Pre-Chapter Note: There's a prologue available in the auxiliary material. While not essential to the story, it's a brief introduction that provides valuable insights into the character of Virgil. I recommend reading it, as it will enhance your understanding of the narrative. In any case, enjoy the chapter!
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The sprawling halls of the ancient Ashfell manor echoed with a profound sense of desolation. Worn, yet once-elegant tapestries bearing the Ashfell colors of gray and black adorned the walls, their faded threads narrating the family's tales and stories.
The once-polished black marble floors bore the undeniable scars of neglect, and the grand chandeliers, which had once illuminated this magnificent abode, now clung to existence with only a few dimly flickering candles. Though the palace had once stood as a testament of peak grandeur, it now appeared as if the passage of time and a legion of forgotten spirits had come to exact their toll.
In the center of this decaying splendor stood Salazar, a man who had faithfully served the once-honorable Ashfell family for decades. He had been the household's butler during the late count's reign and now, as the family's fortunes waned, he continued to serve the young master, Vhal, with an unwavering sense of duty.
The weight of the years of service was etched into the lines on his weathered face. The household had fallen on hard times, its prosperity slipping away like sand through grasping fingers. The lands, once united under the Ashfell banner, had been mercilessly divided in the wake of the count's death.
A bitter rift had torn the family apart, as the late count's two bastard sons, half-brothers to the young master, seized a share of the inheritance. Their actions, no doubt influenced by their cunning stepmothers, had further fractured the once-proud Ashfell lineage. The family that had once held the prestigious title of Count, ruling over an entire county, had now splintered into three households.
Both of the young master's stepbrothers had established their own houses, each bearing their mother's last name and holding the title of Viscount, while the main branch of the family had been reduced to a mere barony. The strain of the familial split weighed heavily on Salazar. He had been left to pick up the pieces, tending to the dwindling estate while the young master remained comatose for these recent years.
Salazar's furrowed brow deepened as his thoughts fixated on the slumbering boy, whom he held in his heart as if he were his own son.
He gathered a group of servants in the grand foyer, a familiar ritual marking the beginning of yet another challenging and exhausting day. Salazar, with a sense of quiet determination, carefully assigned tasks and issued orders with the sole purpose of salvaging what little could still be repaired.
After ensuring the servants were set on their respective duties, Salazar turned his attention to his own responsibilities. He methodically sifted through the letters that had arrived via carrier hawks and checked their only scrying tablet.
The news brought a growing sense of unease, with troubling reports concerning the ongoing war efforts and unsettling rumors circulated by their limited network of spies. These whispers hinted at the ambitions of expansion from the neighboring nobles and discussions of schemes revolving around the two illegitimate brothers of the young master.
Anger simmered within him, and his thoughts turned to the young master himself—a boy he loved dearly, yet one who had proven to be nothing but vile and seemingly inept over the years. The number of scandals and misfortunes that had plagued the household during the late count's lifetime was staggering, and the young master's reputation held little to no value, save for being a repugnant, untalented non-mage with no discernible intelligence.
It was a source of immense frustration for Salazar, as he knew firsthand the young master's wasted potential. Everything had taken a sharp turn for the worse after the boy's mother passed away when he was just nine years old.
Now, at the age of sixteen, legally an adult in the eyes of the kingdom, the young master remained trapped in a state of mindless slumber, his neck bearing gruesome pale white scars from the last assassination attempt.
With his pent-up anger serving as motivation, Salazar continued with his duties, which included responding to various correspondences from individuals of varying importance. He then shifted his focus to the local household guard, a meager force consisting of twenty knights and a single mage, which was himself.
His own status as a powerful Full Mage had been the sole deterrent holding potential threats at bay, but now, with his own inability to advance and the rise of other powers, he harbored genuine concerns for the future.
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Time flowed onward, and as the sun hastened its descent, Salazar let out a deep sigh. His day's delegations and tasks were largely complete, but the most challenging part of his responsibilities was yet to come. He took a small swig of faerie wine, allowing the cool liquid to fortify his resolve, and then made his way to the most secure part of the Ashfell ancestral manor—the ruler's chamber.
Inside that chamber, the young master lay, his body growing stronger and healthier through diligent care, yet his mind remained trapped in a perpetual void. Salazar couldn't help but ponder whether this was a merciful fate for the boy.
After all, the once-prosperous barony had descended into near-starvation for its citizens. The blame for this plight was heaped upon the young master's name, for he had tormented many villagers when the division among the family first occurred, leading them to abandon the main branch and retreat to safety at the ancestral manor in the ashen valley.
This left the barony in a state of ruin, as its resources were suddenly depleted due to the household's division—further amplifying the blame on the young master.
Salazar moved in measured steps, his mind caught in the currents of past regrets and fleeting memories. He looked through the expansive but weathered windows, taking in the view of the valley that, despite its name, shimmered in the soft pink rays of the setting sun. The lushness of the land was accentuated by the deep ash-colored mountains that encircled the valley, hence its name.
Lost in the beauty of nature's respite, grateful for a brief escape from his duties, Salazar's steps slowed, and his thoughts surrendered to the wonders beyond the glass. However, as he rounded a corner, his reverie was abruptly shattered by the sight of a handmaiden sprinting toward him. Her expression was a tapestry of shock and trepidation.
What was her name again? Salazar wondered, realizing she was a recent addition to the staff. Their workforce had been dwindling as the days grew longer and the labor harder. Thus, this particular handmaiden had been assigned to watch over the young master for the past few months.
Ah, yes, Rosalind, Salazar recalled as the girl approached, skidding to a halt before him. Her wide eyes and trembling voice betrayed her astonishment and anxiety.
"Mr. Salazar, there's something you should know," she said hesitantly.
"Speak, child. What is it? Do not fear any punishment; you have served the young master well these past few months. If there is anything you need—"
"Sir," Rosalind cut him off, visibly swallowing hard before continuing, "It's Vha… I mean, um… Lord Vhal, sir. He's… he's awake."
For a moment, Salazar stood frozen, disbelief washing over him. The words registered in his mind, but they seemed unreal.
The entire household had long since given up hope of the young master ever waking from the coma that had ensnared him after the assassination attempt—an outcome Salazar himself had reluctantly accepted. But now, the words spoken by the stuttering handmaiden suggested the impossible had become a reality.
Salazar cried out in dismay, "WHAT?" Then, with a mixture of shock and eagerness, he added, "Lead on, girl. Hurry, let's go."
His heart raced as he followed Rosalind through the winding corridors toward the chamber where the young master had been kept all these years. Flickers of hope danced within him, though he remained cautious, fearing what he might find. Perhaps the young master wasn't entirely in his right mind, or perhaps the handmaiden was spreading falsehoods.
But why would she lie? Salazar's mind buzzed with a whirlwind of thoughts.
As they turned another corner, they approached the chamber's ornate double doors, guarded by five steel-suited knights who appeared to be unaware of the news.
Salazar's steps grew heavier as he neared the threshold of the chamber—a room that had long been a somber mausoleum, a constant reminder of the family's enduring misfortune. Yet now, the possibility of change hung heavy in the air, a tantalizing breath of life.
With a deep breath, Salazar turned to Rosalind and issued a stern, whispered directive for her to tell no one of what had transpired and to remain on standby in her quarters. As the girl scurried away, he composed himself and turned to the five knights, who remained impassive. Salazar greeted them with a nod before pushing open the chamber doors and stepping inside, making sure to close them quickly.
With a soft clink, the doors shut behind him, and Salazar, with a mental command, silently erected a lesser barrier of soundproofing. Turning to face the room, he saw a sight he had never deemed possible.
There, sitting up in bed, was Lord Vhal Ashfell, the heir to the household and the sole legitimate child of the late and powerful Count. His gaze was fixed upon the window, his countenance etched with a grim determination.
Salazar observed as the young lord's head turned, acknowledging his presence. It was then that Salazar noticed a subtle yet profound change in Lord Vhal's demeanor.
His eyes seemed deeper, as if they held a weight of wisdom far beyond his years. There was an air of confidence, almost arrogance, but not quite, it was neither of these qualities; rather, it was an uncaring indifference, where uncertainty had once resided.
Just what had happened? Salazar wondered.
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Author's Note: Let the story begin...