Little Fang

Michael strolled through the dim corridor, boots silent against the cold stone. Every hallway in the ancient Blood Keep looked the same once the moon rose—shadowed, endless, and heavy with the weight of centuries. But to someone born within these walls, finding his way in the dark was as easy as breathing. Especially here, near the old prison.

Back when he was seven—or maybe eight—he used to hide here after doing what the castle staff had dubbed "a classic Michael thing." That usually meant some noble act of chaos disguised as innocent mischief—like swapping the castle's sacred relic with a carved turnip, or convincing a dozen servants that the west wing was haunted by a headless bard named Larry.

When Lady Jane, his mother, inevitably came storming after him—her voice ringing through the halls like divine judgment—Michael always slipped into the one place no one dared to search.

The prison.

No sane person expected the heir of Centarious Castle to be hiding among murderers, traitors, and war criminals. Which, in Michael's mind, made it the perfect hiding spot.

He used to trick old Soloman the gatekeeper and bribe the guards watching the cell gates—sneaking in like a shadow slipping through cracks.

Oddly enough, it became more than just a hiding place.

Back then, his only real friends were the criminals behind rusted iron bars. Lonely men with dangerous eyes and sharper tongues—yet eager to talk. Eager to be heard. Michael brought them chocolates and stolen pastries in exchange for stories—bloody tales of rebellion, daring escapes, forbidden magic, and broken empires. He hung on every word like a wide-eyed scribe, ignoring the fact that most of them were probably exaggerating. Or lying.

Did it matter? Not really. Those stories were the first sparks of freedom he ever tasted.

That's when he decided he didn't want to become like his father—a man bound by duty, war, and blood. Michael just wanted to be free.

Then his mother fell ill. The disease took her quickly. And Michael stopped visiting the prison—not because he feared it, but because, strangely, there was no longer anyone to hide from.

A faint smile tugged at his lips. The kind that flickers and fades before it ever fully forms.

"The mist's affecting me," he murmured.

The forest mist wasn't dangerous, not exactly—but it did change people. It stirred old emotions, turned thoughts to ash or ice. Some in his family had seen visions trapped in that glittering fog—fragments of futures, or ghosts of the past. Even Michael once saw something, though he still wasn't sure if it had already happened or hadn't yet come to pass.

It was during training with Paul and his son Jonathan Luminath—Jonathan, who was around his age—just after Michael broke the first seal and became a Sky Walker. That was when he saw it.

A massive apple tree, standing in the snow before the edge of the mysterious forest—its branches burning with fire. Flames dancing where fruit should be.

He never told anyone about it. The image haunted him. So he buried it.

"Focus," he whispered, forcing the memory away. He turned his thoughts to the prison and the voices that once echoed there.

"Damn," he muttered. "I really did bribe a serial arsonist with éclairs once."

After the faint smile faded from his lips, Michael continued down the corridor, the silence broken only by the soft scuff of his boots. The walls were faintly illuminated by embedded mana crystals that pulsed with a dull, bluish glow—just enough to hold the shadows back, but never enough to banish them completely.

When he reached the end of the hall, he paused. Glancing over his shoulder, he scanned the passage behind him. The Blood Keep was old, older than any living memory—and its walls, some said, still listened. Satisfied that he was alone, he turned left into a narrower corridor—a passage few dared walk without purpose—and followed it until it dead-ended at a forgotten staircase.

Here, the light gave out entirely. No mana crystals. No glow. Just darkness, thick as fog and just as heavy.

He squinted into the gloom and spotted a lantern hanging crookedly from a rusted hook. Reaching out, his fingers brushed the metal—and recoiled.

Hot.

Michael blinked, then stared at the lantern. Slowly, his lips curled into a familiar smirk, and a soft chuckle escaped before he could stop it.

"Well, well," he murmured, voice laced with amusement. "Hot to the touch. Someone's already gone down... I'd wager my next midnight escape it's my lovely maid."

This time he gripped the handle, opened the glass panel, and lit the wick. A warm flame flickered to life, casting long, twitching shadows along the stone walls.

Still smiling, he descended the staircase, the lantern swinging gently in hand. The firelight danced in his red eyes like a promise.

…

After searching the entire prison—twice—Michael leaned against the cold wall, his face twisting into a frustrated grimace.

"Empty cells and wasted time," he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. "This is why I don't trust logic. It always ends up feeling like betrayal."

He stood in the center of the long, dark corridor, surrounded by rusted bars and old silence. At the far end stood a black stone wall, crowned by a single golden light—its glow soft and strange in the gloom, like an ember refusing to die.

He paused, lantern in hand, and began walking toward it.

On either side stretched rows of cells—cold, rusted, forgotten. Most were empty, shadows clinging to the corners like cobwebs. But not all were silent. Somewhere down the hall, something shifted. The air changed, the silence deepened.

Michael stopped beside one of the middle cells and turned toward the wall between two barred doors. He knelt and gently placed the lantern on the ground, its light spilling across the stone like liquid gold.

If Joan wasn't here, then where?

The guards had already searched every wing. He had personally checked the ancient chambers, even the cursed ones locked by old Centarious rites. And old Soloman, ever loyal, had told him that a knight had passed through nearly an hour earlier—entered the prison and then left again.

Michael had assumed the knight was helping her. It made sense. Too much sense.

But now?

Now the logic he trusted felt like a thread unraveling in his hands.

He stared at the cell wall in front of him, frustration simmering just beneath the surface.

"I can't be this wrong…" he whispered. "Someone definitely helped her."

His voice echoed softly between the stone and iron.

And then—

Snap.

Like a string breaking, the anxiety vanished. The tension in his chest dissolved. His mind, once a storm, became still.

Too still.

Michael blinked, frowned, then narrowed his eyes.

"…Stay out of my head, old man."

A raspy chuckle echoed from a nearby cell. "Ah, there he is. Still as dramatic as ever, Little Fang."

Michael turned sharply, a smirk already tugging at his lips.

"I was having a perfectly good breakdown, thank you very much," he called out. "You didn't have to go all mystic mind-whisperer on me."

"Your thoughts were loud enough to rattle the dead," the voice replied. "Had to quiet them before you exploded all over the walls."

Michael rolled his eyes, stepping toward the cell. "How touching. You always were good at fixing things no one asked you to touch."

"And you're still good at being a royal pain with a pretty face."

He stopped at the bars, peering inside. "Still breathing, huh? I was hoping you'd be a ghost by now. Would've been less annoying."

"I'm flattered," the old man said dryly. "Your insults are practically hugs."

Michael crossed his arms, leaning casually against the cell door. "So… what are you doing down here? Still hiding from your past or just waiting for mine to catch up?"

"Bit of both," the old man said, voice softer now. "But I wasn't expecting you tonight, lad."

Michael shrugged. "Neither was I. Thought I was hunting a traitor. Turns out, I might've just been chasing shadows."

"Hmm." The old man leaned forward from the shadows, his eyes faintly glowing. "Or maybe the shadows are chasing you."

Michael shrugged.

Michael's grin returned, sharper now.

"If they are, they're in for a surprise. And since you already dug around in my head—you know what I'm after."

He tilted his head, voice lower.

"So where do I go next, old man?"