Chapter 1: The burning castle beckons weary souls to rest part 1

“The fire has long etched its scorn into my memory. On that snowy day, their tongues rose high above the walls of the manor—the sentiment of watching my childhood home burn down before my very eyes. Everything I’ve ever known vanishing into ash.”

Outside the city of Lower Babel, at the furthest edge of its sprawling outskirts, stood the imposing Mercer Manor—a testament to the strength of its owners. Renowned as one of Lower Babel’s most formidable private military organizations, the Mercer clan shared the privileged knowledge of the coming Great Cataclysm with only a handful of other influential families, most notably the Worthingtons. Armed with foresight, the Mercers had ample time to prepare, and each family member possessed enough skill as a contractor to rival even the most elite knights.

When the Cataclysm finally struck, the Mercers seized their moment and ascended to global prominence. The family’s private militia, soon christened the Mercy Guild, rose in power as demons poured into the world from beyond the city’s borders. With unwavering discipline and uncanny resilience, the Mercy Guild swiftly expanded, crushing any opposition until none could contend with its might. Through these trials, the Mercer name became etched into history, synonymous with power and ruthless efficiency.

Lightning struck the old oak behind the manor, a stark flash illuminating the pre-dawn sky with jagged intensity. Michael jolted awake, rubbing his eyes as thunder rattled the windows. Through the pane, he could see the tips of the massive tree charred by the strike. Rain pummeled the smoldering bark, extinguishing embers in a hiss of steam. The boy had always found the ancient oak unsettling—its twisted trunk and gnarled limbs evoked some long-buried, primal fear he could never fully shake.

He rolled out of bed, muscles still heavy with sleep, rubbing his eyes again. The echo of thunder lingered in the distance.

“Young master, I see you’re up early today,” came a voice from the hallway. An older man emerged from the dim corridor, his face half-lit by stormy flashes of lightning.

Michael blinked, turning his head. “It’s 5 a.m., so you can still sleep,” the older man added, stepping inside.

“I’m good, Vince,” Michael murmured, words slurred with residual drowsiness. He stifled a yawn before releasing a subdued laugh. “By the way, what are you doing in my room?”

“I heard you moving about, so I came to check,” Vince stated, bowing slightly. Even in the gloom, the impeccable lines of his suit were evident, a testament to his unwavering formality.

“Quite the hearing for an old man,” Michael said with a fleeting smirk.

Vince responded with a dignified flourish, twirling his mustache. “Do you expect anything less from your bodyguard?”

The corners of Michael’s lips twitched into a half-smile before melting into thoughtful silence. “No, Vince. I just wish I could do that myself,” he admitted, dropping his gaze to the rug beneath his slippers. A distant rumble of thunder underscored the weight of his words.

“Young master, you will be able to do something this simple soon enough,” Vince reassured calmly. “Don’t forget—”

“Whose son I am,” Michael said, cutting him off. “I know, I know. All my brothers are excellent.”

“All of Mr. Mercer’s children are excellent,” Vince corrected gently, “in their own way.”

“My form of excellence is just a little off-brand for the family,” Michael sighed, crossing his arms. Outside, a fresh crack of lightning illuminated the contours of his young face—a momentary mask of youthful dissatisfaction.

“Are you still concerned about last night’s conversation?” Vince asked, concern briefly etching lines on his aging features.

Michael scoffed, pushing himself off the edge of his bed. “You call that a conversation?” he said with a trace of bitterness.

“A heated one,” Vince murmured.

Michael didn’t reply. Instead, he wandered to the corner of his spacious room, where each flash of lightning cast frenetic shadows along the walls. He rummaged in his wardrobe, pulling out trousers and a thin, long-sleeved shirt. The wardrobe door creaked with every shift of weight. He dressed quickly, ignoring the cold that seeped through the tall windows. Each gust of storm wind battered the old oak outside, bringing another wave of tension to Michael’s stomach.

Finally dressed, he stepped into the sprawling manor hall. Vince followed at a polite distance, shoes treading near-silently on thick carpets. The corridor’s old paintings glowed and dimmed as lightning flared outside, giving fleeting glimpses of stern ancestors and forgotten trophies. A subdued hum of thunder served as a backdrop to Michael’s footsteps.

He entered the kitchen, faint light flickering near the massive fridge. An overhead fixture buzzed erratically. The tile underfoot felt chilly as an early morning breeze slipped through the window’s cracked seal. Vince watched quietly from behind.

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Michael’s mind wandered to the previous evening’s harsh words—the father who demanded so much, siblings who overshadowed him, and the constant nagging question of whether he’d ever match the family’s lofty standards. A fresh peal of thunder broke his reverie.

Vince stepped closer, watchful but not intrusive. “Young master, I’ll prepare coffee if you’d like,” he offered softly.

Michael gave a slight nod. “Thanks, Vince.” He allowed the tension behind his eyes to ease slightly.

Outside, the oak’s shadow danced against the battered walls of the manor. The storm tested each branch, scorching previously struck twigs. Rain hammered the old tree, forging small rivulets that streamed off blackened bark in shimmering lines. Michael was reminded again how easily life could be snuffed—an ancient fixture undone by a single arc of lightning.

“Michael!?”

His mother’s voice softly carried through the kitchen, interrupting the low hum of electric lights and the lingering patter of raindrops on windowpanes. She entered wearing her nightgown, pale fabric rustling with each step. Despite her delicate appearance—no older than her late twenties—Michael knew better: she had stopped aging the day she became a contractor.

Taking a seat beside him, she let her long black hair spill around her shoulders, tips slightly damp from wandering the manor’s corridors. Her eyes, dark brown, bore faint circles beneath—telling signs of many sleepless nights. A gust rattled the window, drawing their attention; for a second, the oak’s silhouette flickered in lightning’s new flash.

“Why are you up so early?” she asked, resting an elbow on the table.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Michael admitted quietly, swirling a cup of coffee Vince had hastily prepared. The steam rose in lazy curls beneath dim overhead lights. “What about you?”

“I couldn’t either. That tree just creeps me out,” she replied, her tone half-laughing, half-discomforted. Thunder rolled distantly, reminding them of the storm prowling outside.

“So even the mighty Witch of Decay finds some things scary,” Michael teased softly, aware of the manor’s lingering quiet.

“Haha,” his mother smiled, eyes betraying subtle anxiety. “Yes, maybe you got that from me—along with your smile and gentle heart.”

“Gentle heart,” Michael echoed, releasing a brief, mocking laugh. He set the mug down, shoulders slumping. “Sometimes I wish my heart was stone.”

Lightning flickered, illuminating the oak’s charred branches like twisted fingers. Rain battered the roof, each beat a whispered secret. She glanced at the tree, exhaling softly.

“You say that now,” she mused, “but trust me, one day you’ll see in yourself the things I admire.” She pushed a stray lock behind her ear.

The kitchen lamp flickered; Vince lingered near the doorway, silent and watchful.

Michael shook his head, staring into his coffee. Words felt heavy, lodged between mind and mouth.

His mother watched with intangible maternal awareness. Another flash illuminated the oak’s resilience, the storm battling the ancient trunk.

“The tree’s always been there,” she said softly, her voice touched with melancholy. “Long before I arrived. Before you were born. It’s rumored to be a relic from times best forgotten.”

Michael shrugged lightly. “I want to chop it down someday,” he muttered, half-serious, half-teasing. “Burn it to ashes.”

She nearly laughed but stopped short, remembering his father's admiration for the oak’s grim silhouette. “Well, that’d certainly be some spectacle.” She rubbed a gentle circle into her temple, attempting to ease a building tension. “But your father would have a heart attack if he found out. For some reason, he’s always admired that tree.”

Lightning cracked again, jolting them back into the present. The overhead lamp flickered briefly, casting mother and son into dim silhouettes—both figures wrapped in private anxieties beneath dawn’s watchful gloom.

Michael exhaled deeply, letting the stale air escape his lungs. “Yeah, well, father’s never exactly been a fan of my decisions anyway,” he whispered, a jaded smile briefly flickering on his lips before vanishing.

She rested a comforting hand on his shoulder, the subtle maternal gesture bridging the unspoken chasm between them. “One day,” she whispered gently, “he will come to understand the error in his ways. He always does.”

A subtle creak from the kitchen doorway marked Vince’s return. He moved effortlessly across the worn tiles, each step scarcely breaking the quiet hum of early morning stillness. The overhead light flickered intermittently, catching his silver hair in soft, brief pulses.

With deliberate grace, Vince placed two steaming cups of coffee on the table before Michael and his mother. Tendrils of steam rose and curled in delicate swirls under the pale illumination. The fresh, robust aroma cut through the lingering scent of ozone brought by the storm.

“Thank you, Vince,” the madam said softly, her gaze rising from the table’s edge. A faint, worn smile crossed her lips. Despite her eternally youthful face, the quiet heaviness behind her eyes revealed the weight of countless years and burdens carried since becoming a contractor.

Vince returned her smile with a respectful bow. “Of course, madam.” His voice carried the gentle warmth of a confidant balanced by a soldier’s disciplined poise. He retreated quietly to the kitchen threshold, attentive and ever watchful.

Michael glanced toward the cups, breathing in the coffee’s strong, comforting bitterness. Wrapping his fingers around one mug, he drew it closer, savoring the heat radiating into his palms. The tension across his shoulders eased slightly, anchored by this small comfort.

Outside, another faint flash of lightning briefly illuminated the rain-drenched oak, its scorched branches outlined in fleeting clarity. Rain still tapped softly on the windows, its earlier fury reduced to a steady, gentle rhythm—a whispered reminder of the storm that had unsettled their night.

The madam cradled her cup, blowing softly across the rim. A delicate curl of steam drifted momentarily in front of her serene face, as though she were caught within a still-life painting. Her dark hair framed her thoughtful expression as she glanced toward Michael, quietly contemplating the challenges of the day against the quiet comfort of shared coffee.

“It’s good,” Michael finally murmured, sipping carefully, and offering a subtle nod of gratitude toward Vince, who returned the gesture silently.