The hallway outside Michael's room was long, dark, and cold. The obsidian walls swallowed the light. One by one, torches flickered to life, casting a soft golden glow that couldn't quite chase away the shadows.
Inside the room, Sir Paul Luminath sat quietly in a chair by the fireplace. His eyes rested on the broken door—split in half from earlier. The scent of burnt wood still lingered in the air. He rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, calm but alert.
Just outside, Michael sat on the stone ledge of the window, staring into the night. The wind tousled his dark hair as he looked out at the Dark Mysterious Forest. He didn't blink. He barely breathed.
Below, he watched two figures walk the path toward the castle: his uncle Benjamin and his younger brother Samuel. The pair slowly disappeared into the distance, swallowed by the mist.
Torches continued lighting up along the castle walls. The golden glow pushed back the night, but shadows danced everywhere. The castle was waking up—but something about the evening still felt off.
Michael's eyes moved to the strange apple tree near the forest's edge. Its thick, twisted roots gripped the ground like claws. The bark looked cracked and worn—almost like a face was carved into it. Hollow eyes. A mouth open in silent pain. The branches reached into the sky like it was begging.
It looked less like a tree and more like something that used to be alive.
A shiver ran down Michael's spine.
Back inside, Paul watched him carefully. He had orders: don't leave Michael's side—not after the assassin tried to poison him earlier. She was a castle maid, now missing. No one knew where she went.
Outside, fog crept around the tree's roots and slowly slithered toward the castle.
Michael narrowed his eyes.
The torches flickered again. Night was fully here.
Something moved in the forest.
Michael turned and met Paul's gaze. The old knight didn't say anything. He just watched.
Without a word, Michael swung himself back through the window and into the hallway. His boots landed softly on the cold stone floor. He walked into his room, passing Paul, who remained seated.
Michael didn't speak. He walked to the table and poured two cups of tea from the pot sitting there. Then, finally, he broke the silence.
"Hey, old man. I need your thoughts on something."
Paul raised an eyebrow.
Michael picked up the two cups and handed one to him.
Paul accepted it. "This better not be one of your wild theories again."
Michael shrugged. "No promises."
He walked back to the table and sat, holding his own cup. He didn't drink. He just let the warmth settle in his hands.
"Remember how I said something felt off about the assassin?" Michael asked.
Paul nodded slowly. "Yeah. What about her? She came to kill you. Found her chance. Took it."
Michael leaned forward, excited. "But why didn't she strike sooner? She had, like, eleven chances before she actually tried. Why wait until the twelfth?"
Paul gave him a tired look. "Maybe she was building suspense. Or maybe she just got sick of listening to you talk."
Michael grinned. "See? I thought the same thing. You're smarter than you look, old man."
Paul deadpanned. "And you're more annoying than you look."
Michael laughed and set his cup down. "But seriously, if she was really here just to kill me, she would've done it earlier. No hesitation. So that tells me killing me wasn't the real mission."
Paul sighed. "So now what? She's an artist who likes dramatic timing?"
"No," Michael said, eyes gleaming. "I think I annoyed her so much that she snapped and improvised. Killing me wasn't part of the plan at first. Which means—she's not alone."
Paul groaned and rubbed his temple. "Here we go…"
"She has an accomplice. Someone inside the castle," Michael said. "Think about it—she didn't escape through the front gates, right? No one saw her leave. So where is she?"
Paul frowned.
Michael pointed at the floor. "She's still here. Somewhere in this castle. But you can't hide in a place like this without help."
Paul muttered, "Maybe she's hiding under your ego."
Michael ignored him. "She had help. Someone covered for her. Someone else is involved."
Paul leaned back, exasperated. "You spend more time making up stories than training. If you put half that effort into swordsmanship—"
"I'd be perfect," Michael finished, smirking. "But where's the fun in that?"
Paul gave him a flat stare. "You're impossible."
"I know," Michael said proudly.
Then something changed.
Paul blinked. His vision blurred. A strange dizziness hit him like a wave. He tried to sit up straighter—but his body didn't listen. His teacup slipped a little in his hand.
And then…
He heard Michael's voice—inside his mind.
"Old man… after all these years, you still trust me? How naïve. Don't drink anything I give you."
Paul's heart skipped.
He looked at Michael with wide, betrayed eyes. "You…"
His words never came.
The teacup slipped from his hand.
His body slumped back into the chair.
Darkness claimed him.
Michael reached out and caught the falling cup just before it shattered on the floor. He studied the sleeping knight for a moment, then whispered with a small, almost apologetic smile:
"Sorry, old man... but tonight, I need my freedom."
He set the cup down gently.
And with that, he turned toward the door—free at last.