Sunlight filtered through the canopy of trees, dappling the smooth, paved road with shifting patterns of light and shadow. A sleek black carriage rumbled along the path, and inside, a young man frowned deeply, leaning against the window. His gaze fixed on the hazy silhouette of the castle rising through the forest, a cold, heavy look clouding his features.
As one of the most promising young scions of the Byrd family, Viscount Wen was renowned for his caution and prudence. Though he was not a direct descendant of the main line, he had earned his title through sheer hard work. In fact, his father had more than once grumbled over drinks that if he weren't the head of a cadet branch, Wen would undoubtedly be the Byrd family's heir apparent.
Wen himself, however, cared little for such ambitions—far less than his father assumed. Truth be told, he was quite relieved that the heir's mantle had fallen to Pelzen instead of him. As a member of a great noble house, Wen knew exactly what the title of heir entailed: it was a burden he had no desire to shoulder. For him, the most important thing in life was stability. After all, what was the point of lofty goals if you couldn't even survive to pursue them?
It was this calm, steady attitude that had endeared him to the family's aging patriarch. Of course, the old saying went that a soldier who didn't dream of becoming a general was a poor soldier—but if every soldier *only* dreamed of being a general, chaos would reign. This was especially true for ancient, established noble families like the Byrds, where tradition and authority were sacrosanct. If every young nobleman vied for the single seat of power, the entire house would tear itself apart.
Wen closed his eyes, tearing his gaze away from the castle. He rubbed his temples, his mind whirring as he turned the mission over and over again.
From the very beginning, Wen had suspected this assignment was far from simple. He had served as the patriarch's aide for less than five years, but he was deeply confident in his own judgment and abilities. The old lord had always trusted him with the most sensitive tasks—so why had he been sent to investigate a fallen noble exiled to a backwater fiefdom?
The moment he'd received the order, Wen had smelled something fishy. As the patriarch's right-hand man, he knew full well the details of Pelzen's failed scheme. After Pelzen had stumbled back to the family in disgrace, the patriarch hadn't tasked Wen with quelling the unrest within the house or smoothing over the scandal. Instead, he'd abruptly dispatched him to the Duskwood domain—and given Pelzen's recent return from that very place, the connection was impossible to ignore.
Before setting out, Wen had pored over every scrap of information available on the new lord of Duskhold: Felix, a scion of a fallen noble family. On the surface, it was nothing out of the ordinary. Wen had immediately spotted the irregularities in the land exchange that had brought Felix here—no one in their right mind would trade a fertile estate for this cursed, barren forest. The truth was clear: the Byrds had used underhanded noble tactics to seize the man's lands and banish him to this desolate corner of the kingdom.
Wen was well aware of Duskhold Castle's fearsome reputation. In fact, many members of the Byrd family knew the castle's dark history—including the tale of a distant relative who had met a gruesome end there. Though Wen, as a modern young noble, didn't put much stock in ghost stories, he couldn't deny a flicker of unease in his chest.
He had little confidence in this mission. He knew full well that he'd been sent to dig up dirt on the young lord—Black Felix. According to the patriarch, this man was somehow linked to Pelzen's humiliating defeat in Duskwood. Or perhaps… there simply were no other suspects left to blame.
Before leaving, Wen had considered the possibilities carefully. There were only two scenarios: either this young lord was completely innocent, with no connection to Pelzen's downfall and no ability to orchestrate such a scheme—making this entire mission nothing but a wild goose chase. Or, this young lord was a cunning, dangerous mastermind. If he could outmaneuver Pelzen and the Pale Eagles, then Wen stood little chance of coming out on top.
Now, as he gazed out at the scene unfolding before him, Wen's heart sank. The second possibility was looking more and more likely by the minute.
This road alone was proof enough that the lord of Duskhold was no fool—and certainly no idle, dissolute nobleman squandering his days away. As a Byrd, Wen knew exactly how costly and labor-intensive road construction was. For a noble, it wasn't impossible—but for a man who'd been swindled out of his lands, left with nothing but the tattered remnants of his family's reputation to his name? Who in their right mind would pour resources into improving such a godforsaken fiefdom?
If Wen had arrived to find rutted, winding dirt roads and a dilapidated, crumbling town, he would have breathed a sigh of relief. But now? He felt nothing but growing unease.
This road had cost *money*—and according to his intelligence, this lord had barely two copper coins to rub together. How could he possibly afford such a project?
And then there was the town itself. Wen had passed through here once before, years ago, on a whim. Back then, it had been a stagnant, isolated backwater, frozen in time. But now? He frowned as he watched workers clearing debris and dredging the irrigation canals. This wasn't a last-minute cleanup to impress an important guest. This lord meant business—he was *building* something here.
But hadn't he heard the stories about the castle?
Wen pulled back the curtain again, his eyes fixed on the looming structure in the distance. The deaths there weren't just legends. Who knew if this young lord would even live to see the end of the year? By this time next winter, he might already be a cold, lifeless corpse.
Was this youthful recklessness… or something more?
"Thompson," Wen said, turning his gaze to the middle-aged man sitting across from him. This was the very same man who had traveled to Duskhold Castle ten days prior—and Wen's most trusted retainer.
"What do you make of our host?"
At his master's question, Thompson's stern, impassive face twitched slightly. He frowned, mulling over the memory for a long moment before finally speaking.
"I cannot say for certain, my lord."
"Cannot say?"
Wen repeated the words, confused. He had known Thompson for years—he was a man of few words, but his judgments were always reliable, grounded in a keen, pragmatic eye for detail. But to admit he knew nothing about a mere twenty-something noble? That was unheard of.
"Is he a man of few words? Difficult to approach?"
"Well…" Thompson shook his head, a faint, helpless smile tugging at his lips. "No, my lord. Lord Felix was perfectly cordial—polite, well-mannered, with no hint of strangeness about him."
"Then…" Wen's brow furrowed deeper. Hadn't he just described the man's character perfectly? Why claim to know nothing?
"I suppose I'm just getting old, and my nerves are frayed," Thompson said, catching his master's confused look. He sighed, struggling to put his vague unease into words. "I don't know why, but there was something… *hidden* beneath his smile. Perhaps it was the cursed castle playing tricks on my mind, but he felt nothing like the other young nobles I've met. He was friendly enough, yes—but for a man living alone in such a sinister place… he seemed far too *unfazed* by it all. Too calm."
"Too unfazed."
Wen latched onto the key phrase immediately, his interest piqued.
"What do you mean by that?"
"I… I cannot explain it," Thompson admitted, frustration creeping into his voice. For a man who prided himself on his clarity of thought, this was a rare admission of defeat. He hesitated, then shook his head firmly. "I apologize, my lord. I know very little about him."
"Well, we shall meet him soon enough," Wen said, nodding. He dismissed the troubled look on his retainer's face, his attention now fixed on the massive castle growing closer with every passing moment.
"I trust we will wrap up this mission quickly."
At his master's words, Thompson opened his mouth, then closed it again, biting back the strange, unsettling feeling that lingered in his chest. When he had stepped into Duskhold Castle and met Black Felix face-to-face, the seasoned retainer had been overcome by an inexplicable dread. It was as if the castle and the smiling young lord were one and the same—a colossal, slumbering beast, watching his every move with cold, calculating eyes. The sensation had been bone-chilling. But now, looking back on it, it felt like nothing more than a bad dream—a figment of his imagination, born of the castle's dark reputation.
A massive, shadowy form loomed over the carriage, swallowing it whole. As the vehicle rounded the final bend in the road, Duskhold Castle finally came into full view.
The moment he laid eyes on it, Wen felt his heart clench in a vice grip of fear. This was not his first time seeing the castle. Fifteen years ago, he had been a brash, adventurous boy, sneaking out of the family estate with his friends to catch a glimpse of the fortress that adults whispered about in hushed, terrified tones. Back then, no one had dared to approach it—not even them. They had only watched from afar, the dark silhouette rising above the hills like a ravenous beast, searing itself into Wen's memory.
Now, seeing it up close, Wen felt as if he had been transported back to that fateful day. He was no longer the calm, composed viscount of the Byrd family. He was a small, frightened boy again, staring up at the terrifying, ancient structure with wide eyes full of dread and confusion. It had stood for centuries, weathering countless storms and tragedies—and yet it still stood, unyielding and unbroken.
The very thought sent a shiver down Wen's spine. If he had once dismissed the castle's curse as mere coincidence, he now found himself starting to believe the terrible rumors.
"My lord, we have arrived," Thompson said, his voice jolting Wen out of his reverie.
The young viscount shook himself awake, raising his eyes to the window. Standing at the castle gates, bathed in sunlight, was the young lord himself—Black Felix, wearing a warm, elegant smile as he waited to greet his guests.
For some reason, in that single, fleeting moment, Wen felt the castle stir to life around him. It was no longer just a building. It was a fearsome, waking beast, standing at its master's side, sizing up the newcomers—like prey.
*Ridiculous*, Wen told himself sharply, shaking off the irrational fear.
With a deep breath, he opened the carriage door and stepped out into the sunlight.