At nightfall, Wrighton Manor was still as attractive as ever from the outside.
With its many lights and majestic architecture, it stirred up as much desire and envy for wealth as ever among people who clearly could not afford such luxury.
But for those inside, and in particular a few individuals, the building no longer resembled a place to live. It had become a waiting room, a scene that was too quiet, where footsteps echoed too loudly, and where every glance seemed to ask the same question:
"Do they know?"
Mireille had given orders, and the servants obeyed her — not because she had official authority, but because they respected her.
...And because they guessed she had her reasons.
Silas, for his part, never left his maid's shadow. Not simply out of fear, but because being alone meant thinking. And thinking meant imagining.
And imagining... Well, that meant losing himself in impossible scenarios.
He hadn't dared say a word too many since that morning. No complaints, no repeated questions. Just a kind of discreet tension, clearly visible in the way he walked, the way he breathed.
And in his right hand — always clenched — the pendant lay, like a weight... or a promise.
Every creak of the wooden floor seemed like a warning to the young man. Every gust of wind against the windows became an omen. There were no more everyday noises. No more maids laughing behind a door, no more clattering of dishes.
Just silence...
And fear.
Silas had been sleeping poorly for about three nights. Tonight, he wouldn't even try.
The young nobleman had retired to his room since late afternoon, and there he lay, staring at the ceiling, motionless as a statue — until someone knocked on the door to tell him that dinner was served.
As he ate, the young boy counted the seconds between his heartbeats. When he drank, the water tasted like ash.
Sometimes he caught Mireille's eye — and that made it worse. Because she knew. Because she saw...
...Because she wasn't afraid for herself.
Only for him.
In fact, they had spent the whole late morning and afternoon preparing, but not like a soldier prepares for war.
Let's say it was more like another kind of preparation... More like that of a man condemned to the gallows, practising how to live a little longer.
Mireille watched him out of the corner of her eye. Silas repeated the movements she had taught him months ago, in addition to those taught by the fencing master hired by Count Wrighton.
The movements she had taught him—unlike those of the instructor—were simple, basic. In the end, that was all that mattered, since they were not meant to win chivalrous duels.
But to survive... Even in the most vicious fights.
Silas protected himself. He ducked. He struck, clumsily but seriously.
Mimi rarely intervened. Just enough to correct his posture, reposition his hands, touch his shoulder to adjust his balance.
Something about the rhythm resembled a fragile dance.
"You don't have to beat anyone." She said at last.
Silas stopped. Out of breath. Red from the effort.
"I know. I just... have to hold on. A few seconds. And... stay alive. I... Um... I understand." He whispered.
She nodded.
He understood. Given the situation they were currently in, understanding was already a lot.
But what he didn't say — and what she could see very clearly in his eyes — was the rest:
"I understand... but I'm scared."
***
Night fell without warning. A little too quickly, in fact, as if the sun too wanted to dissociate itself from what was about to happen.
Silas ate little. Mireille ate nothing at all.
At one point, the boy looked at her, hesitant, then said:
"Mimi... you don't have to... do this alone."
She smiled slightly — tiredly, but sincerely.
"Yes, I do."
The young boy looked down.
Mireille placed a hand on his shoulder. A warm hand. Steady. Real.
"Master Silas. I am fighting so that you can grow up. So that you can experience something other than fear. That's all."
He did not reply. Words would have been too small. But he clutched the pendant, again and again.
As if, in the absence of prayer, holding the jewel was enough.
***
The fateful hour came.
The sixth hour after moonrise.
A silent cold settled in the corridors. Not icy, just... final. The kind of cold you find in cemeteries.
...Or after an uncomfortable truth.
Mireille put on her long coat and zipped it up to her neck. She was not impressive tonight: no armour, no visible weapons, no heroic posture.
Just... her.
Young Silas stood by the door, ready to accompany her — or to die of anxiety.
"You're going to win... and come back here alive." He said.
She didn't smile. But her gaze dropped for a second — towards him, and only him.
"...Yes."
That was enough.
They then crossed the corridors and the courtyard.
***
The south garden was silent. Even the trees seemed to be holding their breath. Every shadow moved more slowly than normal. The blades of grass seemed denser than usual.
Mael was already there, of course. Standing motionless... like a statue that had been waiting centuries for someone to give it a role.
He wasn't smiling. No... Not tonight.
The young nobleman felt the air change around them — not threatening, but... unchanging.
Mireille took three steps forward.
"Young master, don't go any further." She said without turning around.
The boy stopped, but his breath remained fixed on her.
He could feel the danger like a breath on the back of his neck.
Mael tilted his head slightly.
"You came. And on time."
"I am a woman of my word."
"Hm. A rare quality... among survivors."
Mireille did not reply.
The assassin butler observed the pendant in Silas's hand.
A faint, greenish glow.
"The crystal remains docile... for now, it would seem."
Mireille ignored the man's provocation.
"Are you going to talk for a long time? Or do what you came here to do?" she asked curtly.
Mael slowly removed his gloves. As if he were undressing a truth. Or revealing a poison.
"I would have preferred the heir to be asleep." He said.
"Unfortunately... he will not sleep peacefully as long as you exist."
Mael sighed.
"That's a shame."
Then he smiled, very slightly.
"...So let's begin."
Mireille took a single breath and stepped forward. Each step was calculated. Each breath held.
Silas remained behind the imaginary but very real boundary. His hands were shaking. His heart was beating as if time had stopped around him.
He saw Mireille's movements as a silent melody, and in this invisible music, he read every decision, every calculation.
The boy wanted to intervene. He wanted to shout. But he knew... he couldn't.
All he could do was hope.
Silas watched the two figures separate themselves from the world.
One to protect him, the other to erase him.
...And under the moon, the garden became an arena.