Epilogue: The Veil over Vorgrad

Velzenhold. Late evening.

The warmth of the fading day still lingered in the air, though the sky had already turned a deep steel-blue. Along the cobbled paths of the inner courtyard, the servants moved at a measured pace – some carried baskets of wine, some returned from the stables, some simply pretended to be busy, lest they be scolded.

There was no fear in their motions—only habit. Old habit, as old as the manor itself. And estates like Velzenhold had memory of their own. They remembered footsteps, voices, and screams. And they sensed change long before the people did.

Today, something new lingered in the air. Expectation. Uncertainty. A whisper in the drapes, like wind that had forgotten its name.

"Did you hear?" Ella whispered, setting a tray down near the side entrance. "The new junior butler is arriving soon. Maybe ten minutes, and he'll be at the gate."

"That the one the Church recommended?" grunted the cook as he arranged loaves of bread into baskets. "How many is that now? Second one? Third?"

"What do you expect?" came a reply from a sharp-tongued maid. "Lord Heldar's still away. Lady Laeria's too wrapped up in her poetry to care about the servants. Lord Elgar trains from dawn till dusk. And the twins—ugh—best not to talk about them. Better yet, best not to see them."

"Church-trained means outsider," muttered the old groundskeeper, his voice like gravel and memory. "Happened with Hector too—he came recommended by the Church of Light. Left after two months. They don't last long."

"But what if this one's different?" Ella said softly, glancing toward the kitchen window. "Maybe he's handsome. Polite, even. Not just by our standards, but noble-level manners…"

"Oh sure," the cook chuckled, eyeing her playfully. "Maybe he's a prince on a white horse, come to rescue you from dish duty."

"No point in guessing," Ella muttered, lips curving. "We'll all see soon enough."

Watching this quiet swirl of voices and steps was Eren, the chief butler of House Velzen.

He, like many others, stood facing the road. A cart approached – but not the cart. Merely one of the usual deliveries. The real arrival would come later. Yet already, the shadow of anticipation had crept along the manor walls.

There was no worry in his expression. No approval either. Only focused observation.

Eren had seen dozens of new hires pass through this estate. Most disappeared as quietly as they'd come. Something about them just never… fit.

The baron, for all his imposing presence, had always been fair to the staff. His eldest son, Elgar, was a mirror image of his father—stern, proud, but just.

No, it was rarely them the newcomers clashed with. It was usually the twins. Or the middle son—Kairon.

Among those hired in recent months, Eren had seen it all – fools, cowards, spies, the gifted, and even one killer who had the misfortune of being caught.

But this one…

He came marked by the seal of the Church of Darkness.

Among those who followed other faiths, rumors and whispered theories clung to that name like cobwebs—some spoke of unspeakable rites, others of forbidden knowledge or silent wars fought in the shadows. Whatever the truth, it always raised questions.

Eren unconsciously brushed his finger along the old scar at his temple as he watched the cart slow to a halt at the manor's gate. He knew well—any man sent by external hands had to be built from the ground up. Taught everything. Shown the grounds, the etiquette, the expectations. A burden. One more responsibility.

"First, I must find whether there is a seed within him. Then, I must cut away the excess. And after that… either a tree will grow—or it will rot from within."

Straightening his back, he turned from the balcony and descended the stairs at a measured pace, preparing himself for the arrival of the newcomer.

"For me, a new duty. For him… a trial by this house."

— — —

In the northern wing of House Velzen's estate, cloaked in the hush of dusk, a man sat quietly in his private chamber. Slender of build, dark-haired, eyes the shade of dry earth—this was Kairon.

Everything in the room spoke of order. The walls were clean. Scrolls perfectly aligned. Ink bottles full, unspilled. In this precision lay the very essence of Kairon—cleanliness bordering on coldness.

He thumbed through documents by candlelight, the flame crackling gently. Among them lay a letter, sealed in black wax, adorned with the sigil of a crescent moon and a reaping scythe.

The Church of Darkness. No intermediaries. No veils. Sent straight into their home.

His father, before departing, had said the household could use the extra hands. The man came recommended by the Church itself, and that, apparently, was enough for the baron. Kairon had been told to accept it and to sign the documents.

He smirked slightly, eyes still locked on the parchment he was reading—details of the man's background.

"Not a servant. Not a spy. Not one of us. Not one of them. He is no one's."

The records were brief, almost sterile. Origin: the distant fringes of Aurelia. Saved from slavery and later delivered into the Church. Language: imperfect but functional. Skills: trained in all basics, adaptable. Standard wording, likely a template. All except the part about slavers—that part felt raw.

But that didn't matter. What mattered was that he was free. Untethered. No ties to anything or anyone. And that… was valuable.

"He won't care about honor. Nor love. Nor family. He won't protect Elgar. Won't fall for Laeria. Won't grovel before Heldar. He'll be… mine."

With that thought, Kairon took a slow sip of wine—deep red, undoubtedly expensive—before draining the cup and placing the letter into a drawer. Then came a final thought, cool and calculated:

"If he's weak, I'll break him. If he's strong, I'll bend him. And if he's neither… he'll vanish. Like the rest."

— — —

Meanwhile, along the road leading to Vorgrad's border…

Antares sat inside the cart, his limbs numb from the long ride, body heavy from hours of stillness. The road had turned to thick clay, damp and uneven beneath the wheels. The air smelled of old wood, wet stone, and something faintly metallic, like time itself clinging to the ground.

In the distance, faint lights shimmered—not the soft glow of a village, but the jagged silhouette of a city. Towers, spires, walls… structures that breathed with laws of their own.

He didn't know what awaited him. But he knew one thing for certain—his past lay behind him, severed. There would be no return. Only forward.

The night wind carried the cries of unseen birds and the echo of something deeper—like the breath of the world itself, inhaling in anticipation.

"I don't know who I am. But I know I must become someone. And whoever that is… I will become him."

The cart slowed to a halt atop a low hill overlooking the city. Before him lay arches, rows of rooftops, towers reaching toward the cloud-draped sky.

Somewhere within those walls—a new home, new superiors, a new identity. But above all else—a new possibility.

"For the first time in a long while… I'll live in a new place. I've spent two months within the Church of Darkness. It was peaceful. Quiet. Almost… safe. But this place…"

He hesitated, fingers tightening around the edge of his cloak.

"I doubt it will be like the temple. And perhaps that's for the best. Let this house be a trial. I'll endure it… or I'll burn."

He shivered—not from cold, but from the weight of his own thoughts. Why did such words come so easily? Why did they feel so natural, as if they had always been waiting inside him?

He had no answer.

Drawing the cloak tighter around his shoulders, he leaned back as the cart resumed its slow descent toward the city. But somewhere beyond perception—

Beyond light, beyond sound, Where names held no meaning and form was irrelevant—

Something watched.

Not with eyes. Not even with intent. But with instinct. It felt something stir within him. A familiar presence, yet unmistakably foreign. Antares noticed nothing. He sensed nothing. But something had begun.

(He who leaves the nest in search of change will surely find it.

But whether that change matches what he sought—

No one knows.

Not the stars.

Not the gods.

Not even he himself.

Only the road.

Only the next step.)