The following day passed with the usual sluggishness in Valenford Castle. Astor kept his routine unchanged, spending hours in the training yard enduring the jeers and taunts of the soldiers. Every clumsy arrow he loosed was part of his facade. While the others laughed, he counted the minutes in his mind. Only a few days remained before his escape.
In the evening, he attended dinner with the same submissive air as always. He avoided his mother's gaze and Edmund's jabs, responding with strategic silences and fleeting smiles. It was a dance he knew well, a game he had to play until the very end.
However, on the night before his planned escape, Valenford Castle was cloaked in a heavy silence. The hallways, usually teeming with activity, were eerily quiet, and the candlelight was dim, as if the world itself knew that death loomed over the household. Lord Valenford's health had deteriorated severely, and the duke was on the verge of taking his last breath.
When Astor received the news that his father wanted to see him one final time, something tightened in his chest. It wasn't fear but an anticipatory sadness, a pain he had been avoiding. He knew that leaving the castle would mark the end of many things, but seeing his father on his deathbed brought an emotional weight he couldn't ignore.
As he entered the dimly lit room, the first thing he noticed was the silence. The curtains were drawn, and the air was dense and warm. Lord Valenford lay in bed, his frail figure barely visible beneath the blankets. He seemed even more fragile than usual. The illness had ravaged his body, reducing him to less than half of what he once was. Yet, when his eyes opened at the sound of Astor's arrival, there was still a spark of life in them.
"Astor…" His father's voice was weak, barely a whisper. "Come closer."
Astor approached slowly, a strange mix of nervousness and respect coursing through him. He sat on a chair by the bedside, taking his father's bony hand in his own. Lord Valenford's skin was cold, but the grip of his fingers still retained some strength. Astor's heart pounded in his chest, anticipating what was to come.
"Father," he said softly, an unusual gentleness in his tone. "I'm here."
Lord Valenford looked at him, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. In his father's eyes, Astor saw something that completely disarmed him: a genuine glimmer of pride, something he had never expected.
"I have always… been proud of you, Astor," his father whispered, his weak yet sincere smile breaking through. "No matter… how many laugh at you. No matter… what others think. You… can carry the Valenford name with pride."
Astor felt something inside him shatter. His father's words pierced through all the layers he had built over the years. He had spent his entire life convinced that his father considered him a disappointment, a second son destined for mediocrity. But here, in this final moment, his father revealed something Astor had never perceived: a silent approval that had always been there.
"Father, I…" He tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come. Tears began to well in his eyes, something he had never allowed himself to show anyone. For the first time in his life, he felt he had failed—not in meeting others' expectations but in showing his father who he truly was.
"You've done… the best you could," the old man murmured, a tired smile on his lips. "Never… forget that."
Astor, unable to hold back the tears, let them flow freely down his face. He had always pretended to be useless to survive, to avoid inciting envy or hatred from his mother and brother. But in that moment, before his dying father, all his efforts to remain hidden felt like a betrayal. He had never shown his best self, never made his father truly proud. He had been too busy protecting himself from others, and now, it was too late to change that.
"I'm sorry, Father," he whispered, lowering his head. "I'm sorry for being a coward."
The old man squeezed his hand with the little strength he had left and closed his eyes, his breathing slowing.
"Don't… apologize. I… already know," he whispered again, his voice growing fainter. "Before… I go… you must know… I was poisoned by someone in this house… so please, be careful. Beware of… cough cough Solarius."
Astor remained silent, holding his father's hand as he felt the life gradually fade from him, unsure of how to respond. Moments later, Lord Valenford began to cough uncontrollably, forcing the physicians to enter. Astor stayed a while longer, alone, letting the pain wash over him completely. And so, in silence, Lord Valenford exhaled his final breath.
That night, his mother, Lady Eleonor, hosted a dinner with all the family members, where she announced her husband's death and Edmund's ascension to head of the family. Every branch of the family attended, except for Astor—he alone did not join the gathering. He doubted he could maintain his act of incompetence while watching them celebrate his father's death as if it were a blessing. For that reason, he chose to spend the night alone.
Astor remained in the dimness of his room, his head resting against the cold stone wall. The weight of his father's words crushed him, intertwining with the revelation of the poisoning. Someone in his own house had murdered him. The news had pierced through his defenses like a sharp arrow. It was a devastating truth that lodged itself in his chest, and no matter how he tried to unravel the possibilities, all paths led to his brother and mother. The name "Solarius" resurfaced—he had overheard his mother mention that this man would help Edmund wed the Lady of the Marsh. Did this mean Solarius had also helped secure Edmund's position as head of the family? Astor had too many questions.
He forced himself to remain calm. "Who could it have been? Edmund? My mother? Solarius?" he thought, but the idea tormented him. He had always known his family was capable of terrible things, but this… this was different. Killing the patriarch of the Valenford family was not only an act of treachery but also a declaration of internal war. Astor wondered if they were capable of such extremes just to seize control.
For years, he had perfected his mask of uselessness, maintaining it with such discipline that his brother and mother believed him harmless. He had learned to be invisible, to move in the shadows without leaving a trace. However, the certainty of his father's poisoning made him question whether this facade would still suffice. "If they already killed my father… why wouldn't they come after me?" he thought.
His first impulse was to flee, as he had planned. To escape the intrigues and survive in anonymity. But the idea of leaving his father's murder unanswered and without justice gnawed at his soul.
He placed a hand over his face and exhaled slowly, as if releasing that breath could expel the anger consuming him. Disappointment and sorrow were intertwined in an impossible knot. He had thought he would leave without looking back, that mourning his father would be a simple matter. But now, everything had changed.
For the first time, he allowed his sadness to take a clear form. He had not only lost his father but also the opportunity to show him who he truly was. Lord Valenford's final smile, filled with pride, had created a wound in Astor, who had lived lying to him.
Astor rose slowly and walked to the window, where the castle's shadows stretched into the night. The tribute dinner was underway in the grand hall. From there, he could hear the laughter and chatter of the guests, celebrating Edmund's rise, indifferent to his father's death. The scene was a mockery, and Astor felt disdain rise in his throat.
"I won't give them the satisfaction of seeing me leave as a coward," he murmured, clenching his fists.
The escape plan he had so meticulously crafted crumbled in that instant. He would not leave—not until he uncovered who had poisoned his father. His departure was canceled. Now, he needed to uncover the hidden motivations behind every smile, the conspiracies woven in the shadows of House Valenford.
"If someone here dared to kill the duke… I will have no hesitation in ending them, whether it's my brother, mother, or anyone else," he vowed quietly.
The next morning, his mask would remain intact. He would continue to play the role of the clumsy, clueless Astor, while every glance, every gesture, and every conversation would serve as clues to unravel the mystery. His bow would no longer be just a tool for secret training but a lethal weapon in the hands of the underestimated son.
Astor gazed at the horizon through the window, as if searching for strength in the distance. He knew that playing this new game would come at a cost, but he was willing to pay it. This time, he wouldn't hide out of fear; he would hide to hunt. And when he found who had killed his father, he would show no mercy.
"I'm staying," he whispered, almost as a promise. "I won't rest until I find the culprit."