They walked to the manor without saying a word.
The garden behind them was still stained with the blood of the fighters, but no one looked back.
Mireille kept her arm pressed against her wound, her face tense, but she did not slow down. Silas walked just behind her, his heart pounding, unsure whether he was still trembling with fear or something else.
When they entered through the back door, the light from the lanterns revealed two figures in the hallway — motionless, as if they had been waiting for them for a long time.
Count Wrighton and Alciel, the old steward, stood there in the dim light. Neither seemed surprised to see them enter in such a state.
"Here we are, then." Said the Earl simply.
His voice was not harsh. Nor was it worried.
It simply stated a fact—and accepted all that it implied.
Mireille bowed slightly, despite the pain that made her shoulder tremble.
"The young master is safe and sound, sir."
Wrighton nodded, his gaze shifting quickly from Silas to her, then to the blood on her coat.
"...I am indebted to you, Mireille."
Alciel stepped forward. His hands held a package wrapped in dark cloth. He carried it with unusual gravity.
"I feared this day would inevitably come." Continued the Earl.
Silas felt the weight of his father's words fall upon him.
"You... knew about Mael?" asked the boy, his voice a little hoarse.
The Earl stared at him without looking away.
"Yes, I knew someone such as him would come. I also knew he was hiding something. Not everything, not his true 'talents'. But enough to prepare me for the possibility that he would eventually turn against us."
Silas felt a cold anger rise within him.
"And you left me alone with that man. For weeks!"
The Earl did not defend himself. He simply replied:
"You were not as alone as you think." He said, pointing to Mimi.
With a nod, the Earl ordered his steward to give the package to Mireille.
Alciel opened the cloth.
Inside the package was a one-handed sword with a well-balanced blade, without embellishment, and a slightly curved guard at the tips. Next to the sword lay a scabbard that looked old but was strangely well-maintained.
Mireille took it. As soon as she closed her fingers around the hilt, something inside her seemed to strengthen, as if the iron recognised her hand.
The Earl took a second object out of an older, semi-long box. When he brought it close to Silas, Silas understood even before touching it.
A mage's sceptre.
"It belonged to your mother." Count Wrighton said calmly.
Silas stood frozen.
He had never seen the object before, but strange as it might seem, he knew it — a bit like a memory he had never experienced.
Wrighton placed the relic in his son's hands without ceremony, but with deep respect.
"She didn't carry it all the time because your mother was a noblewoman. But she was still a fairly talented enchantress."
The Earl stopped for a short moment, then added:
"And you... You are her heir."
Just like that, a truth that had never been spoken was revealed.
Silas felt the sceptre vibrate slightly, as if it recognised something in him.
"You knew?" he asked, his voice almost muffled.
"Since before you were born. Your mother explained the basics to me and... left me instructions, if such a day ever came."
The Count paused. Then he uttered the words that changed everything:
"You are a Carrier."
Mireille did not protest at the revelation of this truth. She was not even surprised—as if she had been waiting for this moment.
And in fact, she had been waiting for it. Ever since her little escapade in Mael's shadow, she had known that something was afoot with this whole ' Carrier' situation.
All in all, her only reaction was to raise an eyebrow slightly.
"The pendant you wear is not a souvenir. It is a relic... a call of some sort. And unfortunately, it has been heard."
Silas looked up at his father, pale.
"What am I supposed to do, then?"
Wrighton did not look away, but exhaled.
"Leave. Learn. Understand what gift you carry, and why you are being hunted."
The nobleman lowered his head, remained like that for a moment, and then raised his gaze to meet his son's.
"Your mother asked me to give you this sceptre, if ever the pendant attracted danger."
Silas looked down. The pendant glowed faintly in the moonlight.
'...And to send you where you can understand.' Added Count Wrighton.
A short silence fell.
Then the Earl continued. He turned slightly and pointed with his fingertips towards the hills — far to the west.
"Go to Levanfort, in the kingdom of Ceniel... An old friend of your mother's lives there, a woman of knowledge. She might be able to tell you what I don't know. About the carriers. About the pendant. And about those... who are hunting you down."
Mireille raised her head slightly, however. She knew that name. And what it implied.
Silas, on his part, felt his heart beat faster. Not with fear, but with resolve.
'You... you're letting us go?'
Wrighton smiled sadly, but proudly.
"I can't stop you. And I wouldn't want to."
The man turned to Alciel.
"Pack their things. They're leaving before dawn."
***
The house stirred gently, like an organism awakened in the middle of the night. Lanterns were lit in the corridors, doors opened. None of the servants asked any questions. They simply obeyed, with a kind of calm respect.
Mireille had her arm bandaged by an old servant, who said nothing, but squeezed her hand as she finished the treatment. Mimi thanked her with a warm look—something quite rare for her.
Silas went to his room. The room suddenly seemed unfamiliar. Too clean, too quiet.
He stopped in the middle, hesitating. A question he never thought he would ask was drumming in his mind.
...What should one take when leaving everything behind?
In the end, he simply took a bag, slipped in a few clothes, a notebook, and a pen.
Then he stopped in front of the bookshelf. Hesitated. And finally picked up the little book about constellations that his mother used to read to him as a child. It was silly. Sentimental. But his hand wouldn't let go.
Mireille entered without knocking.
"You must travel light, young master." She simply said.
The young noble nodded, then placed the book on top of the bag anyway.
"Did you know that I was... different?" Silas finally asked.
The maid did not lie.
"Yes."
The boy remained silent for a moment, then asked once more:
"Why did you never tell me?"
"Simply because it wasn't my business to do so."
This answer was not a reproach. Just the truth.
"Yeah, right." Silas just blurted out.
Then they went downstairs together.
Alciel was waiting for them in the courtyard with two saddled horses. The night was still dark, but it was no longer silent. You could sense the end approaching. The air already carried a breath of dawn.
The Earl came out one last time, dressed as if he were going to court. He stopped in front of them, and Silas felt that this moment would remain with him.
"I've said it before, but I won't hold you back. It would be pointless... and unfair." Said the nobleman, with complete honesty.
However, he placed a hand on his son's shoulder. Not abruptly. Not distantly. But with affection... A great deal of affection, which he had rarely shown Silas.
"Go, Silas. Not to run away, but to find out who you are... And what you must become."
Silas clenched his teeth.
Tears gathered under the young man's eyelids and formed miniature lakes in his eye sockets. The young master's lips and hands trembled, not with fear, but with sadness.
He had a thousand words to say, but none could convey all that he felt deep within his being.
So he said only:
"...I will return, father."
This time, the Count smiled genuinely, even if it was a sad smile.
"Then come back free, son."
***
Soon, Mireille and Silas rode through the gates on horseback.
The orchard was still shrouded in darkness, the apple trees standing like ghostly silhouettes. Silas took one last look at the estate, its grey stones and windows still lit.
Then Mireille urged her horse into a trot, and he followed.
They left about an hour before dawn. Not like fugitives, but like people carrying something greater than themselves — and who finally knew that the time had come to face up to it.
The road lay open before them. Levanfort awaited them in the distance.
And there, most likely, lay the truth.