The iron gate to the Hopkins-Kintobor estate didn't just creak; it shrieked—a high, discordant protest of rusted metal that set Collin's teeth on edge. He shoved the gate aside, his boots crunching heavily over gravel that had long ago surrendered to the encroaching weeds. The air here was heavy, stagnant with the scent of damp earth, rotting foliage, and something sharp, acidic—the unmistakable, biting tang of cheap, high-proof alcohol.
Thank Terra he left Miles in the care of Mary back at their estate.
Collin paused, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his coat. He wasn't here for the estate, and he certainly wasn't here for the woman who had laid claim to it. He was here because the silence Hope had left behind was becoming deafening.
*Hope.*
The thought of her name caused a familiar, irritating itch at the base of his skull. She was only a year younger than Arthur—a little kid with wide, inquisitive eyes that seemed to see right through the polished, arrogant veneer he projected to the rest of the world.
Before he left in frustration to find his Uncle Julian, before the illusion of family dynamics had fractured into unrecognizable shards, Hope had been a persistent, lingering presence. She was an annoyance, yes—a little shadow that followed him around with nonsensical questions and sticky fingers—but she was also… his.
A half-sibling, bound by the same Kintobor blood, even if hers was diluted by the unstable, drowning lineage of her mother.
Sometimes, when she'd look at him with that unsettling, precocious intensity, she genuinely creeped him out. There was something about the way she tilted her head, like a bird calculating the trajectory of a falling branch, that didn't feel right for a child.
Yet, even through the irritation, there was a vestige of protective instinct—a snarled thread of loyalty he couldn't quite sever. She was a liability, but she was family. And someone had taken her from him.
He reached the front porch, the wood groaning beneath his weight. He didn't bother knocking. He turned the handle, and the door swung inward with a heavy, ominous thud.
The foyer was a graveyard of abandoned domesticity. Dust motes danced in the shafts of gray light that filtered through grime-streaked windows. Collin moved with purpose, his eyes scanning the debris. He had checked everywhere else—the abandoned research labs, the bolt-holes in the lower districts, the places she might have crawled to when she was scared. Nothing. This was his last hope, and the irony wasn't lost on him.
"Angelle?" he called out, his voice sharp, clipped, and devoid of any performative concern. "I know you're in here you ornery old bitch. You owe me an explanation, and I'm losing my patience."
The house breathed back at him—a shallow, rattling sound coming from the darkened living room. Collin walked forward, his heartbeat steady, rhythmic, a ticking clock in the stillness.
He recalled the last time he'd seen Hope, long before Arthur had transitioned from the hedgehog known as Sonic to the brutal, calculating entity that now haunted the nightmares of every kingdom. Hope had been watching the horizon then, asking where he was going. She had been so fragile, so hopelessly out of her depth.
He crossed the threshold of the living room, and the scene before him made him freeze.
It was a total ruin. Glass bottles lay shattered like crystal shrapnel across the floor, their contents soaked into the moldy carpet. Furniture lay on its side, the upholstery ripped, stuffing spilling out like entrails. The stench of alcohol was so concentrated it felt like he was breathing in liquid fire.
And there, slumped over a mahogany side table, was Angelle Hopkins-Kintobor.
She was motionless, a dark, viscous stain spreading from beneath her slumped form across the tabletop and onto the floor. Her dress was bunched up, stained and wretched, her hair a matted, unkempt curtain that obscured her face.
Collin felt a cold, jagged spike of revulsion pierce his chest. He approached, his steps echoing in the hollow room, and reached out to grab her shoulder, pulling her back just enough to see her face.
Her skin was a ghostly, translucent gray. Her eyes, bloodshot and glassy, were fixed on a point somewhere beyond reality. She was cold. She had been dead for days, perhaps longer. The empty bottle at her feet confirmed the cause; her body had finally rebelled against the constant, drowning tides of her own addiction, shutting down in a final, miserable act of surrender.
A sneer distorted Collin's face—a raw, ugly expression of contempt that transcended grief. He stared down at her, his jaw tightening until the muscles ached.
"Anarchy Below," he whispered, the sound devoid of warmth. "You really are as pathetic as everyone said, aren't you?"
He let her go, her body collapsing back onto the table with a dull, sickening thud. He didn't feel shock. He didn't feel mourning. He felt a deep, biting anger. She had been the only link he had to Hope, the only one who might have known where that strange, unsettling girl had hidden herself, and she had spent her final moments turning her brain into slurry.
"You just couldn't wait to die later, could you?" he spat, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and profound disappointment. "You had to make it easy. You had to make sure you beat the clock, just so you wouldn't have to face the mess you made. You're not just a failure, Angelle. You're a coward, just like father. You two really were made for each other."
He scanned the room one last time, desperation clawing at the back of his throat. There were no notes, no maps, no whispered secrets tucked away in the pockets of her rotting gown. Just the evidence of a woman who had spent her life running away from herself, finally achieving the ultimate escape.
"Fine," he muttered, turning his back on the corpse as if she were nothing more than a piece of discarded furniture. "If you wanted to rot in this tomb, be my guest. But don't expect me to pity you."
He walked toward the door, his shadow stretching long and dark across the floor. He paused at the threshold, glancing back at the stagnant, alcohol-soaked room one last time. He thought of Hope—the little girl who didn't quite belong, the girl who had crept into his thoughts when he least expected it.
The search was back to square one, but the resolve in his chest had hardened into something cold and indestructible. If the mother was the end of the line, then Hope was the only thing left worth saving.
And he would tear this world apart, piece by piece, until he found her, if only to pull her out of the shadows and away from the rot that had claimed everything else in this miserable, decaying house.
He slammed the front door shut, leaving the silence to swallow the wreckage whole. The hunt wasn't over. It was only just beginning.
------
The palace had grown strangely quiet.
Manik preferred it that way.
Silence made people careless.
Silence left doors unlocked.
Silence meant there were fewer witnesses.
He wandered the corridors without any real destination, his hands folded behind his back in an attempt to look as though he belonged exactly where he was. Servants passed occasionally, each offering a respectful bow before continuing with their work.
None of them questioned him.
Why would they?
He was a prince.
Princes wandered.
At least, that was the excuse he intended to use if anyone asked.
His thoughts, however, refused to stay on the corridor before him.
They drifted back to Arthur Sylvannia.
His half brother.
The six-year-old who had somehow become the single most frightening individual on Mobius.
Manik still wasn't entirely certain what to think.
Arthur was his own age.
That was perhaps the strangest part.
Six years old.
The same age as him.
The same age as Sonya.
The three of them had been born on the same day by a coincidence so unlikely that most people who heard the story assumed there had to be some deeper explanation behind it.
Two brothers.
One sister.
Three children.
One birthday.
And yet despite sharing the same age, Arthur felt impossibly distant.
Not older.
Not younger.
Simply...
different.
Arthur hadn't shouted.
He hadn't threatened him.
He hadn't demanded obedience.
He had simply...
looked at him.
It had been enough.
There had been something deeply unsettling about meeting someone who possessed that much power while still being the same age as him, yet felt no need to prove it.
Most rulers demanded respect.
Arthur simply expected honesty.
It was...
different.
Dangerous.
Manik didn't consider himself particularly brave.
He considered himself practical.
Practical people survived.
Practical people chose the winning side before everyone else realized there was a winning side to choose.
And every instinct he possessed whispered the same conclusion.
Arthur Sylvannia was going to win.
Whatever happened in the months...
Years...
Or decades ahead...
Arthur would still be standing.
Manik wanted to be standing beside him.
Or at least somewhere Arthur wouldn't feel inclined to remove.
Which brought him to a rather awkward problem.
Arthur's birthday.
It was only weeks away.
Technically...
It was Manik's birthday as well.
And Sonya's.
A coincidence that still felt impossible every time he remembered it.
Three children.
Born on exactly the same day.
A brother.
Another brother.
A sister.
What were the chances?
Apparently...
High enough to become reality.
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"I should bring him something..."
Not because Arthur wanted presents.
Manik doubted Arthur cared very much.
No.
The gift was for Manik.
A gesture.
An offering.
Proof that he wasn't simply another noble trying to survive by hiding behind titles.
Unfortunately...
He had absolutely no idea what someone like Arthur would appreciate.
Jewelry?
Unlikely.
Books?
Perhaps.
Weapons?
Probably unnecessary.
Food?
Impossible to predict.
He sighed.
"This would be easier if I actually knew him."
His feet stopped.
He found himself standing before a familiar hallway.
At the very end stood a single door.
Plain.
Unremarkable.
Almost disappointingly ordinary.
His mother's room.
Immediately, two memories surfaced.
The first belonged to Queen Ciara herself.
"Never enter my room without permission."
She had only said it once.
She had never needed to repeat herself.
The second memory was stranger.
The Augur of Apollos.
Cold.
Measured.
Looking directly at him.
"Leave that room untouched."
No explanation.
No threat.
Simply certainty.
Thinking about it now...
It was almost amusing.
Those two disagreed about nearly everything.
Politics.
History.
The future.
How to raise children.
How to govern.
How to speak.
Yet somehow...
They had shared one identical rule.
Don't go into Queen Ciara's room.
Manik looked left.
Empty hallway.
Right.
Also empty.
"...Well."
He smiled to himself.
"They aren't here."
He reached for the handle.
The door opened without protest.
The room beyond smelled faintly of lavender.
Not overpowering.
Subtle.
Comforting.
Sunlight filtered through sheer curtains, bathing the chamber in warm afternoon light.
It was...
smaller than he expected.
His mother could have filled it with gold.
Instead...
Everything possessed purpose.
A neatly made bed.
An oak wardrobe.
A writing desk covered with carefully organized correspondence.
Shelves lined with books.
Nothing extravagant.
Nothing excessive.
Just...
lived in.
Manik stepped inside, quietly closing the door behind him.
His eyes immediately began searching.
"If I were hiding a birthday present..."
He checked the desk first.
Letters.
Dozens of them.
Many addressed to governors.
Several sealed with royal wax.
He left them alone.
Paper was boring.
The shelves proved more interesting.
History.
Botany.
Medicine.
Diplomacy.
Children's stories.
One thick journal caught his eye.
He opened it.
Pressed flowers rested carefully between its pages.
Each labeled with elegant handwriting.
Dates.
Locations.
Tiny observations.
"...She keeps flowers?"
That...
was unexpected.
He continued searching.
Inside the wardrobe hung dresses arranged with military precision.
On the highest shelf rested a small carved wooden fox.
Old.
Worn smooth.
Obviously treasured.
"Huh."
His mother had always seemed...
larger than life.
Queens weren't supposed to keep little wooden toys.
Apparently...
His mother disagreed.
He kept looking.
A drawer contained folded children's blankets.
Another held tiny knitted socks.
Far too small for anyone living here now.
Manik frowned.
"...She kept all of these?"
Interesting.
Very interesting.
He wasn't learning state secrets.
He was learning that his mother remembered everything.
Every little milestone.
Every keepsake.
Every fragment of the past.
It wasn't what he had expected.
Still...
Nothing seemed suitable for Arthur.
He crouched beside the bed.
Nothing underneath.
He checked behind the wardrobe.
Dust.
He opened another cabinet.
Empty.
He tapped experimentally against the wooden panels.
Solid.
"...Come on..."
There had to be something.
His eyes wandered around the room one final time.
Then...
They stopped.
In the far corner.
Partially hidden behind a high-backed chair.
A box.
No.
Not merely a box.
A chest.
Unlike everything else in the room, it looked...
old.
Very old.
Dark wood reinforced with blackened metal bands.
Its corners were scarred.
Its lid bore no crest.
No decoration.
Only age.
A heavy iron lock hung from the front.
The surrounding floor contained surprisingly little dust.
Someone moved it.
Regularly.
Manik slowly approached.
Every instinct sharpened.
His mother had forbidden this room.
The Augur of Apollos had forbidden this room.
Not the desk.
Not the wardrobe.
The room.
And suddenly...
He understood why.
His attention settled completely upon the mysterious chest.
He crouched before it.
Ran his fingertips lightly across the weathered wood.
The surface was cool.
Ancient.
Almost unnaturally well preserved.
There wasn't a single identifying mark.
No royal insignia.
No family crest.
Nothing.
Just...
a locked box.
Manik smiled.
"There you are."
Whatever his mother considered important enough to hide...
Whatever had earned the agreement of both Queen Ciara and the Augur of Apollos...
Whatever secret lay sleeping inside this forgotten chest...
He intended to find out.
-------
For several seconds, Manik simply stared at the chest.
It sat there in the corner of his mother's room, silent and patient.
Almost as if it knew it had been found.
That alone made him more curious.
Secrets were usually hidden because they mattered.
But this?
This had been hidden so carefully that even the Augur of Apollos himself had taken the time to warn him away.
That meant one of two things.
Either whatever was inside was incredibly valuable...
Or incredibly dangerous.
Manik preferred valuable.
Dangerous things were only useful if you knew how to control them.
He placed both hands on the lid and gave it a careful push.
Nothing.
Not even a creak.
The lock remained firmly closed.
He frowned.
"Really?"
He examined the chest more closely.
The wood was old, but not rotten. The metal bands were worn, but still strong. Whatever had been stored inside had clearly been protected from the passing years.
He looked around the room.
No keys.
No hidden compartment.
No obvious mechanism.
Which meant there was only one option.
Force.
Normally, he would have considered that wasteful.
But this wasn't some ordinary container.
This was a secret.
And secrets were useless if they remained locked away forever.
Still...
He wasn't reckless.
Not completely.
Manik tapped the side of the chest.
Then the top.
Then the bottom.
He listened carefully.
No rattling.
No shifting.
Nothing that suggested fragile objects.
Good.
If there were glass containers, delicate documents, or anything that could be destroyed easily, throwing it open would be a mistake.
But whatever was inside seemed solid.
Prepared.
Waiting.
A slow grin crossed his face.
"Sorry, Mother."
He stepped back.
"Curiosity wins."
He grabbed the chest.
It was heavier than expected.
Not impossible.
Just heavy enough to suggest whoever packed it had not intended for it to be casually moved.
Manik adjusted his grip.
Then, with all the strength he could manage, he lifted it.
For a moment, he considered putting it back.
A small, reasonable part of him wondered what exactly he was about to uncover.
But that thought quickly disappeared.
Because whatever was inside this chest...
It was something Arthur did not know about.
And anything Arthur did not know about was potentially useful.
With a sharp breath, Manik threw the chest down.
The impact shook the room.
The ancient lock snapped.
The lid flew open.
Dust rose into the air.
Manik waited.
Nothing exploded.
No alarm sounded.
No ancient curse appeared.
Just silence.
He stepped closer.
And then he saw the contents.
Not weapons.
Not treasure.
Not documents about kingdoms or wars.
Photographs.
Old photographs.
Manik blinked.
That was not what he expected.
He carefully picked up the first one.
The image was faded, but the figures were clear.
A group of people standing together.
A family.
His father's family.
His eyes narrowed.
There were faces he recognized.
Jules.
His father.
Charles.
His uncle.
But there was someone else.
Someone he had never seen before.
Another blue-quilled hedgehog stood beside them.
At first glance, Manik thought it was Charles.
The resemblance was almost unsettling.
The same confident posture.
The same sharp features.
The same unmistakable family resemblance.
But there were differences.
This hedgehog was broader.
Stronger.
More athletic-looking.
His quills were a deep blue instead of Charles' familiar coloring.
His eyes were a striking amber.
And he wore a pilot's uniform.
A real one.
Not ceremonial.
Not decorative.
A uniform belonging to someone who had actually flown.
Manik turned the photograph over.
A name had been written on the back.
Paulio.
He stared.
"Paulio..."
The name felt strangely familiar.
Not because he had heard it before.
Because it felt like a missing piece.
A piece everyone had decided not to mention.
He reached into the chest again.
More photographs.
More proof.
Paulio with Jules.
Paulio with Charles.
Paulio standing beside a red airplane.
Paulio laughing.
Paulio smiling.
Paulio looking far younger than Manik expected.
Then one photograph caught his attention.
Paulio stood beside a woman.
A hedgehog with royal yellow fur.
She looked elegant, but not distant.
Warm.
Her green eyes matched the bow resting on top of her head.
Her bangs fell neatly around her face, matching the same shade of green.
She had a gentle smile.
And one hand rested carefully over her stomach.
Manik looked closer.
The photograph was much newer looking and had been taken as Brennda was pregnant.
A note was attached.
Paulio and Brennda.
His eyes widened slightly.
Another secret.
Another hidden branch of the family tree.
A brother of Jules and Charles.
A wife.
A child, either on the way or just arrived.
A whole part of history that had vanished.
He kept searching.
Near the bottom of the chest was a final collection of items.
Letters.
Not many.
But carefully preserved.
Most were too old and personal for him to immediately understand.
But one detail stood out.
The dates.
The timing.
The connections.
Paulio had been alive during a time when many pieces of their family's history had started disappearing.
And now...
This existed.
A forgotten uncle.
A forgotten aunt.
A forgotten story.
Manik sat back.
For once, he wasn't thinking about politics.
Or survival.
Or choosing the correct side.
He was thinking about Arthur.
Arthur Sylvannia.
His half brother.
A boy who carried an impossible amount of history on his shoulders.
A boy who had spent his entire life surrounded by mysteries.
And now...
Manik had found one.
A real one.
Something Arthur had never seen.
Something connected to their father.
Something connected to the family Arthur barely knew.
A slow smile spread across Manik's face.
"Well..."
He carefully picked up the photograph of Paulio and Brennda.
"This might actually work."
For the first time since entering the room, his curiosity and his ambition aligned perfectly.
Arthur's birthday was coming.
Three siblings born on the same day.
Three lives tied together by coincidence.
And now Manik had something rare.
Something meaningful.
Something Arthur could not simply ignore.
A piece of the past.
A missing member of their family.
A secret worth sharing.
He looked down at the photograph one more time.
Paulio.
Brennda.
A family that had disappeared into silence.
Manik smiled.
"Happy birthday, Arthur."
He carefully placed the photograph back into the chest.
Because now...
He finally had something to give him.
-------
And then the door opened again, revealing his sister; Sonya.