The city breathed differently here.
Not with the restless rhythm of crowds or machines, but with a slow, ancient pulse — like the world had been asleep and was only now remembering to breathe again.
Ethan stood on the cobblestone path that led into the heart of the city. The mist had thinned, revealing streets bathed in the soft, golden glow of lanterns hanging from curved iron posts. The air smelled faintly of rain and iron.
People were gathering.
At first, only a few — shopkeepers closing their stores early, children clutching their parents' hands — their eyes searching, unsure. But then more appeared. Men with coats too old to belong to this century. Women who stopped mid-step, their voices fading into silence as they turned toward him.
Their expressions didn't hold surprise.
It was something else.
Recognition.
Whispers broke out in low tones, words he couldn't quite catch. But they all carried the same rhythm — a name, repeated softly like a prayer half-forgotten.
> "He's returned."
"The young master."
"It's him… after all these years."
Ethan stopped walking. His pulse quickened, though the air felt heavier, pressing against his chest.
He didn't know any of them. Not one face looked familiar. Yet every single gaze that met his felt as if it had been waiting for him all along.
A boy with dark hair and wide eyes stepped forward from the crowd. He couldn't have been older than ten. In his hands, he held a single white flower — wilted at the edges but still clinging to its stem. Without a word, the boy offered it to Ethan.
Ethan stared at it for a moment before taking it gently.
The boy smiled once — a strange, knowing smile — and whispered,
> "Welcome home, Master Walford."
The world seemed to tilt.
Master?
Before Ethan could respond, the crowd stirred again. The people bowed — not fully, but slightly, with their heads lowered — like one movement shared between hundreds. The sound of the city itself seemed to fade beneath it.
He wanted to speak, to tell them they were mistaken. But when he opened his mouth, nothing came out. His throat felt tight, his words drowned by the weight of their silence.
Then, from somewhere beyond the crowd, a line of faint bells rang — not sharp, not loud, but deep and distant.
The people straightened, their eyes all turning in one direction: toward the mountain ridge beyond the city, where a shadowed castle stood, its silhouette carved into the fog.
It wasn't grand in the way of palaces. It was older, darker — built of stone so black it seemed to swallow the moonlight.
And yet… Ethan knew.
He didn't know how, but the moment he saw it, he felt it — a cold rush in his veins, like a memory waking from a long sleep.
That place was calling to him.
A man in a long gray coat approached from the side street. His hair was silver, his back straight despite his age, his steps calm but deliberate. The crowd parted for him without a word.
He stopped a few feet from Ethan, bowed slightly, and spoke in a low, weathered voice.
> "Master Ethan. The house has been waiting."
Ethan blinked. "You must be mistaken—"
But the man only smiled faintly, the kind that carried more truth than comfort.
> "No, sir. There are no mistakes left to make. Please — come. Your family's home awaits."
Ethan followed without another word. The people slowly dispersed as he passed, yet their eyes followed him until he vanished beyond the gates of the upper road. The sound of his steps echoed softly, mixing with the faint whisper of the wind — as though the entire city listened to his return.
The path wound upward between tall marble walls and long-forgotten statues. The higher they climbed, the thicker the fog grew, until even the lanterns burned dim.
And then, through the mist, the castle revealed itself fully.
It rose from the cliffs like something born from the mountain — vast towers, jagged spires, and long arches of glass that shimmered faintly with blue light. At its center stood two enormous gates of black iron, engraved with an emblem he couldn't recognize — a circle split by a single line, surrounded by what looked like wings.
The man placed a hand against the gate, and the metal shuddered softly before opening inward with a deep, resonant groan.
Ethan stepped inside.
The air changed instantly — colder, thicker, heavy with the scent of stone and time. The hallway stretched endlessly, its floor polished enough to mirror the faint flicker of the lamps above.
He walked slowly, the sound of his boots echoing across the vast emptiness.
At the far end of the corridor stood a grand staircase, curling upward into darkness. Above it, painted across the ceiling, was a mural of five stars surrounding a single black sun.
Ethan's heart pounded once — deep, loud, as if answering something unseen.
The old man turned toward him, his voice barely a whisper.
> "Welcome home, young master. The House of Walford has long awaited your return."
And before Ethan could speak, the great doors behind him closed with a thunderous finality —
locking out the world,
and locking him in.