The Reinhart Estate

The forest had gone still. Not silent—but dead.

After the interrogation ended, something in the air shifted. Even the rain changed.

It no longer fell; it clung—thin as a whisper, as if afraid to touch the ground.

No wind stirred the leaves.

No birdsong pierced the silence.

No beasts rustled in the underbrush.

Just fog—and that low, taut silence that wrapped around the throat and squeezed, until breath itself seemed to falter.

Even the Rosenvale Guard felt it—veterans, battle-hardened—yet they fidgeted, checked their rifles again, repositioned their shields.

Someone muttered prayers to gods for comfort, while their eyes twitched toward the trees—tall and skeletal, like rows of watching corpses.

The floodlights stabbed through the fog, their beams warped and twisted. Shadows moved where nothing stood. Shapes blinked in and out, like phantoms caught between worlds.

Aldrich felt it. Not a sound. A pressure—like the air before a storm or the hush before slaughter—the kind that settled in his bones.

Something circled out there, unseen.

Then—

"Movement!" a guard snapped, raising his rifle.

All guns followed. A ripple of tension surged through the crescent formation. Lights swung toward the treeline.

Branches shifted.

A flicker of motion—low, fast.

Then stillness.

"Could be more Second Glyph scum," Norman muttered, drawing his revolver. "Watch yourself, old man."

Aldrich didn't answer. His eyes narrowed on the trees.

Then—a branch snapped.

And the fog peeled back like a curtain dragged open by invisible hands.

Two figures stepped out. Not charging. Not sneaking. Moving with purpose, like ghosts with unfinished business.

Freya came first. Her white dress was ruined, soaked and torn, the silk moulded to her frame like it was trying to smother her.

Blood streaked her face, curling down from her temple in vivid red. Her eyes—sunken with exhaustion, yet sharp and unblinking—locked onto the guards like she was seeing through them.

Celine followed, silent and poised.

Her maid's uniform hung in tatters, hem trailing like a funeral shroud.

One hand rested lightly on her sheathed blade—not drawn, not yet—but her fingers curled as if itching to taste blood.

They said nothing. They just stood beneath the floodlights. Rain trickled off their bodies. Steam rose in faint wisps from their skin.

They looked like they had crawled out of hell and brought something back with them.

Norman saw them—and his gut dropped. Instinct roared.

Danger.

He stumbled back, boots sliding in the mud, revolver up in both hands.

"HANDS IN THE AIR!" he barked, his voice cracked, high and strained. "NOW!"

The guards jerked, startled. Shields came up. Barrels trained on the figures.

Celine's hand twitched at her hilt. Freya didn't even blink. She tilted her head slightly, as if regarding an insect.

Norman stepped forward, gun quivering.

"I—I said—hands up! And identify yourselves!"

Then—

Freya spoke. Her voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. Cold. Controlled. Cutting through the fog like a knife.

"Freya Reinhart," she said. "Daughter of Duke Arthur Reinhart."

She raised one hand—not in surrender, but in command.

"This is Celine. My chambermaid."

The guards froze. The whole line held its breath.

Then Celine spoke, her voice like steel.

"You point that gun at my lady again," she said, "and I will gut you before you can blink."

Norman didn't move. Couldn't. His finger twitched against the trigger—until a voice behind him cut in, iron and gravel.

"Lower your weapon, boy."

Aldrich stepped forward, pipe clenched between his teeth, sidearm untouched but ready.

His coat dripped steadily, but his gaze was hard enough to cut stone. He pointed with his chin.

"That rapier," he said. "That's the Reinhart crest. It's her."

Freya met Aldrich's gaze. A flicker of recognition. Then she strode forward, unhurried, steam trailing from her skin like breath from a corpse.

As she passed Norman, she stopped—just long enough to look him in the eye.

"You're brave," she said softly. "But you hesitate too much. Fresh from the academy?"

Then she walked on.

Celine followed, silent, unblinking. She didn't look at him, just muttered under her breath—cold and contemptuous.

"Amateur."

Norman stood frozen, heart slamming against his ribs. His revolver hung limp at his side.

Aldrich stepped beside him, lit the pipe with a flick, and exhaled a slow curl of smoke into the fog.

"You alright, boy?"

Norman's voice was dry. "They're not what I expected."

Aldrich's lips curled into a grim half-smile.

"They never are," he murmured. Turned, the smoke trailing behind him.

"Come on," he said. "Let's see what hell they brought back with them."

Behind them, in the treeline, the fog shifted. Like the forest was starting to breathe again.

The Reinhart estate rarely slept, but tonight it had not rested—it stood vigilant.

In the centre of the cobbled square, Commander Vale stood still as a statue, flanked by rows of Rosen Knights in formation—forty strong, armoured head to toe, silver-plumed helms gleaming in the torchlight.

They had been waiting for the order to ride. To sweep the woods. To find their missing lady and bring her home—or avenge her. But the gates had remained shut.

Until now.

A distant hum stirred the quiet. Low at first—then louder. Sharper. A mechanical growl that set nerves on edge. Mana engines.

Heads turned as light cut through the fog. Headlamps flared, and the gates parted for a convoy of military mana-automobiles, their steel frames splattered with grime and ash.

The first vehicle screeched to a halt. Steam hissed from its sides. Then the doors opened.

Norman stepped out first. Soaked, scraped, his coat torn at the elbow and splattered with something darker than mud.

His revolver still hung at his side, holstered, but his fingers twitched near it like a man unsure what world he was in.

Aldrich followed, pipe clenched between his teeth, coat rumpled and singed. He moved like a man who'd just outwalked death and was annoyed it hadn't kept up.

But the one who truly drew every eye—

Freya Reinhart.

She stepped down from the automobile slowly, her every motion deliberate, controlled.

Her once-pristine white dress was torn and soaked, blood streaking her shoulders, mud caked on her feet, the Reinhart rapier at her side.

Her eyes swept across the courtyard—ice-blue, steady.

And then—

The Rosen Knights moved as one. Armour clanged. Swords unsheathed with perfect discipline.

Each knight took a knee and lowered their blades, hilts pressed to their chests in salute—a silver wave of loyalty, absolute and unspoken.

Commander Vale gave a sharp signal with two fingers to the chest, and his own blade came free in salute.

"Welcome home, my lady."

Freya didn't flinch. She gave no speech. No gesture. Only a slow nod, regal and calm, the way her father might have done after returning from a war council.

Celine stepped down beside her, silent, eyes scanning the courtyard like a bodyguard still expecting ambush.

They stood together as the fog curled around their feet.

Finally, Freya spoke.

"The Vermont and Ashbourne were also on the train earlier," she said, voice low but steady. "Did you find any of them, Commander?"

Vale straightened, brow furrowed.

"No, my lady, there were no survivors from the decoupled carriages; the explosion took everything with it."

Freya's gaze turned toward the main doors of the mansion.

"Is Father home?" she said.

Vale nodded. "Lord Reinhart is in the library. He'd be glad to see you home safely, my lady."

She turned and began walking toward the mansion. Then—without looking back—paused.

"Inspectors," she said, her voice cool and steady. "Celine will take you to the library. We have a debriefing to conduct with my father."

There was no question in her tone. No room for discussion. She continued forward, every step measured, certain they would follow.

The Rosen Knights rose to their feet in silence, parting to let them pass.

They didn't cheer.

They didn't speak.

They simply watched as Freya—bloody, battered, and unbowed—returned to her house like a queen come back from the edge of the world.

As the heavy oak doors creaked open and the group stepped inside, Norman leaned closer to Aldrich, keeping his voice low.

"They've got a bloody army," he muttered, glancing back at the Rosen Knights still standing in perfect formation. "Isn't that against Imperial law?"

Aldrich snorted, smoke curling from his pipe.

"Imperial law works differently once you leave the marble halls of the capital," he said. "Out here, it's more of a suggestion than a rule. You'll catch up, boy."

They walked beneath high archways into the grand atrium, boots echoing on polished stone. The Reinhart estate exuded old power—subtle, suffocating, and deep-rooted.

Portraits of ancestors lined the corridor, oil-painted eyes watching from golden frames. Generals. Statesmen. Duelists in black silk. A whole bloodline of ambition.

Norman slowed, his gaze drawn to a massive painting near the staircase—a younger Duke Reinhart in full regalia, hand resting on a jewelled sword, flanked by two lions carved in stone.

"He doesn't look like a man who forgets a grudge," Norman murmured.

"No," Aldrich said. "He looks like a man who collects them."

Celine led them deeper into the manor without a word, her stride steady, the echo of her heels sharp against the marble.

They passed beneath chandeliers of mana-crystal and between crimson banners bearing the Reinhart crest.

At last, they stopped before the double doors of the library—carved mahogany, etched with golden runes that shimmered faintly in the mana-light.

Celine turned.

"This way," she said simply, pushing open the door. "And mind your words. I believe my lord is in a very bad mood today..."