Chapter 12 : Mortal Recoil

Moonlight fell upon him like a solemn spotlight, casting his figure in silver as if the heavens themselves had chosen him—and him alone—as their subject.

Elliot raised his head, his weary eyes meeting the pale, silent face of the moon suspended in the void of a starless sky. It stared back at him without emotion—sometimes cold, sometimes strangely warm… and at other times, hauntingly indifferent.

Why was he here?

That question stirred again in his chest, aimless and unanswered. Was the purpose not yet revealed? Or had it long ago been carved into fate, only to be lost—forgotten beneath the weight of trauma and time?

What kind of soul dares to stray from the path that destiny had laid?

"Remember your true purpose..."

The voice hissed in his ears once more, as it always did. A broken refrain, echoing like a cracked melody that no one could silence. That same cursed whisper, weaving into the shadows of his mind, dragging forth the memory.

A vision emerged.

He recalled that day—unremarkable at first. A day much like any other, when the northern wind bit at their skin but the warmth of kin made the frost bearable. His village, his haven, his paradise.

Until it wasn’t.

In an instant, the world turned to ash and ruin. He saw them again—his family, his friends—bodies twisted and charred, flesh seared fresh by flame. The stench of burning still clung to his senses even now, long after the fires had gone out. Their faces warped by agony, yet unmistakable in their plea—for mercy, for peace… and for vengeance.

Their voices still echoed, screaming, crawling toward him with outstretched hands, their eyes hollow, their mouths twisted in anguish.

“Avenge us. Avenge us! AVENGE US!”

They swarmed him. Drowning him in sorrow. Smothering him in guilt.

Then—silence.

Elliot’s eyes snapped open.

But he did not flinch. He did not gasp. He no longer recoiled from the nightmare. It had returned again, as it always did—but he had changed.

The fear that once gripped him with icy fingers had dulled. The horror no longer shattered him as it once had. He had grown accustomed to its weight—no longer a boy shaken by ghosts, but a man who bore them.

Elliot awoke beneath a canopy of soft drapery, lying upon a bed far too fine for someone like him. Four carved wooden pillars stood at each corner, holding aloft a veil of gauze that swayed faintly in the breeze. The mattress was soft—luxuriously so—and a thick blanket of fur, stitched from highland wolf and trimmed in silk, rested atop him like a regal shroud.

His torso was tightly bound in layers of clean bandages. He reached for them instinctively, and the moment his fingers brushed the cloth, a sharp bolt of pain lanced through his ribs. He let out a low grunt, teeth gritted, as the memory surged back—merciless and vivid.

That creature…

The dark-skinned monster. Orcish in frame, yet far more terrifying in presence. It had pummeled him into the earth like a rag doll.

And yet… he was still breathing.

Still here.

Alive.

But how?

He stared blankly at the canopy above him. There were too many questions. If he’d survived, did that mean the creature had been defeated? And if so… by whom? That fire-wielding adventurer—Roderick, was it? Could he have bested that thing?

Or had something else intervened?

As he lay steeped in thought, the silence was broken by a strange sound—soft at first, then growing louder, rhythmic and mechanical. Something spinning. Whirring fast.

Elliot pushed the blanket aside and sat up slowly, wincing as his wounds protested every movement. With unsteady feet, he crossed the polished wooden floor to the nearest window and pushed aside the curtain.

His eyes widened—truly widened—for the sight that greeted him defied all logic.

Descending slowly into a vast emerald field beyond the estate, a monstrous vessel of polished metal hovered effortlessly, its very existence thumbing its nose at the laws of nature. Twin propellers, massive and whirring with deafening speed, began to slow as the vessel eased to a stop. A hiss of steam escaped its underbelly, and with a final shudder, its landing struts touched the earth. The grass beneath it flattened like obedient servants beneath a descending god.

Elliot’s jaw slackened.

He had never seen such a thing before—not in his village, not in any tale passed down by elder tongues. It was a flying machine, yes, but not like the crude gliders and windships he’d glimpsed in traveling merchant fleets. No, this was colossal, refined—military, perhaps? Or royal?

From within the great craft, a figure emerged.

A woman, regal in bearing, stepped down onto the sun-kissed grass. She wore a deep navy fur coat that shimmered slightly in the heat, and a wide-brimmed hat cast a graceful shadow across her sharp features. Black and white feathers crowned the brim, swaying gently in the breeze. Every movement of hers was precise, practiced, and poised with highborn dignity.

Who was she?

More importantly…

Where was he?

This wasn’t a village, nor a battlefield. The softness of the sheets, the polished wood of the floor, the intricacy of the architecture—it all pointed to nobility or wealth. But how had he come here? Why had an aircraft just arrived?

And—

His breath caught.

Where is Serena?

That question jolted him like a slap across the face. Pushing aside his confusion, Elliot threw on a loose cloak draped across the bedpost and stepped out into the hall.

The corridor was dim, lit only by shafts of morning light seeping through high windows. Paintings lined the walls—portraits of strangers, all dressed in finery, gazing down with expressions carved in oil and pride. He moved quickly, uncertain of his direction, driven only by instinct. At every fork, he turned right, right again, letting his gut guide him through the unfamiliar terrain.

Eventually, he entered a grand room.

His breath caught once more.

A marble hall stretched out before him, crowned by a sweeping staircase of carved stone. Gilded banisters curled like vines, and tall pillars with intricate carvings reached up to meet a domed ceiling. Above, layered chandeliers—each grander than the last—hung like glittering galaxies suspended in time.

“Ah!”

The exclamation snapped him from his awe.

He turned sharply toward the voice, instincts honed from survival.

There stood a woman—young, garbed in a black dress with a crisp white apron. A maid, judging by her attire. She held a feather duster mid-air, frozen in shock, her eyes wide with surprise and something else—fear, perhaps?

Elliot stared back, unsure what to say, unsure where he was.

The maid gasped and made to flee, her footsteps light against the marble, skirts swishing in haste—but Elliot reacted swiftly, stepping in her path before she could bolt. He raised both hands in an attempt to appear non-threatening, though the sudden movement clearly unsettled her even more.

She froze, trembling.

Elliot tried to steady his breath. He knew better than to come at her with force. This woman was terrified. Still, panic clouded his judgment—he needed answers.

“What is this place? Where am I? Where’s Serena?” he demanded, his voice sharp with urgency.

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The maid flinched and raised her hands near her face as if expecting a blow. Her eyes welled with tears.

“A-ah! Please, don’t hurt me! I’m just a maid—I don’t know anything! I have children to feed, please, mercy!” she sobbed, voice breaking beneath the weight of terror.

Elliot blinked, startled. “W-What? I’m not going to hurt you—just tell me where Serena is,” he said, softening his tone. But in his desperation, he reached out and gripped her by the shoulders, shaking her slightly.

That only made things worse.

“Aaaaah! Help! Someone, please!” the maid shrieked, eyes wide in pure panic.

Elliot froze, realization dawning far too late. He stepped back, lifting his hands in surrender. “Wait, I didn’t mean—”

Whack!

Pain exploded along the left side of his face.

The blow came without warning, the strike of a scabbard cracking across his jaw with surprising force. He staggered back, releasing the maid instantly. She took the opportunity and fled, her cries echoing through the marble halls as she vanished around a corner.

“Wait!” Elliot called out, dazed and reaching after her.

Wham!

Another blow landed, square against his ribs.

“Enough,” came a stern, aged voice. “Quit terrorizing the housekeeping staff, you ruffian.”

Elliot turned—still rubbing his jaw—and laid eyes on the attacker.

An elderly man stood before him, straight-backed and dignified. His white hair was combed immaculately, his beard and mustache groomed with the care of a noble house steward. He wore a tailored vest over a buttoned dress shirt, and a monocle glinted on his right eye. Though not tall, his presence filled the space like a gust of cold wind through an open door.

“Did you just hit me?” Elliot asked, incredulous.

“I did,” the old man replied calmly, adjusting the sleeves of his coat.

“Ow—I wasn’t terrorizing anyone!” Elliot protested. “I was just asking a—”

Whack!

A third strike landed square on his shoulder.

“Speak properly, young man,” the elder said flatly, as if correcting posture with a yardstick. “This is not a barnyard brawl. Compose yourself, and we may yet have a civil conversation.”

The scabbard came down again—thwack!—striking Elliot square on the shoulder.

And again. And again.

Each blow was punctuated by a lecture.

“Disgraceful behavior!” Whack!

“Unfit posture!” Whack!

“Where’s your sense of restraint?” Whack!

Elliot could only grunt and mutter between impacts, curling into himself with arms over his head like a battered turtle. “Ow—stop! I’m injured, you crazy old—ow!”

But the blows kept raining. Finally, Elliot snapped.

“That’s it!” he growled through gritted teeth.

With a sharp swing of his leg, he aimed a low sweeping kick at the old man’s ankles—but the elder pivoted effortlessly, avoiding the tackle with the grace of a seasoned duelist. Elliot scrambled to his feet and lunged, trying to wrest the sword from the man’s belt. But it was no use. Every move Elliot made was anticipated, countered with uncanny precision. The old man danced around him, twisting and sidestepping, all while keeping the sheathed blade firmly in hand.

“Hah!” the old man barked, eyes gleaming with an unsettling mixture of critique and admiration. “Strong knees, good reach—posture’s a little off—and fast, yes! But utterly predictable!”

Elliot lunged again, snarling with frustration, only to be met with another crack to the jaw.

Staggering back, he realized brute force wouldn’t win. His eyes flicked past the elder—there, across the room, a narrow corridor leading to a wall adorned with two crossed sabers. Display pieces, perhaps. But they’d do.

Elliot launched himself forward. The old man raised his scabbard, preparing to intercept—but Elliot leapt high, twisting mid-air and soaring clean over the elder's head.

He landed with a thud, skidding to the wall. With one swift motion, he ripped the sabers free from their mountings. Cool metal greeted his palms.

He turned to face his opponent, blades raised.

The old man smiled—not in mockery, but genuine delight. A flicker of excitement lit his eyes. “Magnificent!” he declared, drawing his own weapon at last. A long, slender blade emerged from the scabbard, gleaming silver and finely polished. Its edge looked as though it had never known defeat.

“Now,” the old man said with a wicked grin. “Shall we?”

Elliot didn’t waste words. He advanced.

Blades clashed, steel ringing against steel in a storm of sparks. Elliot pressed with relentless speed and raw power, his twin sabers whirling in tight arcs. But the old man met every strike with calculated grace, deflecting with surgical precision. His style was entirely different—measured, fluid, each movement efficient and deliberate.

Back and forth they moved, a storm and a tide, violent energy crashing against unyielding calm.

Then—

“Whoa, whoa—HEY! Enough!”

A voice cut through the clamor like a blade through fog. Gravelly, sharp, and unmistakable.

Roderick Barrenworth stepped between them, palms outstretched to hold them at bay. His broad figure slid into the gap like a drawn curtain, commanding silence.

“What in the five heavens are you two doing?”

Both swords hesitated in mid-air.

Elliot, breathing hard, took a step back, sweat trailing down his brow. The old man, still poised like a marble statue, calmly lowered his blade with a disappointed sigh—though the amused twinkle never left his eye.

At last, Elliot exhaled a breath of relief.

Someone he recognized.

“…Fire guy.”

Roderick let out a sigh sharp enough to cut glass. “Yes! And that’s Mr. Barrenworth, to you, white-hair!”

Elliot raised a hand defensively. “Hey, don’t look at me all angry like that—he’s the one who started it!”

I know, Roderick groaned inwardly, resisting the urge to drag a hand down his face.

He turned to the old man, who stood as composed as a statue, sword lowered but posture still militant. Not a shred of regret marred his expression.

“And you,” Roderick barked. “Care to explain why my morning now includes an unannounced duel in the grand foyer, Ronald?”

The elder swordsman didn’t so much as blink. His gaze stayed level, his chin proudly raised.

“Forgive my conduct, My Lord,” Ronald said, voice clipped and proper, “but as you can see, your manor has become a parade ground for chaos ever since you opened the gates to this colorful menagerie of guests. One nearly burned down the kitchen. Another has fouled the entire east wing with frog mucus. And this one—” he gestured to Elliot with the faintest motion “—decided to terrorize a maid. So yes, I took action. You may forgive the damage to your home, but I draw the line at harm coming to the staff.”

Roderick pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Okay. Fair point. It won’t happen again. I’ll handle it from here.”

“You’d better,” Ronald muttered, sliding his sword neatly back into its scabbard.

He turned to leave, but paused at the corner of the hallway. With one final glance over his shoulder, he gave a crisp bow. “My Lord.”

And then he was gone, his boots clicking away down the marble corridor, his presence still lingering like the echo of discipline itself.

Roderick let out a long, weary sigh, rubbing his temples as if this day had aged him a year already.

“That is one strange old man,” Elliot muttered under his breath.

Roderick shot him a glare sharp enough to cleave stone.

“What?” Elliot said, brows furrowing defensively.

Another sigh. This one heavier than the last.

“Put on some clothes, man.”

“Clothes? What—no, forget that. Where’s Serena? Where are we? What is this place?!”

“Just—gods, just zip it!” Roderick snapped, voice echoing through the marble hall. “Get dressed and meet me in the study. I’ll explain everything there.”

“In the what now?” Elliot squinted, utterly lost. “Where even is that?”

Roderick gestured vaguely, already turning on his heel. “Go back to the room where you woke up. There should be clean clothes in the dresser. Pick whatever fits and try not to break anything.”

Elliot raised a hand in protest. “And how exactly am I supposed to find you in this—this palace or whatever it is? I don’t even know what a study looks like!”

Without turning back, Roderick lifted a single hand—and extended his middle finger.

Elliot stared at it, baffled. “What… what does that even mean?”

No answer came. Roderick disappeared around the corner, muttering something inaudible, likely wishing he'd let the old man finish the duel.

*****

By the time Roderick stepped into the study, the dull throb behind his eyes had already begun to bloom into a full-blown headache. He could feel it coiling like a serpent at the base of his skull, waiting for the faintest excuse to strike with fangs of vertigo.

And then—her voice.

“Well, well… hello, Mr. Barrenworth. It’s lovely to see you again after such a tragically long parting.”

There it was. The trigger.

He stopped dead in his tracks, jaw clenching as her words slithered through the room with all the grace and poison of a viper.

“No warm words of welcome?” she purred, mock-offended. The seductive lilt in her voice was enough to set his teeth grinding.

She was seated comfortably in his chair—his favorite one, naturally—the one nearest the hearth. Her black hair, gleaming like polished obsidian, was woven into a braid that coiled over her shoulder like a sleeping serpent. A sleek dress of inky silk clung to her figure, shadows dancing across its folds. Her lips, darkened with a hint of violet, curved into a smirk that said far too much and nothing at all.

She lounged as if she owned the room.

As if she always had.

On the table before her, she’d arranged a tea set—of course it wasn’t tea.

Roderick stormed over without hesitation, seized the delicate porcelain teapot, and poured a generous stream directly into his mouth. Two large gulps later, he slammed it back down.

“Yup,” he said flatly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Definitely not tea.”

Cassandra chuckled, a velvety laugh that practically dripped with mischief. “Oh, come now. I don’t see the harm in a little wine to start the day. One must keep warm somehow in these old stone cages you call estates.”

Roderick slumped onto the couch, landing face-first with a grunt, refusing to meet her gaze. He needed distance. He needed silence. And he definitely needed stronger wine.

“Why are you here…” he muttered into the cushion. “Cassandra?”

Cassandra let out another soft, musical chuckle. “You haven’t changed a bit, Roderick. Still asking questions you already know the answers to.”

Roderick scoffed, dragging a hand down his weary face. “And you’re still treating everyone around you like fools and simpletons. Cloaking every word in that highborn snobbery, prancing about like you’re woven from velvet and secrets—when in truth, you’re just—”

He stopped himself. A knot tightened in his throat. Something deep inside warned him not to finish that sentence. Not here. Not with her.

“Ugh. Whatever. If you’re here for the girl…” He waved a hand dismissively toward the far window, beyond which the manor’s hallways stretched into shadow. “Be my guest. She’s all yours.”

A flicker of surprise crossed Cassandra’s face, a small wrinkle in her otherwise perfect mask. “Just like that?” she asked, brows arching with curiosity. “You don’t want to know more about her?”

Roderick slowly lifted his head from the couch, fixing her with a dead-eyed stare—calm, cold, but sharp as flint.

“Oh, I know quite a lot,” he said. “But by all means, if you feel compelled to offer your version of the tale… I’m all ears. I admit, I’m faintly intrigued to hear how you plan to dress this one up.”

That caught her off guard. A beat of silence passed between them.

“…The whole tale?” she asked, voice now a shade quieter.

“Yes,” Roderick answered, his tone hardening. “The truth. About the girl’s origin. And what your precious Academy did to her behind its gilded gates.”

The shift was immediate. Cassandra’s shoulders stiffened, the air of playful seduction evaporating like mist in the sun. Her flawless posture wilted slightly under the weight of his words, and for the first time that morning, she looked… human. A long, weary sigh escaped her lips, and the false confidence she wore like a second skin began to peel.

“I see…” she whispered. “Then I suppose retrieving her won’t be as easy as I hoped.”

Roderick leaned back, expression folding into something like pity… or disgust—it was hard to tell.

“No,” he muttered, shaking his head slowly. “Not this time.”

A pause.

“You are one wicked woman, Cassandra Willthrop.”