The morning of my father's departure was cloaked in an eerie stillness, the kind that always settled over the estate when something monumental was about to happen. The golden hues of dawn painted the manor in soft light, but to me, everything felt muted, as though the colors themselves had dimmed in the wake of his looming absence.
I lingered in the shadow of a grand column near the manor's entrance, my gaze fixed on my father. His silhouette stood stark against the pale morning light, every movement deliberate as he supervised the loading of trunks onto the waiting carriage. His presence was commanding, even as he prepared to leave it behind.
The faint creak of leather and the clink of metal harnesses filled the air as the horses shifted, their breaths puffing out in soft white clouds. The servants moved about efficiently, heads bowed, their expressions carefully neutral. To them, this was nothing more than another duty—a moment to be executed with precision before returning to their daily routines.
Yet for me, this was different.
A strange heaviness settled in my chest, though I couldn't quite place why. It wasn't sorrow, nor was it relief. It was something in between, an unnamed weight pressing against my ribs.
Then his voice cut through the quiet.
"Arthur, come here."
It wasn't loud, but it didn't need to be. The authority in his tone left no room for hesitation. I stepped forward, my boots tapping against the stone pathway. My hands, instinctively clenched into fists, betrayed the nervous energy coursing through me.
His gaze flicked downward, sharp and discerning, noticing the tension in my hands at once. Without a word, he reached out, his fingers prying open my clenched fists with deliberate ease.
His touch was uncharacteristically gentle—too gentle, a stark contrast to the man I had known all my life. The warmth of his skin against mine was fleeting, but the unfamiliarity of it lingered, unsettling in its quiet significance.
"Arthur," he said.
My name, spoken not with its usual weight of expectation, but something else. Something softer.
I lifted my eyes to meet his, and for the first time, I noticed the absence of cold detachment in them. His gaze, so often unreadable, held something I couldn't quite name.
"Remember everything I've taught you, you'll need it sooner or later."
"I understand, Sir."
The response left my lips automatically, the product of years of discipline, yet beneath its practiced precision, something wavered—an uncertainty I couldn't place.
Then, something wholly unexpected happened—he smiled.
It was fleeting, barely more than a subtle quirk at the corner of his lips, but it was there. Not a smirk, not a calculated expression meant to manipulate or assess—just a simple, genuine smile. A warmth I had never seen directed at me before.
Before I could fully process it, his hand reached out once more, this time ruffling my hair in a gesture so foreign, so utterly out of place, that I stiffened on instinct.
He had never done this before. Never. And yet, it felt neither forced nor unnatural.
His fingers lingered for a fraction of a second before he withdrew, stepping back as if the moment had never happened. With the same practiced elegance, he straightened his coat, smoothing out the invisible creases. The warmth that had settled between us vanished as swiftly as it had come, leaving behind only the ghost of its presence.
"I'll be departing now, boy."
His voice had returned to its usual cadence, composed and detached.
"Yes, Father."
The words felt strange on my tongue, heavier than they should have been.
With a nod of approval, he climbed into the carriage. The gathered servants bowed deeply, their movements synchronized as the horses began to pull the carriage forward. The sound of wheels crunching against gravel faded slowly into the distance, the silhouette of the carriage shrinking until it disappeared over the horizon.
I stood motionless, the lingering warmth of his touch already feeling like a distant memory. Around me, the servants straightened and returned to their duties, the estate slipping back into its usual rhythm.
Years passed. The halls of Ashbourne Manor grew quieter in his absence. Edmund, the ever watchful, took over my lessons, his firm but measured guidance replacing my father's sharper edges. The weight of expectation shifted onto me, pressing heavier with each passing season.
The servants bowed to me now. The authority that once belonged to my father had begun to settle on my shoulders.
And yet, that morning—the stillness, the touch, the fleeting smile—remained etched into my memory, a moment I would never quite understand.
September 22, 1877
The rain lashed against the manor's windows on the morning of my eighteenth birthday, a relentless downpour that drummed against the glass with the same steady insistence as fate itself. The sky was a vast, swirling abyss of gray, heavy with the weight of an unseen omen. Thunder rumbled in the distance, low and foreboding, as if the heavens conspired to mark this day with their own silent decree.
Edmund entered the dining hall with his usual quiet precision, his steps measured, his posture impeccable. He approached the table where I sat, his presence a familiar specter of order and control. Without a word, he extended a thick envelope towards me, his fingers steady despite the weight it carried.
I set down my fork, wiping my hands on a linen napkin before reaching for the letter. My fingers brushed against the embossed seal—a familiar crest, cold and impersonal, pressed into wax that had hardened with time. The air between us was heavy, charged with unspoken anticipation. Edmund's expression remained carefully schooled into neutrality, but I had known him long enough to recognize the subtle tension in his stance.
I unfolded the letter with measured slowness, the crisp parchment whispering beneath my fingertips. My gaze swept over the inked lines, each stroke meticulously placed.
Then, like a thunderclap, the words struck—fracturing the fragile equilibrium I had constructed in his absence.
It stated, in detached formality, that my father had embarked on a voyage to seek the rumored gold beneath the ocean. That his ship had been attacked by pirates. That the vessel had been lost to the depths, swallowed by the merciless sea. That despite the efforts of investigators, no trace of the ship—nor its passengers—had been found.
In simpler words, my father was dead.
A mirthless laugh curled at the edges of my throat, but I swallowed it down, tasting bitterness instead.
How convenient.
And how, exactly, did these so-called pirates learn of my father's exact route?
I turned my attention to Edmund, my voice calm and unwavering.
"My father's funeral will proceed without his body. Make the preparations accordingly."
Edmund bowed slightly, his response swift and without hesitation.
"I understood, young master."
Edmund departed without hesitation, moving swiftly to carry out my order.
But this was never part of the original story, none of this should have happened.
Why did this happen? Has the story itself shifted course, or was this the butterfly effect set in motion by an unseen force, a hand unknown?
The funeral was held on a cold, gray evening, the kind where the air clung to the skin like an omen, where the sky seemed to press down upon the world with an oppressive weight. Rain drizzled steadily, soaking into the earth, turning the cemetery's stone pathways slick with sorrow. The scent of damp earth and wet stone mingled in the air, thick and cloying.
I stood before the grave, staring at the freshly turned soil, at the simple headstone that bore my father's name in sharp, unyielding letters. The world around me felt distant, muted, as if I were peering through a veil of mist and memory.
I felt nothing. No grief. No sadness. Only a hollow space where emotion should have been, an emptiness that refused to be filled.
The steady patter of rain against my coat was interrupted by another sound—soft, deliberate footsteps. Someone was approaching.
I did not turn. Not until a figure stepped beside me, moving with quiet confidence, an umbrella unfolding with a soft click to shield us both from the rain.
"Who are you?" I asked, my voice flat, devoid of curiosity.
"I am your shadow," came the calm, measured reply.
At that, I turned my head slightly, taking in the stranger who had so brazenly stepped into my solitude. He was young—perhaps only a few years older than me. His dark brown hair, the shade of aged mahogany, was slicked back, dampened by the mist. Peridot-green eyes met mine, steady and unflinching. A cigar rested lightly between his fingers, the ember still faintly glowing despite the drizzle. Smoke curled from its tip, rising in lazy spirals before being swallowed by the cold air.
"My shadow?" I repeated, suspicion threading through my tone.
The man inclined his head slightly, his gaze unwavering. "I have been trained to assist you. Should you ever need it."
"Trained by whom?"
"By my master."
My fingers curled inward, knuckles whitening as my hands clenched into tight fists at my sides.
"Your master… you mean my father?"
"Yes."
A breath of silence passed between us, the rain filling the spaces where words might have fallen.
"Why?"
The ember of his cigar flickered as he exhaled, the faintest trace of smoke escaping his lips.
"Because I was meant to be here when the time came."
His voice did not waver, nor did his gaze shift.
"I have watched over the young master since you were a child. We grew up together, though you never knew me. Never saw me."
A shiver—not from the cold—ran down my spine.
I studied him, measured him in the silence between heartbeats.
"Your name?"
"Alfred," he answered simply.
"I see."
The rain continued its ceaseless descent, its rhythm steady, unrelenting. I turned back to the grave, my mind a storm of unanswered questions.
A quiet moment passed before I spoke again.
"Who is responsible for my father's death?"
My voice was low, nearly swallowed by the rain, yet it cut through the air like a blade.
Alfred did not answer immediately. He stood beside me, a steady presence amidst the storm, his cigar briefly illuminating the sharp planes of his face before he extended it beyond the umbrella's protection.
The rain extinguished the ember with a soft hiss.
Still, he did not look at me as he crouched, dipping the cigar into a shallow puddle before discarding it with effortless grace.
"That… we still don't know."
His voice was measured, but I could sense the weight behind his words.
"There are too many enemies. Too many who would have wanted him dead."
A slow exhale escaped me, the cold pressing into my bones.
Silence stretched once more. Then, Alfred reached into his coat, retrieving another cigar. This time, instead of lighting it, he held it out to me.
I hesitated before taking it. The weight of it settled against my palm, heavier than I had expected. Cold.
And then I felt it—something small, something subtle.
A tiny indentation along its surface.
My pulse quickened.
I carefully peeled back the outer layer of tobacco, my breath slowing as my fingers uncovered what had been hidden beneath. A piece of parchment, tightly folded, tucked away within the cigar's shell like a secret meant for no one else's eyes.
I unfurled it with steady fingers, and there it was.
A den of solitude, where darkness curls in a tumbler and time forgets to tick.
My eyes lingered on the ink, the letters etched with eerie precision, as if the very paper carried the weight of foreboding.
It read like a riddle, cryptic and poetic—but I knew better.
This wasn't just a verse.
It was a place.
A place I knew more intimately than anyone else.
Alfred stepped closer, his voice quiet yet firm. "This was the last message we received from him."
My grip tightened on the parchment.
Alfred's gaze remained steady, his expression unreadable. But his next words carried the weight of an unspoken promise.
"If the young master truly wishes to uncover the truth behind the master's death, then a journey to the capital will be inevitable."
I met his eyes, my own resolve hardening like tempered steel.
The rain fell harder, the wind whispering secrets I could not yet grasp. But I no longer stood in my father's shadow.
Now, it was my burden to bear.
And I would see it through to the end.
I nodded, slowly. My voice, when it came, was unwavering. "Alright."