CHAPTER FOUR: ASHES IN THE WIND

The chapel sat atop Hallowind Rise, a solitary crown of silver stone and blue stained glass that glimmered dully under a sky veiled in iron clouds. The hill was quiet—unnaturally so. No birds called. No breeze whispered. Only the muffled scrape of polished shoes on gravel broke the silence, as if nature itself dared not speak on this day. The air was thick with damp and memory, each breath laced with the chill of something final.

Dominic stood beneath the chapel's arched canopy, still as a sculpture carved from grief and fury. He wore black—not the ceremonial black of tradition, but the matte black of silence, of defiance. His coat was tailored, his gloves pristine, his collar stiff. Not a wrinkle betrayed him. Not a word left his lips.

He hadn't said a thing since stepping out of the transport. He hadn't needed to.

Everyone else filled the silence.

Murmured condolences floated past him like smoke—insubstantial, dissipating before they touched anything real. "So sorry for your loss." "They were pillars of the community." "If you need anything…" The words rang hollow, polished smooth by repetition and political instinct.

They didn't speak to him. They performed near him.

Relatives he hadn't seen in years, if ever, emerged from ancestral woodwork. They drifted through the fog like moths toward a flame—drawn not by grief, but by opportunity. A pair of "great-aunts" supposedly he'd only met once, a "cousin" who'd "sent" a birthday message three years ago, an "uncle" who never returned his father's calls. They hovered just close enough to be noticed, not close enough to truly grieve. Their eyes were already scanning—cataloguing assets, titles, estates.

The caskets were closed.

That fact alone was a scream muffled in velvet.

No cause of death was listed. No photos displayed. No speeches mentioned "how" or "why." Not even the eulogy dared brush against the truth. The press had been barred by injunctions signed in midnight ink. The guest list was curated like a gallery exhibit: select officials, minor nobility, a few foreign diplomats, and functionaries from ministries Dominic didn't trust.

Too many strangers. Too few friends. Too much control.

They stood in marble rows, their expressions carved into mask-like sympathy. The scent of rain and perfume hung over the field like incense, masking something sour beneath.

And they watched him.

Not with compassion—but with interest.

The man giving the eulogy was from the Ministry of Heritage. Dominic didn't catch his name—only that he had a face like wet chalk and a voice too smooth, like he was reciting a textbook. He mispronounced Dominic's father's name three times, then referred to the Manon family legacy as "notable, if historically under-leveraged."

Dominic didn't blink.

Didn't correct him.

But his knuckles whitened around the edge of the pew, the leather of his gloves creaking faintly.

The burial followed. Efficient. Sterile.

One by one, the caskets were lowered into consecrated soil that Dominic used to race across with his sister during summer picnics. Now the same grass swallowed them whole. No music. No final words. Just the sound of earth accepting its due.

Dominic watched, unmoving.

He had no tears left for strangers' performances.

When the ceremony ended, the guests dispersed like mist under morning sun—quick, quiet, and disinterested. A few paused to offer lingering nods. A woman with grey gloves approached him last, her smile pressed flat like a stamp. She bowed at the neck, not the waist.

"They left the world with dignity," she whispered, before retreating.

Dominic smiled back.

A hollow, perfect smile.

But inside, something cracked.

Dignity?

His mother's hand hadn't been dignified when he found it—bloodied, scorched, curled inward as if shielding something or someone. His little sister's—June favorite necklace—a small locket—had been gone leaving Jane's found on the grass. His father's monocle was shattered in a pattern too precise for accident. The servants' faces had told stories that no coroner would dare write down.

There had been nothing dignified in that room.

Only horror.

Only silence.

Dominic turned from the crowd and drifted toward the edge of the chapel grounds, each step a departure from pageantry and a return to memory. The groundskeeper's shed still stood by the hill's curve—weathered, small, forgotten. Behind it loomed an old beech tree, bark marked with carvings and age.

He remembered that tree.

He and his sisters used to hide there, away from tutors and diplomatic lessons.

He'd once carved his initials into the trunk—D.M., shallow but defiant.

He rounded the corner and nearly collided with someone.

The old man blinked up at him, startled—then softened. Wrinkled skin, faded uniform, eyes that had seen too much and remembered more.

"Elias…" Dominic breathed.

Elias. Groundskeeper. Loyal. Quiet. One of the few who'd never treated him like a glass heirloom.

"Master Dominic…" The old man's voice trembled like a loose hinge.

They embraced briefly, awkwardly. Elias smelled of mulch and memories. When they pulled apart, his gaze swept the grounds—nervous, flickering.

"You shouldn't linger here," Elias murmured, voice barely audible over the wind. "Not alone."

"Why?" Dominic asked, already knowing.

But Elias was looking past him now.

Dominic turned.

An official in a grey coat approached—hair neat, badge gleaming on his lapel, expression devoid of humanity.

"Mr. Manon," the man said. "Your transport's waiting. We've arranged temporary residence at the Camber District safehouse."

"I didn't agree to that," Dominic replied flatly.

"It's standard protocol."

A pause.

Then Elias, already backing into the shadows of the shed, mouthed something.

They're watching.

The Camber District safehouse was a sterilized cube pretending to be a home.

It looked like a hotel suite—modern, expensive, lifeless. The furniture was soft but uninviting. The lights adjusted to his presence. The walls smelled faintly of lavender-scented sterility.

He stood still at the threshold.

A smooth voice chimed through the ceiling. "Welcome, Mr. Manon. Camber Residence 7 is pre-authorized for executive-level temporary detainment. Tea?"

Dominic said nothing for moment.

Yes.

The security voice at first interpreted silence as decline.

On it way sir.

He waited. Not for comfort—but for the sensor sweep to complete. When the gentle pulses from the hallway faded, he moved quickly. From his coat he pulled a small blackout patch—a disc of adaptive tech he'd designed himself during one of many restless nights.

Before he could do anything, he heard a knock.

Who is it?

Your tea sir. The assistant chimed.

He strutted to the door, carefully opening and taking his tea from the somewhat chubby assistant.

Thank you.

Click.

After closing the door.

He reached up to the corner microcam nearest the desk and pressed the patch against its lens.

The image looped instantly—a projection of him sitting at the desk, still, contemplative, sipping tea that wasn't there.

Hundred and-seven minutes. That's how long the loop would hold.

He sat at the console and keyed in his biometric ID.

ARCHIVE ACCESS: MANON/PRIVATE

Level 4 Clearance – Granted

Files lit up on the holographic interface—stacks of legal documents, letters, contracts, scanned inheritance records.

At first, everything looked untouched.

But slowly, inconsistencies began to bleed through the surface.

A signature on a transfer document—slightly blurred.

A will—missing pages.

The Manon family crest—distorted, as though someone had reuploaded a corrupted version.

He scrolled deeper.

An old contract surfaced—between his father and the Ferriston Research Collective. A foundation Dominic only vaguely recalled hearing about.

FILE ERROR.

Access Denied: Requires Level 9 Clearance – Overseer Protocol Engaged.

His pulse ticked upward.

Why would a family contract require a clearance level above a government minister?

He backed out and opened one of his mother's letters in her diary. Most were normal—soft memories, old recipes, thoughts on the season.

But one, dated five months ago, cut off halfway through.

"I still worry about the meteorite. Markus says the Council has forbidden further—"

Nothing more.

The line ended like a breath stolen mid-sentence.

Meteorite.

The word echoed in his head like a stone dropped in water. The crash had happened only a month before the murders—so loud it lit up the night sky and sent tremors through half the valley. The government called it a "celestial anomaly." Social media called it a lie. Then everything online vanished—scrubbed clean in less than a day.

His father had always questioned "natural" explanations. Had he seen this coming?

Had he tried to stop it?

Dominic leaned back in the chair, fingers steepled under his chin.

The air in the room had shifted—thinner, colder.

Something bigger was moving beneath the surface. He could feel it in his bones, the same way sailors feel storms before the clouds gather.

He looked at the clock.

11:53 PM.

His body ached, but his mind sharpened.

He wouldn't wait for answers. Wouldn't beg crumbs from the same hands that might've orchestrated the fall of his family.

He'd return to the estate.

Not officially.

Not through any door they watched.

There were still corners of the old house no one knew like he did.

He crossed the room, pulled open the blackout curtains, and stared out at the city—its towers gleaming, its people sleeping, unaware of how close their world might be to burning.

Behind him, the screen flickered.

The surveillance loop had ended.

And Dominic was already gone.

[End of Chapter Four]