Nox woke to a pale light creeping across the wooden floorboards, slipping in through a gap in the shutters. The room smelled faintly of smoke and old linen. His back ached, perhaps from yesterday's duel or maybe from the thin mattress. Somewhere downstairs, a chair scraped across the floor, followed by the muffled thud of boots; it was the staff starting their day. He sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The inn bedroom was small, with a single bed, a battered washbasin, and an old wooden chair.
Together with Gerhart, Nox set off once more. The hooves of the horse struck rhythmically against the packed dirt, echoing softly in the quiet. With every step forward, a strange sense of anticipation welled up within him. He was returning home after months away. And now, with less than a day left before he would stand at the gates of his family estate, his mind brimmed with thoughts of reunion.
What would he say to his father after all this time? Would his voice tremble, or would he manage to greet him with strength, as a grown man returning after long absence? He wondered how his father would react. Would he smile? Would he embrace him, or simply offer a firm nod and a clap on the shoulder, as he always had? Excitement and nerves danced in equal measure in his heart. He was going to see Abram again, too, his younger brother, mischievous and warm-hearted.
To ease the tension, Nox began to toy with the idea of surprising them. Perhaps he wouldn't announce his arrival at all. Maybe, just maybe, he could sneak in, startling Abram and his father, watching their stunned reactions before breaking into laughter. The thought brought a small grin to his lips. He envisioned it clearly: riding silently from the west, the long-forgotten side path he and Abram used as boys to sneak out during summer nights. If he kept to the trees and dismounted before the ridge, he could leave Gerhart hidden and approach on foot. The estate's old garden wall had a broken section, easy enough to climb. If everything was still as he remembered, he could slip in completely unnoticed.
As the sun rose higher and the familiar areas of the land began to emerge, Nox felt his heart beat faster. The closer he got, the harder it was to contain his energy. His horse responded to his urgency, galloping at full speed as the final stretch unfolded before them. Then, at last, the estate came into view. Everything seemed just the same as when he left. The worn iron gate stood still, partially ajar, as if waiting for him. But somehow it seemed too quiet...
There was no movement.
No voices.
No sound at all.
The estate, so full of life in his memories, this time looked frozen; there was only silence.
Nox slowed his horse and dismounted carefully. He patted Gerhart's neck, trying to calm both of their nerves, and led him toward the stables. Inside, he noticed his father's horse still in its stall, quietly munching on hay. If the horse was here, surely his father must be as well?
Still, no one came to greet him. No stable boy. No servant. Not even Abram's barking dog that used to charge toward him at the gate.
With a frown deepening on his face, Nox tied the reins and made his way to the main house. The footpath, lined with rose bushes, was welcoming him home. The front door stood closed but unlocked.
He stepped inside.
The familiar scent of aged wood, waxed floors, and dried herbs greeted him, but the house felt cold. His boots echoed on the wooden floor as he called out:
"Hello? Father? Abram?"
Nothing.
He moved through the entry hall, peeking into room after room. The sitting room was just as he remembered it, books stacked beside the reading chair, a throw folded neatly over the armrest. The kitchen was the same, spotless, the fire out, and there were no signs of recent cooking. So was the dining room: the table stood clean, polished, and a set of plates was already prepared for the next meal.
He began to move more quickly, calling out louder now. Still no answer.
With every door he opened, his unease grew. Every room was empty. Curtains fluttered slightly in the breeze coming from an open window upstairs, casting ghostly shadows on the floor. He caught a glimpse of movement behind the curtain in Abram's bedroom and hurried over to pull it aside, only to find nothing.
No Abram, no father.
Not even the staff.
"Where is everyone...?" he whispered aloud.
He paused and thought: maybe they had gone out into town, perhaps? But that didn't make sense. His father's horse was still in the stable, and they never left the house completely unattended. It was against his father's nature to leave the property so exposed.
Only a few rooms remained. He stood before one of them now, one of the last doors at the end of the hall. His fingers hovered near the handle. For a brief moment, he hesitated. He didn't know why.
The hallway felt colder here. Or maybe it was just his imagination.
He drew in a slow breath, then pressed down on the latch and stepped inside.
The room was dimly lit. Curtains were half-drawn. Shelves lined the far wall, filled with old heirlooms and books. His eyes quickly scanned the space, no one was there. He stepped further in, turning in a slow circle, straining his ears.
Nothing.
And then...
A sudden rustle behind him.
A sharp shift of air.
He turned instantly.
And froze.
There, just inches from his face, stood his father.
But something was wrong.
His expression was twisted into a grimace Nox didn't recognize. There was no warmth, no recognition, just coldness...
His father lunged at him with a sword, without a word and Nox barely had time to react before the blade swung toward him in a wide, deliberate arc. He jumped back, the wind of it brushing his chest. The whoosh of the strike echoed in the stillness of the room.
"Father?!" Nox shouted, voice raw with confusion. "What are you doing?! It's me!"
But his father didn't stop, didn't pause. Another strike came, faster this time, aimed with deadly precision. Nox ducked to the side, barely avoiding the blade.
The sword was familiar; he remembered it from his youth, from long days of training in the courtyard. But the hand that wielded it now was not the same. His father's movements were sharper, more desperate, less restrained. There was no caution, no pause. Only intent to harm.
Nox's heart pounded in his ears as he tried to make sense of what was happening.
"Father!" Nox cried, backing toward the door, eyes locked on his father's face. "Please... Stop?"
But his father's face was unreadable, his jaws clenched. But something flickered for a moment beneath. Pain? Recognition? For a heartbeat, Nox thought he saw it.
Then it was gone.
Another lunge. This one sent them both crashing into the shelves. Glass shattered. Books rained down.
He looked at his father, really looked, and for the first time, he wasn't sure who he was seeing.
Because whoever this was... It wasn't the man who raised him.