Conus slipped away while his parents spoke with other guests, weaving quietly through the crowd until he found a stairwell branching off the main hall. The sound of voices and the occasional clink of glass faded as he sat on the bottom step, a polished wooden rail at his side. In his hand rested a half-filled glass of wine.
Bernap's laws forbade alcohol to anyone under eighteen, but Pugnators were exempt. Due to their monstrous physiology, alcohol had little to no effect for them.
The wine burned faintly as it slid down his throat. Conus stared into its dark surface, his mind spiraling around the same thought: a family of an Elder. The words alone felt impossible.
Elders were not just strong. They were living legends. Fifty-five years ago, before the word Pugnator even existed, the world had changed. All over the globe, without warning, people collapsed where they stood. Doctors could not wake them. They had gone into coma.
Eight to twelve hours later, they rose again.
Changed.
The first dreamers spoke of visions, of strange lands and rules that broke reason itself. When they returned, they carried with them power no human had ever known. They became the first generation of Pugnators, the foundation of what came after. They were The Elders.
Conus's thoughts were broken by a sound. A soft cry, distant yet sharp enough to pierce the stillness.
He lifted his head. The cry came again, faint but clear, drifting from somewhere above.
He stood carefully, leaving the wine behind, and climbed. The stairs creaked beneath his boots, and with each step the noise of the hall below fell away. The second floor opened into a wide corridor that felt more like a gallery. Oil paintings lined the walls: landscapes, portraits of his grandfather at every stage of life. Each door was numbered in silver, some closed, others slightly ajar.
The cry guided him to one of the rooms near the end. Its door stood open.
Cautious, he stepped inside.
The room bore the weight of history. The ceiling arched high, dark beams stretching across it. Tall windows were shrouded by heavy drapes that turned the daylight into muted dusk. An enormous bed dressed in black silk dominated the chamber. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with leather-bound volumes, and a desk sat against one side, cluttered with letters and an old fountain pen. The air smelled faintly of cedar and something older, something that clung.
The master's bedroom.
Then he saw her.
A young woman sat on the edge of the bed, trembling. Her long dark hair curtained her face, her shoulders heaving with each sob. The maid's uniform she wore, black dress, white apron, stockings, looked plain against the grandeur of the room, but her grief was raw, almost unbearable to witness.
Conus hesitated at the door, his hand gripping the frame.
"Hey," he said quietly, his voice gentle. "Are you alright?"
No response.
He stepped closer, the carpet muffling his boots. "I didn't mean to intrude. I just heard you crying and—"
Still nothing.
A pulse of unease tightened in his chest. He drew nearer, close enough to see the faint tremors running through her arms. Slowly, he extended his hand toward her shoulder.
"Miss?"
Her head snapped up.
The sound that tore from her throat was inhuman.
"MURDER! MURDER! HE KILLED HIM!"
The scream split the air like shattering glass. Conus staggered back, his pulse hammering. Her face was pale, streaked with tears, yet even as he watched, the tears darkened. Thin rivulets of blood slid down her cheeks, staining her collar.
She lurched to her feet, eyes hollow and fixed on something far away. "Murder," she whispered again. The word rolled from her lips again and again, softer each time, yet heavier, stranger.
"Murder."
"Murder."
Her tone shifted into something eerie, almost melodic, as she drifted toward the bed.
Conus's breath caught in his throat. Every instinct screamed for him to leave, yet he could not move.
She turned slowly, her face streaked crimson.
And then she walked straight through the wall.
No door. No opening. She passed through solid plaster and vanished, leaving only silence.
Conus stared, his mind blank. He stumbled forward, pressing both palms to the wall. Cold. Solid. Real.
"What… what was that?" His voice came out as a rasp.
The room seemed to close in. The portraits stared too long, the drapes hung too heavy, the silence pressed too loud. He backed away, then turned and fled, nearly colliding with the frame as he rushed into the hall.
He descended the staircase quickly, heart racing, steps pounding until he reached the ground floor.
At the bottom, Laura appeared. Her long black dress whispered as she moved, her eyes curious as she tilted her head.
"Why do you look like you've seen a ghost?"
Conus froze. Words tangled in his throat. He managed a tight smile.
"Forgot something in the car," he muttered, brushing past her.
"Conus—" she called after him, but he did not turn.
The cold air outside hit him sharply. He made it to the car, yanked the door open, and sank into the seat. His hands shook as he pulled the door shut. He leaned back, staring at nothing, the image of the maid replaying behind his eyes: the sobs, the bloodlike tears, the scream that carved through the silence.
That was a ghost! An actual ghost!
But it was not her face that unsettled him most.
It was her words.
Murder. He killed him.
Conus shut his eyes, the voice echoing in his head. That had not been random grief or a meaningless apparition. It had been deliberate, a message. He knew it in his gut.
Could his grandfather have been killed?
The thought felt absurd. Kayden Aromanus was an Elder, an A-rank, a man people whispered about with reverence. Who could kill someone like that? And yet… the Inspectors had called it suicide.
Conus's jaw tightened.
"She must have seen it," he whispered. "She must have witnessed it. But who was she? A maid? A random ghost?"
The sharp click of a car door pulled him from his thoughts.
Ishira slid into the driver's seat, adjusting his coat as if the cold did not exist. His eyes met Conus's in the rearview mirror.
"You alright, son?"
Conus blinked, forcing a smile. "Yeah. Just… thinking."
Ishira studied him for a moment longer than usual but said nothing. "The burial is about to start. Let's go."
They stepped into the garden, where rows of chairs had been arranged along cobblestone paths. At the center stood a raised platform draped in black and white. The coffin rested upon it, polished mahogany framed with lilies and dark roses.
Guests gathered in solemn clusters. The air was quiet when the priest began. His words spoke of Kayden's strength, of his legacy as one of the first Pugnators. His tone carried the weight of history itself.
And then the coffin was lowered. The ropes creaked softly, the sound stark in the silence. Dirt and shovels waited nearby. The last inch vanished beneath the earth, and the priest's final blessing faded into the breeze.
It should have ended there.
But it didn't.
Engines growled at the edge of the property, low and commanding. Every head turned as a convoy approached. Four black vehicles rolled in with mechanical precision, sleek and armored, surrounding a central car of liquid silver. Its tinted windows reflected the sky like obsidian glass.
The convoy stopped in perfect formation.
Security poured out, moving with sharp efficiency. Two men approached the silver car and opened both doors in flawless sync.
The murmurs began.
Two women stepped out.