The Knight awoke with a start.
Not from sleep.
There had been no sleep. Only stillness. And caution.
A long night spent sitting upright in the corner of a cold guest chamber. He was cautious and paranoid enough to pass the night thinking about the possibility of being killed in his sleep.
The Lalaurie Mansion was too quiet.
Too clean.
Too polite.
He rose quickly, the cold metal of his armor clinking softly in the dim morning light. He stretched his limbs, pulled his gauntlets tight, and dawned his helm with a short breath.
The room had no dust. No creaking. The bed he never used remained perfectly made, untouched.
He stepped into the corridor. The mansion greeted him with the same silence.
Servants wandered the halls, their eyes blank, their steps mechanical. They wore black and white uniforms that never wrinkled, and every motion they made seemed pre-measured. Precise. Emotionless.
One carried a tray of tea.
Another adjusted a vase.
A third bowed quietly as he passed, holding the same smile as the butler—but thinner, hollower. Without warmth.
He couldn't tell if it was discipline
…or something deeper.
The Knight walked.
Corridor after corridor. Hall after hall.
He expected to find a scuffed corner, a bent candleholder, a cobweb clinging to some forgotten upper ledge.
But there was nothing.
Everything was symmetrical.
Every painting perfectly centered.
Every vase, identical.
No dirt. No stray thread. No noise but his own footfalls.
Too perfect.
Like a painting that dared you to touch it.
---
Later that day, the Knight found himself once more seated across from Adraval, the master of the house.
The study was warm. Inviting. A fire crackled as if it had always been burning.
The Knight chose his words carefully. He didn't want to give away the fact that he didn't have memories.
"I'm… not familiar with this land," he said slowly, resting gloved hands over one another. "Forgive the question. But—what exactly happened here? To Eldrath."
Adraval turned from the fire. His hands were clasped behind his back. A soft sigh passed his lips.
"As you know," he began, "after the Hollow War, all was wrecked. The cities burned. The capitals fell. The gods, such as they were, abandoned their people."
He stepped toward the window, gazing out into the field of reeds beyond the marble walls.
"My family—The Lalaurie bloodline—was noble once. We lived in the heart of the Capital. But ruin does not spare legacy. One by one, they vanished. Sickness. Assassination. Hunger. I wonder, sometimes, how many days I myself have left..."
His voice trailed off.
The Knight didn't press further. Something told him not to.
He gave a polite nod and let silence reclaim the room.
---
The servants spoke only when spoken to. Only when ordered.
None smiled. None whispered. None offered idle chatter or polite curiosities. Even the ones who dusted the high windows never made a sound.
Only the old butler—the same man who had welcomed him—seemed capable of emotion.
And even then, it was... rehearsed. Like a mask worn too long.
The guards were worse.
Steel-helmed knights in full armor stood in halls and at doorways, never moving unless beckoned. Their armor looked ancient, blackened with age—but not rusted.
The Knight caught himself staring at one for too long once.
The man didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
Didn't shift.
Like a statue wearing the memory of a man.
A hollow thing.
And who was he to question that? A hypocrite, that's what.
---
From the second-story balconies, he occasionally spotted the tall grass beyond the mansion swaying in unnatural winds.
And always—always—the faint silhouettes of limbed things danced between the reeds.
Long, crawling shapes.
Some were headless torsos with blades for hands. Some had too many heads.
Twisted figures hunched and stuttering, as if trapped in silent suffering.
But they never crossed the edge.
The field was a prison.
One with invisible bars.
"They will not pass beyond the seal," said the butler, who had appeared behind him without sound. "You may walk these halls without fear, sir Allen. You may even do away with the armor, if you wish."
The Knight didn't turn to face him.
"…No," he said softly. "My face is… disfigured. I'd rather keep it on."
It was a lie.
But it slipped from his tongue easily. Almost too easily.
The butler simply bowed.
"As you wish."
"I have a question," he asked. "Why are there so many weapons close to the shore?"
The butler looked at him and then answered:
"The swords are ceremonial in a way. Apparently,there lived a native tribe here and then people attacked and killed the innocents. The natives who remained killed the attackers and embedded their swords into the ground so they can't do any more harm."
The butler explained.
From a bit far away. The voice of the mansion's master came.
"Albert," the man said what The knight assumed to be the butler's name.
"Why did you call the natives innocent?"
He asked. A rhetorical question spoken with dark sarcasm.
"U-um! Sir,I...I am sorry!!" The butler said as he stumbled with his swords.
"Them living and breathing,with their inferior blood,itself...is SIN!"
Adraval said with rare anger.
"Wouldn't you agree,sir Allen?"
He asked.
The knight remained emotionless because of his helm but his emotions under it were unreadable.
"I prefer to differentiate by skill...."
He said.
Adraval looked at him for a bit before smiling and getting close, putting his hands in the man's armoured shoulders.
"Skill is important after all!"
The knight exhaled a breath of relief as Adraval and the butler went away.
The Knight walked away slowly, his thoughts heavy, the dematerialized sword whispering in its shadow-bound slumber.