The carriage came to a halt before the iron gates of the Ahmed Estate. The rhythmic sound of hooves faded into the thick morning mist, leaving behind a heavy, unnatural silence.
The door opened.
Azgaar Ahmed stepped down first. He wasn't loud. He didn't need to be.
Tall, composed, dressed in ceremonial robes threaded with dull gold, he carried himself with a quiet, absolute authority. His ash-black hair moved slightly in the wind, and behind his thin-framed glasses, his eyes were calm—too calm. It was the kind of calm that made people lower their gaze without knowing why.
Natasha followed. Graceful. Unhurried.
Her hair was secured with an intricate bone clip, exposing her pale neck. Her golden eyes swept across the estate once, sharp and distant. She stood beside her husband like a silent verdict—beautiful, but not gentle.
The carriage driver bowed so low his forehead practically touched the dirt. He was trembling.
"Master," the driver murmured, keeping his eyes on the ground. "From the Old City to Shitapur Village... the fare is 550 Baowa."
Azgaar didn't speak. From the folds of his robes, a neat stack of banknotes floated out, drifting gently through the air before settling into the driver's hands. A subtle, effortless display of Sentira.
The driver clutched the money, scrambled onto his seat, and snapped the reins. He drove off as fast as the horses could manage, desperate to escape the crushing weight of Azgaar's presence.
Once the carriage disappeared down the foggy road, the driver slowed.
His hand rose to the locket at his neck. A faint red glow flickered to life.
"The Eagle has returned," the driver murmured, his tone shifting to something flat and professional. "Target confirmed inside the estate. No suspicion."
A pause. Then a mechanical voice answered from the locket:
"Proceed to Jughirghoul. Collect your reward."
The light faded. The driver exhaled and snapped the reins again—unaware that nothing he said had gone unheard.
Standing by the estate gates, Azgaar let out a faint, quiet exhale that sounded almost like a chuckle.
Natasha glanced at him. She knew his subtle shifts in mood. "What is it?"
"Nothing," Azgaar adjusted his glasses, looking out into the mist. "Just thinking about how eagerly some people dig their own graves for a few coins."
As they walked through the gates, three figures bowed low before them. The Head Servant, Shirin, and her two daughters, Aspia and Tasnim.
"Welcome home, Master. Welcome home, Mistress," Shirin said, her voice dripping with polished reverence.
Azgaar didn't spare them a glance. With a slight wave of his hand, he dismissed them. They hurried to collect the luggage, melting away into the shadows of the main complex.
Azgaar looked up at the sky. The faint hue of the Bloodmoon still lingered in the breaking dawn.
"The seventh day is approaching," he said quietly.
Natasha's expression softened. "Ruhan's birthday."
"Yes. I've arranged it," Azgaar said, his voice dropping. "Tomorrow, I will announce a mandatory three-day vacation for all the staff. The estate will be completely empty."
"Empty?"
"No listening ears. No one to report to the Clan Elders. We will break the rules just this once. We will celebrate our son's birthday as a family."
Natasha's throat tightened with emotion, but her gaze fell to the dark leather suitcase Azgaar held in his hand.
"You... you aren't staying?" she asked, her voice faltering. "You just arrived."
Azgaar turned to her. He stepped forward and gently kissed her forehead.
"I cannot stay," he said softly. "Do you not want me to lift the curse that binds our son? I am close. The mission is dangerous, but for Ruhan... I will find a way."
He stepped back. The air around him began to hum.
In the village, the Clan Leaders were Rank 4 Masterers. But Azgaar was a Rank 3. A man whose true power was a tightly kept secret, known only to the elites of the shadows.
"Wait for me."
In a blink, Azgaar didn't walk away—he simply ceased to be there. He dissolved into the morning wind, leaving behind only the faint scent of his cologne.
Natasha stood alone in the courtyard. She let out a trembling breath and turned her gaze toward a small, neglected building at the edge of the estate.
The Storeroom.
"Ruhan..." she whispered into the cold air. "Just a little longer. We haven't forgotten you."
✦✦✦
5:30 AM.
The inside of the storeroom was damp and bitterly cold. The gray light of dawn barely penetrated the dusty window grilles.
The old hinges of the door gave a soft creak.
Tasnim stepped inside quietly, carrying a tray with a glass of water and a towel. She wore the standard black-and-white uniform of the estate maids.
She walked over to the bed and stood looking down at Ruhan. He looked pale and exhausted, shivering slightly under the thin blanket. A pang of genuine pity twisted in Tasnim's chest. She didn't want to be a part of this, but she had no choice.
"Young Master..." she whispered softly. "Wake up."
Ruhan stirred.
His mind was caught in a delirious haze. The mental trauma of the previous night, combined with sleeping on a freezing, empty stomach, had left him disoriented. His vision blurred as he tried to open his eyes.
He didn't see a maid. He didn't see the storeroom.
He just felt... warmth.
A soft, safe presence hovering near him. Like a sanctuary he had been locked out of for years.
Mom?
Or maybe... Linara?
"Mom...?" he mumbled, his voice weak and slurred.
His hand lifted from the blanket. He wasn't reaching with any conscious intent; it was pure, desperate instinct. A starving, freezing boy reaching out for the only warmth he thought he saw.
His fingers brushed against the fabric of Tasnim's dress.
Tasnim froze. For a split second, she stopped breathing.
Then, panic took over.
CRACK!
The sound of the slap echoed sharply against the concrete walls.
Ruhan snapped awake.
His cheek stung violently. The hazy dream of warmth shattered in an instant, replaced by the freezing reality of the storeroom. He scrambled backward against the headboard, clutching his face, his eyes wide and confused.
Tasnim stood a few feet away. Her face was flushed red, her breathing erratic. She clutched the collar of her uniform tightly, looking at him with wide, frightened eyes. She hadn't wanted to hit him, but instinct had taken over.
"Y-You..." Tasnim stammered, stepping back. "What were you doing?"
Ruhan's blood ran cold. The fog in his brain cleared just enough for him to realize the absolute horror of the situation. Tasnim? Did I...?
He was a banished son. If she screamed, if she claimed he had tried to force himself on her, he was finished. The Elders would ruin him. Linara would look at him with disgust.
"I—I didn't—" Ruhan tried to speak, but his throat was completely dry. Panic suffocated him.
Tasnim glanced nervously toward the door. Her heart was pounding. She knew what was supposed to happen next.
The door pushed open.
Ruhan flinched. Someone stepped inside and quietly locked the door behind them.
It was Aspia.
Aspia didn't shout. She didn't look like a cartoonish villain. She just looked incredibly cold. She walked forward slowly, placing herself between Tasnim and Ruhan.
Her expression hardened as she looked down at him.
"You really crossed a line today, Young Master."
"I didn't!" Ruhan's voice shook violently. Sweat broke out on his forehead. "It wasn't like that, I swear, I was half-asleep—"
Aspia didn't let him finish.
"If I call the guards right now," she said quietly, her voice perfectly even, "what do you think they'll believe?"
Silence fell over the room.
Ruhan's throat tightened so hard it hurt. He knew exactly what they would believe.
Aspia tilted her head slightly, watching him suffer.
"...But maybe this doesn't have to become a problem."
Ruhan looked up, a desperate, pathetic glimmer of hope in his eyes.
"There's a way to keep this between us," Aspia continued smoothly. "No noise. No trouble for the Clan. No trouble with Madam Linara."
"How...?" Ruhan asked weakly.
Aspia's gaze flicked toward the small wooden desk in the corner of the room.
"You understand."
Ruhan stared at her. The sheer, calculated cruelty of it finally sank in. They hadn't come here to serve him. They had come to break whatever was left of him.
He felt entirely hollow. The fight drained out of him.
He slumped back against the wall, hiding his face in his trembling hands.
"...Take it," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "The bottom drawer. Just... take it and leave."
Aspia walked to the desk without hesitation.
She opened the drawer. Inside lay a small stash of coins and notes—seven thousand Baowa. Ruhan's life savings, painstakingly hoarded for two years to pay a blacksmith to restore his grandmother's sword.
Aspia gathered the money efficiently, stuffing it into her apron. Tasnim stood by the door, her eyes fixed firmly on the floor. Neither of the sisters spoke.
As Aspia reached to close the drawer, her hand paused.
Tucked in the back was a small, polished mahogany box.
She picked it up.
Ruhan's head snapped up. Electricity shot through his veins.
"Not that." His voice cracked, desperate and raw. "Leave that."
Aspia looked at the box, turning it over in her hands. "Why?"
"...It's my grandmother's."
A short silence hung in the air.
Aspia looked at him, her face devoid of pity. Then, she casually slipped the wooden box into her pocket alongside the money.
"If you have a problem with it, I can always go open the door and start screaming," she said flatly.
Ruhan didn't move this time. He didn't shout.
Something inside him just... snapped. A heavy, suffocating despair pinned him to the bed. He watched them turn around.
Aspia unlocked the door. Without another word, the two sisters slipped out into the dawn, closing the door with a soft click.
Ruhan sat alone in the freezing room.
Slowly, his hands clenched into fists. His nails dug into his palms so hard that blood began to well up.
Rage exploded inside him. Hot. Violent. Uncontrollable.
I'll kill them.
His chest heaved. The humiliation burned his throat like acid.
I will tear them apart. I swear it. I'll—
Then—
It stopped.
Abruptly.
Like a thick, heavy wire had been cleanly snipped deep inside his brain.
Ruhan blinked.
The anger was gone. It wasn't suppressed or hidden. It was simply... gone. Like a file deleted from a drive.
His clenched fists slowly relaxed. He looked down at the tiny crescent-moon cuts on his palms, genuinely confused.
"...What was I thinking?" he murmured.
He searched his mind, trying to find the source of his elevated heart rate, but found nothing. The searing humiliation, the urge for vengeance, the loss of his grandmother's box—it all felt incredibly distant, as if it had happened to someone else.
A strange, unnatural calm settled over his mind. An anesthetic for the soul.
"Well," he said softly to the empty room. "They are poor. They needed the money more than I did. It's fine."
He lay back down on the hard mattress. The soft morning light filtered through the window, resting on his face.
A faint, docile smile formed on his lips.
He closed his eyes, perfectly content, entirely unaware that the thoughts in his head no longer belonged to him.