In a black obsidian castle, servants scurried around, hurrying to decorate its grey walls and pillars.A seemingly ten-year-old boy was hopping around between impatient servants, curiously observing as curtains of flowers were being woven around the whole castle.
"Young master, YOUNG MASTER — JACK!"
At the sound of a familiar voice, Jack halted, giving a curious glance around before spotting a familiar face.
A man in a black tailcoat stood behind him — his sharp face adorned with some wrinkles. He had sleek black hair and brown eyes.
"Young master, let's go and get ready. You don't want to be late, right?"
"Of course, Uncle John. Only lazy boys go late, and Mom says I'm not lazy,"the small boy replied with wide eyes and a puffed-up chest, as John the butler held his hand and led young Jack toward his room.
"Uncle, what's the Great New Year Festival? Why is it different from the last New Year ?"Jack asked as he glanced around.
"Ohhh, the Great New Year symbolizes the ten-year cycle of the Cokaka Tree.It's the tree that helped our ancestors survive in the Azure Forest.This tree only lives for ten years, and then a new sapling is born from the roots of the old tree.In short, today we celebrate the birth of a new generation Cokaka Tree."
"Ohhh... but where's the Cokaka sapling? And how did it help us back then? Did they eat it? Was it tasty?"
John got busy readying his young master while answering his endless string of questions, promising him that a great and lavish festival awaited if he just stayed still for a few moments.
But when they returned to the same corridor, what greeted them sent shivers down their spines.
John and a few maids were escorting the now royally dressed Jack down the corridor toward the open garden where the festival was to be held.
John, the butler of the Ignis Duchy and of noble birth, was the first to notice something amiss.The corridor seemed strangely silent. The garden was just a few turns away, but there were no sounds of singing, laughing, or chattering guests.He saw no maids or guards on the way either.
Trusting his lifelong experience, John held Jack's hand firmly, preventing the jolly child from running ahead.
By the time the maids noticed his frown and serious expression, one of them asked,"Sir John, what's wrong? Why is it so quiet all of a sudden?"
Just then, they heard a distant sound of heavy steps growing closer.
John didn't answer. He just waited there, his grip on Jack's hand growing tighter.But the footsteps soon faded, and silence once again shrouded their ears.
John hesitated for a few moments, then decided to take a look at the garden first.
Upon arriving, what they saw blew their minds. They started questioning reality.One of the maids screamed at the top of her lungs.
As a result, John finally woke from the shock — reality sinking in as his hands shot forward, grabbing Jack and trying to block his eyes. But alas, it was too late.
The ten-year-old was staring in front, shell-shocked. His eyes had lost focus, his body unmoving.
Before him lay a garden of flowers with a beautiful fountain in the center.A statue of a knight stood tall, his sword drawn toward the sky, a jet of water shooting from its tip and filling the pond below.It was a beautiful marvel of art — but now, the pond was littered with bodies and severed limbs.The water had taken on a red hue.
The entire garden resembled a scene from a nightmare.People were sprawled across the ground. The lucky ones had died on the spot.A few unfortunate souls bled out slowly from their wounds and empty stumps.One unlucky man was holding his stomach, trying to stop his intestines from spilling out.He started crawling toward John and his group when he saw them, his mouth moving — but no sound reached their ears.
Not only him — all the people who were barely alive were screaming, but none of their voices could be heard.
The air was unnaturally still.
A shimmer clung to the walls, like heat haze—but colder. Silentia Mors. A forbidden spell. It devoured all sound within its range—cries, footsteps, even the clash of steel. Nothing passed through its cursed veil.
John knew it. He had seen it used once, long ago, on a battlefield where no one died with a voice.
He scooped the unmoving child into his arms and ran the way they had come. He discarded the still-shocked maid, ignored the hopeful eyes of people still clinging to life, and ran with the child in hand—his breath silent, his footsteps vanishing into the spell's heavy hush.
He soon reached Jack's room. He still held on to Jack, tighter than ever, as footsteps echoed outside.Kicking the wooden bed aside, he crawled into the narrow hidden passage below as fast as possible.
A loud bang echoed in his ears.
The door has been destroyed — the thought crossed his mind as he desperately crawled through the passage, the child still in his arms.
They finally reached the end of the corridor, where a wooden surface blocked any way forward.John mustered all his strength and pushed the wooden wall with one hand — the other still clinging to the strangely silent child.
In one of the lavish chambers of the obsidian castle, warm candlelight flickered gently, casting golden glows upon the polished marble walls and velvet curtains. The scent of lavender oils and blooming petals filled the air. At the center of the room, seated before an ornate silver-framed mirror, was a woman of ethereal beauty.
Duchess Elena.
Her skin was alabaster pale, flawless as porcelain, and her long silver hair cascaded like moonlight down her back. Five maids bustled around her, carefully adorning her in a flowing crimson gown embroidered with gold threads, pinning delicate jewels to her ears, and braiding her silken hair with fine silver ribbons.
"Your Grace," one of the maids said with a soft smile, "You'll outshine the stars tonight."
Elena gave a gentle chuckle, her violet eyes flicking toward the mirror. "That would be fitting… for the Great New Year, wouldn't it?"
But before the laughter could settle, a violent crash shattered the calm.
The chamber door burst open.
Wood splinters flew across the room as a group of armed men stormed in. They wore black leather armor—like that of the Ignis Duchy soldiers—but it was off. The cut was wrong, the insignia missing, and their movements lacked the practiced precision of her own personal guards.
One stepped forward—a tall man with narrow eyes and a rehearsed urgency in his tone.
"Your Grace," he said, bowing stiffly. "The estate is under attack. Assassins struck during the festival. The Duke sent us to bring you to safety. Your son is already being moved—we're to reunite you with him."
Elena's expression barely changed. Just a soft breath, her gaze flickering briefly over the uniforms again.
"Oh?" she said gently, brows knitting just slightly in concern. "I hadn't heard anything from my captain… He would normally inform me directly in such a case. Is Captain Renard not accompanying you?"
A pause. Just half a second too long.
"He was... engaged elsewhere," the man replied.
"Mmm," she murmured, turning as if considering. "That does sound like Renard—always too eager to throw himself into danger." Her smile was faint, polite. "And the Duke? Did he send word through the usual channel? I've received no messenger."
"We had no time for couriers. The Duke ordered haste."
She nodded slowly, like she accepted the answer—but didn't move. Her voice dropped, soft and conversational.
"You understand, I must ask these things. This castle has many enemies. You can never be too careful."
The leader's eyes darkened.
"You ask too many questions, my lady."
"I ask because I must," she replied, voice calm and steady. "This castle has many enemies. You understand, I'm sure."
And that was when the pretense shattered.
The leader's hand shot forward.
"Take her."
The maids moved instantly, flinging themselves in front of her. Flesh met steel. Screams tore through the corridor as they were cut down—one by one—buying mere seconds with their lives.
The lead infiltrator reached her, yanked her by the hair. She struggled, snarling, but he hissed close to her ear, "Don't make this harder than it has to be. You're coming with us—alive, preferably."
He hesitated. His grip was rough, but the killing intent wasn't there—not yet. He needed her breathing.
She felt it.
And acted.
In one swift motion, her hand lashed out, a concealed dagger flashing. The blade buried itself in his chest. He staggered, gasping, stumbling back.
She turned to run.
But another attacker was waiting. Silent. Ready.
His sword tore through her as if through paper. She choked, a red mist bursting from her lips.
He leaned in, voice cold and matter-of-fact.
"Our mission was to secure a hostage, if possible. You've sealed your own fate, Your Grace."
She stumbled back, blood gushing from her wound, staining the marble beneath her feet. Yet she did not fall—not yet. She turned, staggering, pressing herself against the tall wooden cupboard behind her, refusing to drop.
The intruders approached carefully now—she had already killed one of them. Her silver hair, damp with blood, clung to her face. Her breathing came in short gasps. But her eyes still burned—not with fear, but with fury and heartbreak.
Then, behind her, something shifted.
A creak.
The cupboard tilted and crashed forward, revealing a narrow hollow in the wall behind.
From the shadows emerged a figure—dusty, bruised, staggering.
"John…" Elena breathed.
The butler stumbled forward, clutching a child in his arms. A boy. Pale, unmoving, his eyes wide and lost.
"Jack…"
Time froze.
Mother and son locked eyes across the battlefield of blood and broken bodies. His gaze held fear, confusion, and unbearable grief.
She opened her mouth to speak. To comfort him. To say one last thing.
But fate would not wait.
A final blade struck from behind, bursting through her chest with merciless force.
This time, there was no resistance. No last strike. Only red.
Even as her body jolted, her eyes never left Jack's.
Then… the light in them faded.
She collapsed, silver hair fanning out in a pool of blood, her hand twitching once before falling still.
John stood frozen for a heartbeat—then tightened his grip around the child as Jack screamed, a raw sound of unbearable loss.
But the castle, thick with stone and death, gave no answer.
Only silence.