The night was unnaturally still. The soft flickering of candlelight barely illuminated the grand halls of the Von estate as the storm raged outside. Rain pelted against the windows, and a distant rumble of thunder rolled through the sky. Alastor stirred in his bed, his breathing uneven, his body drenched in cold sweat.
His dreams had been a haunting whirlwind of darkness. He saw broken wings, feathers scattered across the void, dripping with something darker than blood. The echo of whispers clawed at his mind, their words unintelligible yet heavy with grief. A sharp pain stabbed through his chest, forcing him to awaken with a start.
A deafening clap of thunder split the heavens at the exact moment his eyes snapped open. His body trembled, his breath labored as he tried to calm himself. The remnants of the nightmare still clung to him like a suffocating shroud.
"What… was that?" he murmured to himself, his hand clutching his chest. He could still feel the ghostly sensation of something being torn away from him.
Sleep eluded him now. He sighed and ran a hand through his damp hair, deciding it was pointless to remain in bed. Instead, he rose and wrapped himself in a robe before quietly leaving his chambers. The grand corridors of the Von estate stretched before him, silent and serene.
He found his way to the library, his sanctuary. The scent of aged parchment and ink was oddly soothing. Pulling a book from the shelves, he settled into a chair, hoping to distract himself from the unease gnawing at his thoughts.
Then—a flicker of movement.
Instinct screamed at him. Without thinking, Alastor threw himself to the side just as a dagger whizzed past where his head had been mere moments ago. It embedded itself into the wooden shelf behind him with a dull thud.
Adrenaline surged through his veins.
He sprang to his feet, eyes scanning the shadows of the library. The candlelight flickered violently, disturbed by the sudden movement of an unseen assailant.
Someone was here.
And they intended to kill him.
A second attack came, faster this time—a blade cutting through the dim light, aimed straight for his throat. Alastor barely managed to twist his body, dodging by a hair's breadth. The steel gleamed ominously as it slashed through the empty air where his neck had been.
He reacted on pure instinct. His hand shot out, grabbing the nearest weapon available—a decorative dagger from the library's display case.
From the shadows, his attacker emerged—a cloaked figure, their face concealed beneath a dark mask. The glint of their twin daggers betrayed their deadly intent.
Alastor tightened his grip on the dagger. His heart pounded, but his stance remained firm.
"Who sent you?" he demanded.
The assassin said nothing. Instead, they lunged forward again.