."
He bowed stiffly and left. I waited until his footsteps faded before calling again.
"Hope! Come here."
The boy peeked in, half hiding behind the door frame.
"Y-Yes, young lord?"
"I need a knife. From the kitchen."
He stared at me like I'd just asked for his soul.
"A… kn-kn-knife?"
"Yes. It's less suspicious if you go get it. I'd rather not draw attention."
He hesitated, trembling. Then bowed and scurried off, clearly thinking I'd gone mad or worse, become my old self again.
Ten minutes later, he returned. In his trembling hands was a cloth bundle. I unfolded it to find a plain kitchen knife inside short, sharp, unremarkable.
"Good work," I muttered.
Hope blinked, then gave a shaky bow. Maybe it was gratitude. Maybe confusion. But at least he wasn't crying.
I tucked the knife under my coat, feeling its solid presence settle against my ribs.
Then I left.
.
.
.
The main hallway stretched long and empty, lined with high windows that cast pale morning light across the polished floor. At the end of it stood the old tapestry of the old Kings behind it, the forgotten servants' tunnel.
I approached the last torch holder and wrapped my hand around the cold iron.
Twist once. Twist twice.
A soft click. The mechanism groaned.
Stone parted.
The hidden door yawned open before me, breathing out air thick with dust and age. A tunnel into the belly of the manor into the quiet dark where secrets slumbered.
I stepped through the threshold, leaving behind the marble and sunlight.
Now, the real work begins.
.
.
.
The tunnel was dusty, dark and with the un-use from a long period and was filled with spiderwebs, insects and broken stones.
"Thank goodness that I took a lighting stone with me."
After some time the tunnel ended with a door covered in vine.
I opened the door forcefully. The door creaked and some liquid from the snapping vines got in my coat.
I exited the tunnel on a forested area.
This is the forest near the noble district.
After exiting the forest I see the city, the city landscape giving the view of vigour.
.
.
.
Passing through the city gates was surprisingly easy.
Perks of being the Marquis's son, I suppose. Rank opens more doors than any key.
Once outside, I kept close to the wall, my footsteps steady as I made my way toward the slums. There was no grand entrance just two crooked poles half-buried in the dirt, marking the threshold between the civilized world and the discarded one.
The wall that enclosed the slums was a joke. Weathered wood, leaning like old men who'd lived past their prime. A stiff breeze could knock it over.
As I stepped inside, I could feel the shift. The air was heavier. Thicker.
Eyes. Dozens of them. Watching.
Some gazes were hungry feral, as if they'd eat me raw for a silver coin. But a few... a few recognized me. Their whispers spread like ripples in still water. Fear bloomed in their expressions like frost on glass. I saw the way their backs straightened, how they looked away quickly, like a cat that just got its tail stepped on.
The homes here were little more than stacked timber and patchwork cloth. Some had holes big enough to let in the moonlight or the rats. People sat slouched by crumbling steps, their clothes threadbare, their eyes hollow. Even the children had the stillness of old ghosts.
The smell was unbearable. A pungent mix of piss, rot, sweat, and something worse something sour and sweet at the same time. My stomach turned, but I forced it down. I'd smelled worse in the war camps. At least here, nothing was burning. Yet.
The slums weren't just an eyesore for the city. They were its shadow a living monument to every failure of man. Every sin, every secret, every craving could be bought here. You just had to know the right price.
I moved through the winding path like a man threading a needle. Careful, quiet, eyes always ahead.
Then, there it was.
A building that didn't belong.
Two stories tall. Solid timber, real glass in the windows. No broken steps. The paint hadn't peeled away with time like the others. It stood out like a swan in a pond full of ducks beautiful in its defiance.
The Solitary Inn.
And inside... answers.