"Young Albrecht," Vaeron said, not bothering with formal greetings.
"Still clinging to life, I see."
With Aldric's help, Caelan made his way behind the desk and lowered himself into the chair.
Every movement was a struggle, but he kept his expression neutral, neither showing weakness through pain nor strength through stoicism.
"Lord Fenn," Caelan replied, inclining his head slightly.
"Welcome to Albrecht Manor. What brings you to my home?"
Vaeron's eyes narrowed slightly. Perhaps he'd expected more fear, more grovelling.
Vaeron's mouth twisted in a cruel smile.
"Don't play ignorant, boy. I'm here for the overdue tribute. Three hundred gold sovereigns, as agreed upon when your father still lived."
"Agreed upon with a knife at his throat, as I recall," Caelan said mildly.
The room went silent.
The guards' hands moved to their sword hilts.
Vaeron's eyes narrowed dangerously.
A dangerous gambit, but calculated. Marcus had learned to read opponents—to find the line between provocation and challenge.
Vaeron was proud, used to deference. A small show of defiance would anger him without triggering immediate violence.
"Careful, boy," he growled.
"That frail body won't protect you from treason charges.
Your father learned the price of a loose tongue. Perhaps you need the same lesson."
One of the guards laughed. "Look at him, my lord. A strong wind would blow him over. I doubt he could even lift a sword, let alone use one."
The others joined in, openly mocking Caelan's frailty.
"Maybe he'll cough us to death," another said, prompting more laughter.
Caelan let them laugh. In this body, he was indeed weak.
But Marcus Chen had never relied on physical strength alone.
His greatest weapons had always been patience, observation, and the well-timed word.
Vaeron studied him, reassessing.
This wasn't the frightened, broken heir he'd expected to find.
There was something different in the boy's eyes—something older, colder, more calculating.
"I don't have three hundred gold sovereigns," Caelan said when their laughter died down.
Vaeron smiled unpleasantly. "Then we'll take payment in other forms. This desk, for instance. Good oak. And I see you still have some books left. The silver raven at your throat would cover a small portion."
"You seem eager to collect broken furniture and half-ruined books," Caelan observed.
"Hardly befitting a house of your... rising status."
Vaeron's smile vanished. "You're in no position to mock, Albrecht.
Look around you. Your house has fallen. Your father is dead. You're dying. And yet you still have the arrogance to act as if the Albrecht name means something."
"Names endure," Caelan said simply. "Even after everything else is gone."
"Not yours," Vaeron snapped.
"When you die—which will be soon, by the look of you—House Albrecht ends forever.
All its lands, titles, and holdings will be legally transferred to those who remained loyal to the crown."
Meaning House Fenn.
The plan was transparent: wait for Caelan to die, then claim everything.
The "tribute" was merely a way to accelerate the process, draining what little resources remained.
"I need time," Caelan said, allowing his voice to weaken slightly.
"The tribute... it's more than I can raise quickly."
He let his hands tremble, his shoulders slump—a calculated display of the weakness they expected. Vaeron watched with obvious satisfaction, believing he was witnessing the break he had come to see.
"You've had three months since the last collection."
"Most of which I spent too ill to leave my bed," Caelan countered.
"Unless you'd prefer I died before you could extract everything of value from what remains of House Albrecht?"
A tense silence followed. Vaeron's jaw worked as he considered his options.
"How much time?" Vaeron asked, almost lazily.
"One month," Caelan replied. "Give me one month to gather the funds."
"One month," Vaeron said finally.
"Not a day more. Three hundred gold sovereigns, or I'll take this manor stone by stone."
Vaeron stood, looming over the desk.
"Don't think your condition grants you special consideration, boy. Your family's crimes demand payment."
"Crimes never proven in any true court," Caelan noted quietly.
"Careful," Vaeron warned again. "You're alive by my mercy alone."
"Then I thank you for your mercy, Lord Fenn,"
Caelan replied, his tone making the words less grateful than challenge. "I'll see you in one month."
Vaeron's eyes narrowed at the tone.
"When I return, I'll bring enough men to carry away everything of value in this crumbling pile of stones. Including, perhaps, the last Albrecht—to answer for any unpaid debts."
"I look forward to your next visit," Caelan said with perfect politeness.
Vaeron stared at him for a long moment, then turned without another word, his guards falling in behind him.
Only when their footsteps faded completely did Caelan allow himself to sag in the chair, exhaustion washing over him.
The confrontation had drained what little strength he had.
"My lord!" Aldric hurried to his side.
"Are you well? I've never heard anyone speak to Lord Vaeron in such a manner."
"I'm fine, Aldric," Caelan said, though his voice betrayed his fatigue.
Caelan looked up at the loyal servant, seeing him with both sets of eyes—Caelan's familiar retainer and Marcus's potential asset.
"Things are changing, Aldric," he said quietly.
"I cannot afford to be the weak heir everyone expects."
"But your health—"
"Will improve," Caelan interrupted.
"It must. Help me back to my chambers. We have much to prepare, and only a month to do it."
With Aldric's help, Caelan made his slow way from the study to the great hall.
Once, this hall had hosted feasts for hundreds of nobles. Now it stood empty and neglected, dust gathering in corners, the grand fireplace cold and dark.
What remained, however, were the portraits. Generations of Albrecht lords and ladies lined the walls, their painted eyes seeming to follow Caelan as he moved across the hall.
Most valuable art had been seized, but these family likenesses had been deemed worthless by Fenn's looters.
As Aldric supported him through the hallways, Caelan's mind raced with possibilities. His body was weak, but his mind held two lifetimes of knowledge—one as a sickly noble, another as a master assassin.
In this world of nobles, magic, and ancient feuds, those skills might prove more valuable than physical strength.
House Fenn thought they faced a dying heir, the last ember of a once-great flame. They would soon discover that embers, properly nurtured, could ignite infernos.
No one would expect the frail Lord Albrecht to pose any real threat.
And that misperception would be their first and greatest weapon.
They passed the great hall, where portraits of Albrecht's ancestors lined the walls. Caelan's gaze locked on one particular portrait—his father, painted in healthier days, standing tall and proud beside the ancestral sword that had also been taken.
The artist had captured his strength, but also something else—a knowing look, as if he held secrets even the painter couldn't see.
"Stop," he commanded softly. Aldric halted, supporting him as Caelan studied the painting.
Something about his father's eyes caught his attention.
They were looking not at the painter, but slightly to the side—at the wall beside the portrait.
Caelan reached out, running his fingers along the ornate frame, then the wall next to it.
"My father commissioned this portrait three years ago," Caelan said, while running his fingers on the wall beside the ornate frame, "just before the accusations began."
"Yes, my lord," Aldric confirmed. "It was the last major artwork completed before..." He trailed off, not wanting to speak of the family's fall.
"Look at his eyes," Caelan said.
"They're not looking at the viewer. They're looking... there."
He pointed to the wall beside the portrait.
There—a small irregularity in the stonework. Caelan pressed against it and felt a subtle give.
"My lord?" Aldric questioned. "Is something wrong?"
"No," Caelan murmured. "Something's right. Help me press here, Aldric."
Aldric frowned. "I don't understand, my lord."
Together, they applied pressure to the spot. With a soft, grinding noise, a section of the wall swung inward, revealing darkness beyond.
"By all the gods," Aldric whispered. "A hidden passage! I never knew..."
Caelan stared into the darkness, feeling a strange mix of triumph and trepidation.
"Bring a torch, Aldric. It seems my father left me more than just a ruined name." Excitement giving him renewed strength.
"Quickly."
While Aldric fetched light, Caelan examined the hidden door. Cleverly made, invisible unless you knew exactly where to look.
His father had known they would come for him eventually. He had prepared.
Aldric returned with a torch, its light pushing back the darkness to reveal a small chamber beyond the door.
Inside were shelves lined with books and scrolls, small chests, and hanging on the far wall, a sword—not the ceremonial blade taken by Fenn's men, but an older, plainer weapon that would have seemed worthless to looters.
"Lord Magnus must have hidden these when the accusations began," Aldric said in awe.
"Items too important to risk being seized."
Caelan nodded, eyes moving from shelf to shelf. This wasn't just a random collection of valuables. This was knowledge.
History. Strategy. Family secrets that had been preserved, waiting for a time of need.
"They think they've won," Caelan said softly, one hand reaching out to touch a leather-bound book bearing the Albrecht raven seal.
"They're wrong."
In this hidden chamber lay hope—not just for survival, but for revenge. Knowledge that had been preserved through generations, now in the hands of someone with the mind of an assassin and the blood of Albrecht.
Lord Vaeron Fenn believed he faced a dying boy with no strength and no future.
He would learn, too late, that he faced something far more dangerous: a predator in prey's clothing, an ancient house with secrets yet unplumbed, and a legacy that refused to die.
"My lord?" Aldric looked concerned.
"What will you do now?"
Caelan turned to him, and for the first time since awakening in this frail body, he smiled - a cold, determined expression that transformed his sickly features into something dangerous.
"Now, Aldric, we begin to rebuild. Not just restore, but remake House Albrecht into something our enemies could never imagine. And when we're done, they'll learn what my father always said."
"What is that, my lord?"
The raven would rise again. And this time, it would not be silenced.