I rose from the high-backed chair, the stiff fabric of my coat rustling faintly as I adjusted it over my shoulders.
"Follow me," I said, my voice low but firm, each syllable threaded with the quiet authority I had come to wield like second nature.
Alfred, ever poised, dipped his head with measured precision. "Yes, master," he answered, his tone crisp, unflinching.
Without hesitation, he stepped into place behind me, his polished boots echoing softly against the floor—a practiced rhythm, steady and unwavering, as if he had always known where to stand.
We descended into the depths of the arena, slipping past drunken gamblers and nobles basking in the aftermath of blood-soaked entertainment. The air thickened as we moved further in, heavy with the metallic tang of rust and something fouler—unwashed bodies, dried sweat, and despair so potent it seeped into the very walls. Dim torches flickered against damp stone, their feeble glow barely keeping the darkness at bay.
The underground dungeon stretched before us—a grotesque display of men reduced to commodities, their worth measured in how much pain they could endure for sport.
A greasy-looking man in fine but unkempt clothes greeted me with a practiced smile, his hands rubbing together as if already counting his profit.
"My, my~ which one would you like to buy, Sir?"
The voice was oily, its owner no different.
I didn't bother responding. My gaze swept the rows of iron-barred cells, their occupants little more than hollow shells—some crouched in corners, others staring ahead with vacant, deadened eyes. The few who still held on to their defiance glared at me, their hatred a flickering ember in the suffocating dark.
And then—I saw him.
Ralph.
He sat at the back of his cell, his body unnaturally still, yet the tension coiled within him was unmistakable. Even in shackles, even drugged into dullness, he radiated the quiet menace of a beast lying in wait. His crimson eyes, though hazy, flickered with an instinctive awareness, like a wolf assessing whether to bite or remain caged.
"I'll take this one," I said, stepping in front of his cell.
The merchant's smile widened as if I had just made his evening. "Ah, an excellent choice! But I must warn you—this one's temper is… volatile. He requires a firm hand, if you catch my meaning."
I already knew. I didn't need his warnings.
Thick iron shackles bound Ralph's wrists, the kind used for beasts—not men. The drugs they had fed him dulled his gaze, yet I saw it—beneath the haze, awareness stirred, instinct fought.
"I wish to speak with him. Alone."
It wasn't a request.
The man hesitated, only for a moment, before bowing with that same ingratiating smile. "Of course, Sir. But I can only give you ten minutes."
"That will be more than enough."
He gave a shallow nod and scurried off, his footsteps retreating into the dark.
Now it was just the two of us.
The silence stretched between us, tense and frayed.
"Ralphian Raglan," I said.
The reaction was immediate.
His eyes widened, blood-red and blazing. His body surged forward with the sudden violence of a storm breaking. The chains screamed against his movement, rattling as he lunged. His breathing came in sharp bursts, ragged and animalistic, as though the name alone had gouged open a wound long festering.
"I'm not your enemy. If anything, I'm here to free you. Don't you want revenge against the Arundell family? Don't you want to find your sister?"
His movements slowed, not from exhaustion but from calculation.
He stared at me now, properly, and the question in his gaze was clear. Who was I?
"Who…?" he rasped. His voice sounded ruined, like it had been dragged across broken glass.
Whether it was the drugs dulling his mind or the constant agony of the collar around his throat, I couldn't tell.
"That is not something you need to know... Not yet."
His lip curled faintly, a bitter smile ghosting across his face.
"Wh-what do... you want…?"
"Your freedom. The restoration of your family." I paused, letting the words weigh down the air between us. "And in return, I want your help."
He let out a dry, rasping laugh—humorless and sharp. "Haa! What's the difference between you… and them?"
"You nobles…" His voice cracked, hoarse with fury and exhaustion. "You all think the same. You place bets on us, toy with our lives... and when we break, you toss us aside like spoiled meat."
I didn't try to deny it. The truth in his words didn't bruise me. It settled, matter-of-fact, like ash after a long-burning fire.
"You're right," I said, my tone even, unrepentant. "I made a good amount of money off you today."
His jaw clenched, tendons taut beneath the skin, eyes narrowing into slits of disbelief.
"But unlike them," I continued, letting the pause stretch between us like a taut wire, "I have a conscience. That's why I'm here. I'm trying to get you out of this pit. To give you a chance to leave."
I shrugged, turning my head slightly, letting the flickering torchlight catch my profile.
"Of course, if you'd rather stay, rot, and die here choking on the stench of blood and mold—I won't lose any sleep over it. The choice is yours."
For a moment, the silence was thicker than the foul air around us. Then I saw it—a twitch in his wrist, the faint gleam of something metallic catching the light—subtle, practiced and desperate.
"Now," I said, my gaze locking onto his with quiet finality, "why don't you drop that pathetic little knife you're hiding in your palm and listen properly?"
My voice dropped an octave, firm and cutting.
"I already told you—I'm not here to harm you."
The silence that followed was heavy, punctuated only by the distant, muffled cheers of the arena above.
"How do I trust you...?"
His voice cracked like dry wood, hesitant and raw, each syllable laced with a desperation he struggled to conceal.
"The choice is yours." I spoke evenly, my voice steady, measured. "If you follow me, I will help you find your sister. I will also help you destroy those who tarnished your name and cast you into this pit. But if you refuse…"
My hand slipped into my coat. The faint jingle of metal accompanied the motion as I retrieved a small pouch, the drawstrings knotted tightly in crimson cord.
"I will simply hand you this, and you may walk away. Alone."
I let the silence speak for a heartbeat before continuing, my voice sinking a note deeper.
"Though I doubt you'll ever find her that way."
His breath faltered—a sharp intake, barely audible but unmistakably present. His body tensed as if recoiling from an invisible truth. I stepped closer, just enough that the flickering torchlight caught the edge of my profile, casting long shadows against the damp stone behind me.
"I know it's not easy for you to trust me, Ralph," I said, my voice low, steady—an ember beneath the cold weight of tension that filled the space between us. "But choose wisely. You won't get this chance again. Not soon. Perhaps not ever."
His lips parted slightly, trembling as though caught between words he couldn't bring himself to speak. Then they pressed shut. His hands, dirt-streaked and blood-specked, clenched into trembling fists at his sides, the knuckles pale, the veins threading angrily beneath the grime of the dungeon's darkness.
A silence passed.
Then, at last, he spoke.
"Alright... I'll follow you."
I held his gaze, unflinching. Those eyes—once wild with suspicion—now flickered with a fragile resolve, as if some unseen weight had shifted behind them.
"Hmm," I hummed. "But listen closely."
I stepped forward, the flickering torchlight casting shadows across his face.
"Until you prove your worth, I will hold you accountable for everything you do. Every word you speak, every step you take, every breath you draw—will bear the weight of my scrutiny. Should you act without my approval, I will not turn a blind eye. I will not be merciful."
His jaw tightened. The muscles in his face twitched as he forced a nod—just once, short and stiff, like a soldier accepting orders on the edge of battle.
"I understood," he said, voice rough but resolute.
For a moment, the world fell into stillness. Then I turned, and signaled for the merchant to unlock the cell. As the shackles were removed, Ralph staggered slightly, his limbs sluggish from confinement, but he did not fall. He stood upright, ragged and filthy, yet in that moment, his eyes burned with something brighter than defiance.
Resolve.
Alfred said nothing. He remained still in the shadows, his expression a blank mask carved from stone.
But I knew the truth that stirred beneath it.
He loathed places like this. The stench of blood, the echoes of violence, the quiet cruelty that clung to the walls like mildew—he detested it all. And still, I had brought him here, dragging him back into a world he had tried so hard to escape.
Even now, I couldn't be sure where his loyalty truly lay.
My father had broken him, carved obedience into his bones, reshaped him into a tool that would never defy its master. But no chain was unbreakable, no conditioning eternal.
He had been plucked from one nightmare and hurled into another.
"We're leaving," I said, my voice quiet, but carrying the weight of finality, like the soft toll of a bell before a storm.
Alfred, standing a pace behind me, bowed his head with composed precision.
"Understood, master," he replied, his tone as smooth and measured as ever—neither questioning nor hesitant, but steeped in unwavering loyalty.
Without another word, I turned from the room, the echo of my footsteps trailing behind like the slow closing of a chapter.
We moved quickly, soundlessly, slipping through the cracks in this cursed place the same way we had entered.
One shadow following another, deeper into the unknown.
As we emerged from the dim corridors into the cold evening air, a sleek, black carriage stood waiting at the entrance.
Grandfather.
So, he had already discovered my location.
"Greetings, master."
The footman bowed with practiced precision, his every movement steeped in the rigid discipline expected of my household.
I released a slow breath, letting the tension ease from my shoulders as I strode forward.
"Let us depart at once." My voice was steady, brooking no delay.
"Yes, master."
Without another word, Ralph, Alfred and I entered the carriage. The door shut behind us with a quiet finality, sealing us away from the outside world as the vehicle lurched into motion.
Through the window, Westmere unraveled in fleeting glimpses—a city of grandeur and grime, where ambition clashed with despair on every street corner. Opulent townhouses stood like gilded sentinels, their facades immaculate, hiding the corruption festering within.
Shadowed alleyways whispered of unseen dealings, secrets bartered like coins beneath the weight of flickering gas lamps. Towering structures of iron and stone cast long silhouettes over the ceaseless tide of humanity, each figure that passed a piece of an unending game.
Some eyes gleamed with ambition, others with exhaustion—the silent battle of those who played the game and those merely trying to survive it.
And then at last, the manor emerged from the mist of the city—unyielding and imperious.
A bastion of power and history, its towering walls bore the weight of a name that had shaped generations. Cold stone and ancient legacy intertwined, standing unmoved by time, unshaken by the shifting tides of fate.