The corridor lay still beneath the weight of stone and silence.
A pale, wintry light filtered through the tall glass panels interspersed along the wall, casting faint silver patterns on the polished floor—patterns that shifted subtly as Kel walked. His footsteps were measured, almost silent, but each one held firm intent.
No coat fluttered behind him this time—only the heavy cloak of thought.
The morning had begun with firelight and strategy.
Now, it continued with shadows.
His hand lightly brushed the cold stone wall as he moved. There was no urgency in his steps, yet momentum trailed behind him like wind trailing behind an arrow. Power still simmered beneath his skin from his earlier refinement—the second aura core alive and quietly pulsing.
His breathing was slow.
Controlled.
Eyes half-lidded, as though he watched something only he could see.
Then—
A faint ripple in the air.
A presence bending sound without daring to touch it.
Kel slowed.
He didn't turn.
"You may speak," he said softly.
The silence shifted.
And from it, a figure stepped.
Zephryn Elmrowth.
Not walking.
Not appearing.
Unfolding—like a darker blur of the corridor itself letting go of a secret.
He stepped out from the shadow cast by one of the marble columns—boots leaving no imprint on the carpeted runner. His cloak draped long and deep, hood low enough that it dipped beneath the light's reach. Only his mouth was partly visible—calm, composed, his voice carved of darkness.
"Young master Kel," he spoke quietly. "A message has arrived."
Kel did not pause his stride, but his eyes narrowed with slight acknowledgment.
Zephryn continued, pacing noiselessly beside him now, though his presence felt more like a shadow moving independently of his body.
"Your father, Duke Arcturus von Rosenfeld, has read the papers you entrusted to me."
Kel's steps did not falter.
"…And his response?" he asked.
Zephryn's words followed like a whisper slipping between the stones.
"He has issued orders," he said slowly, "to capture Lord Rodrik Vanhart alive or dead."
The corridor seemed to freeze.
Kel stopped.
One gloved hand resting by his side.
Slowly, he turned his head—not fully, just enough for his eyes to meet shadow.
Zephryn did not flinch beneath that gaze.
Kel's expression remained calm.
Only a faint shift in temperature around him suggested anything at all.
"…Alive," he murmured, "or dead."
A flick of breath escaped him.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
"I expected worse."
Zephryn inclined his head.
"The Duke's words were exact," he said. "'Alive if possible. Dead if he resists or attempts subversion.'"
Kel's fingers loosened at his side.
His tone was quiet.
"Appropriate."
Zephryn's next words came in the same breath.
"And as you requested—I have located Rodrik's current hideout."
Kel's eyes sharpened.
He turned his full attention now, and the temperature in the corridor dipped another degree.
"Where?" he asked simply.
Zephryn slightly angled his body, one hand lifting from the folds of his cloak. He did not extend anything physical; instead, a thin parchment seal appeared between his fingers as if part of the shadow coagulated into form.
But Kel did not reach for it.
He waited.
Zephryn understood.
"Eastern ridge of Vanhart territory," he replied. "Abandoned watchtower—formerly one of the outer defense posts assigned for early frost patrols."
He paused.
"Modified. Reinforced. Overrun with hired blades and independent contractors."
Kel's gaze narrowed further.
"The kind who aren't loyal," he stated.
Zephryn nodded.
"The kind who can be bought by the higher bidder."
Silence lingered.
A low hum beneath the corridors' emptiness.
Kel resumed walking.
Zephryn remained in step, as though tethered to Kel's pace.
—
"Two days' ride," Kel muttered, "if via the straight route."
Zephryn nodded faintly.
"Yes."
"Less if one knew the winter trenches," Kel continued.
Zephryn's eyes—hidden beneath the hood—glinted briefly.
"Even less," he said quietly, "if one did not care whether the path was meant for human passages."
Kel exhaled faintly.
"Good."
He didn't look back.
"Disappear."
Zephryn didn't move.
Only his voice flowed again.
"Orders, young master?"
Kel's lips curled slightly.
Not quite a smile.
A grimior.
"Await further instruction."
"Maintain observation."
"And do not," he added, his tone dropping lower—more commanding—"shadow me so closely next time."
He turned his head slightly, black hair falling over his brow, revealing a glint of amber beneath.
"It is… inconvenient."
Zephryn didn't argue.
His head inclined in a respectful bow.
"As you command, young master Kel."
He stepped backward.
And the shadows reclaimed him.
No ripple.
No sound.
Just—
Absence.
Kel paused.
Only the whisper of his breath existed in the corridor now.
Alive or dead.
The Duke's decision.
Hideout located.
Zephryn's work.
Kel's gaze drifted to the frost-traced windows.
"Rodrik," he whispered softly, not with hatred—but with the calm inevitability of someone who had reached a conclusion long before today.
"You were already dead the moment you touched her fate."
He turned.
Walking once again.
"Now," he said quietly to the empty hallway, "you'll simply be informed."
His coat brushed against his legs as he stepped forward.
Aura pressed against his skin like caged heat, still tempered from morning refinement.
The corridor swallowed him slowly under pale daylight.
And somewhere behind the walls—
a storm rearranged its trajectory.