The night was dark, the kind of darkness that pressed against windows and swallowed lantern light. Silence hung heavy in the Voss manor, broken only by the distant hoot of an owl and the soft crackle of the hearth in the great hall.
Until it wasn't silent anymore.
The first scream came from the kitchens — short, sharp, ended by a wet thud. Then another from the upper floors. Hael froze at the dining table, fork halfway to his mouth, his little sister's laughter still echoing from moments before.
The doors burst open.
Black-hooded figures poured in like spilled ink, blades gleaming with fresh blood. His father rose with a roar, drawing the ceremonial sword above the mantel, but a crossbow bolt took him in the throat before he could swing. He crumpled, gurgling, eyes wide with disbelief.
His mother shoved Hael's sister behind her, raising her hands in a plea that never left her lips. A hooded man drove a dagger up under her ribs, once, twice. She folded slowly, blood spreading across the pale stone floor in a perfect, widening circle.
Hael lunged, screaming something wordless, but iron-strong arms clamped around him from behind. A gloved hand pinned his wrists; a knee ground into his back. He thrashed, kicked, bit at the air — sixteen years old and helpless as a child.
The hooded man holding him leaned close. The mask muffled his voice, but the words were clear.
"Watch, boy. This is the price of heresy."
One by one, they finished the household. Servants dragged in from the halls. His uncle, still in his nightshirt. His sister — small, trusting — reached for him with trembling fingers before a blade opened her throat.
Hael's voice gave out. Tears and snot streaked his face. Rage boiled inside him, white-hot and useless.
The leader of the assassins stepped forward, wiping his dagger on a tapestry bearing the Voss family crest. He looked down at Hael with the detached curiosity of a man observing an insect.
"You were meant to die with them. But the Cardinal wants you alive… for now."
He raised the dagger.
Hael's world narrowed to that descending point of steel.
And then the words appeared.
Not spoken. Not written in any book.
They burned across the inside of his eyelids — crimson letters edged in writhing black.
[The heir has been selected.]
[The binding begins.]
Something vast and patient uncoiled inside his chest, tasting his grief, drinking his hatred.
The assassin's grip faltered — just for a heartbeat.
It was enough.
Hael twisted wildly, breaking free long enough to scramble across the blood-slick floor toward his father's fallen sword. His fingers closed around the hilt. Too heavy. Arms shaking. But he swung anyway, a desperate arc that grazed the leader's arm.
The man hissed, stepping back.
[Mortal danger detected.]
The crimson letters flashed once — urgent, indifferent.
[Instinctive activation: Shadow Step.]
The shadows in the hall lunged upward like living smoke, wrapping Hael in a freezing embrace. One heartbeat he was there — sword in trembling hand, blood on his face. The next, he was gone.
The leader's dagger sliced only empty air.
For a single stunned breath, the surviving assassins froze, staring at the place where the boy had stood. Torchlight flickered across empty stone.
Then the leader's voice cracked like a whip.
"What are you spacing out for, fools?! Search for that boy!"
Boots scraped across blood-slick floors. Blades rose. They fanned out, kicking over furniture, ripping tapestries from walls, eyes straining into every corner.
They did not look up.
High above, pressed flat against the soot-blackened beams of the ceiling, Hael clung to the shadows that held him. His heart thundered so loudly he feared they would hear it.
The darkness cradled him gently, almost affectionately.
And for the first time since his family's screams had filled the hall, he could breathe.
[Shadow Step sustained.]
[Corruption: +2%.]