Kieran walked through the slums with slow, deliberate steps, the weight of his conversation with the scribe pressing against his thoughts.

It didn’t end with you.

The words lingered. Whoever had arranged his execution hadn’t stopped there. There was more to uncover, and he couldn’t afford to waste time. Every lead, every whisper of his past life, every fractured memory could be the difference between survival and slipping back into the grave.

The pouch of silver at his hip was heavier than he expected. A small fortune for someone who had nothing just hours ago. But silver alone wouldn’t keep him alive. He needed knowledge. He needed power.

And for that, he needed answers.

His path led him through a network of winding alleys, where the stench of damp stone and unwashed bodies clung to the air. Rats darted between broken crates, and shadowed figures exchanged hushed words beneath flickering torches. The slums never truly slept—its people were too desperate, too hungry to afford the luxury of rest.

But not all of them were scavengers.

Some were ghosts.

The crumbling building before him was one of many, its walls covered in soot, its doorway marked by a faded sigil—three diagonal slashes carved into the wood. It was the kind of place most people pretended not to see.

Kieran stepped inside.

The air shifted, thick with the scent of parchment and candle wax. Wooden shelves, warped with age, lined the walls, crammed with scrolls and ledgers. An oil lamp flickered at the far end of the room, where a hooded figure sat behind a simple wooden desk, scribbling with a quill.

The figure didn’t look up. “Do you have business, or are you lost?”

Kieran reached into his tunic and placed two silver coins on the desk. “I need a name.”

The scratching of the quill stopped.

Slowly, the hooded figure lifted their head, revealing a woman with sharp features and deep-set eyes, their irises clouded by a milky sheen. She was blind, or at least, appeared to be.

But the way she turned her head slightly, as if she could still see him, sent a flicker of unease through Kieran’s gut.

The woman reached out and ran her fingers over the coins, testing their weight. “Silver buys whispers, not truths.”

Kieran met her gaze evenly. “Then I’ll pay for the right kind of whisper.”

A pause. Then a slow, knowing smile. “What name do you seek?”

Kieran exhaled. He had debated this. Weighed the risk. But he needed to know.

“Edgar Valtheris.”

His father’s name.

The blind woman’s fingers stilled.

A shift in the air.

Kieran tensed.

Then, slowly, the woman withdrew her hands from the silver. “Your father is a careful man,” she murmured. “He does not leave traces.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No,” she admitted. “But it is the truth.”

Kieran’s jaw tightened. “Then give me another truth.”

The woman was silent for a moment. Then, she reached for a small wooden box beside her and lifted the lid. Inside was a single strip of parchment.

She slid it across the desk.

Kieran hesitated before picking it up. The paper was rough, the ink faded—but the words were clear.

"You were warned. There are no second chances."

His grip on the parchment tightened.

This wasn’t a message for him. This was for the Kieran before him.

Kieran stepped back into the night, his thoughts racing.

The note was a warning. His past self had been involved in something before his execution. Something dangerous.

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But what?

He forced himself to breathe. No time to lose himself in questions. He needed more than messages from the dead—he needed proof.

And there was only one place to get it.

The Valtheris estate.

The Valtheris estate loomed in the distance, its black stone walls rising like a fortress against the night sky. Once, this had been his home—or rather, the home of the noble bastard whose body he now inhabited.

Kieran crouched behind a stack of abandoned crates, studying the entrance. Two guards stood at the front gate, clad in dark silver armor bearing the sigil of House Valtheris—a serpent curled around a broken sword.

They were not city watchmen. These were house guards, men trained to protect blood, not law.

That meant getting in wouldn’t be easy.

Kieran exhaled, pressing himself against the cold stone of a ruined archway. His ribs still ached from the fight earlier, but pain could be ignored. What mattered now was the plan.

A frontal assault was suicide. Even if he had his old strength, two trained guards were too much in his current state.

That left two options:

Bribe his way in—but that would require a guard willing to betray their house, and Valtheris men were raised on loyalty and blood oaths.

Find another way.

Kieran chose the second.

He moved quickly, keeping to the shadows, his boots silent against the cobblestone. The estate’s outer walls stretched into the back gardens, where old stone pathways wound through abandoned courtyards and half-dead rosebushes.

It was familiar. Too familiar.

A flicker of memory surfaced—bare feet against cold stone, a stolen dagger in his grip, the taste of blood in his mouth. A night he had once run through these very gardens, pursued by something unseen.

And yet, the details were missing—like ink smudged from a page.

Kieran shook the thought away. He could question his past after he survived the present.

A servant’s entrance sat along the eastern wall, tucked between ivy-covered stone. The wood was warped with age, the lock rusted. A weak point.

He tested the handle. Locked.

His gaze flickered to the ground. Loose stones lined the path. He crouched, running his fingers over them until he found what he was looking for—one slightly looser than the rest.

A trick he had learned in a life before this one.

He pried it free. Beneath it, buried in dirt and dust, was an old iron key.

Someone had hidden it here long ago.

Someone who had expected to need it.

Kieran didn’t question the eerie familiarity—he simply took the key and turned the lock.

The door creaked open, revealing darkness beyond.

He slipped inside.

The air was thick with old stone and candle wax, the scent of the past hanging in the corridors. His footsteps were measured, cautious. Every hallway, every doorway—it was all just as he remembered.

But memories can lie.

He moved quickly, past the old dining hall where dust-covered chandeliers hung from the ceiling, past the corridors lined with faded portraits of ancestors whose names he could no longer recall.

Finally, he reached his destination—the study.

The door was slightly ajar.

Kieran pressed his back against the wall, listening. No movement inside.

Still, he didn’t take chances. He crouched, his fingers curling around the bottom of the doorframe, feeling for a wire, a trap—anything.

Nothing.

He slipped inside.

The room was unchanged—bookshelves stretching from floor to ceiling, a grand oak desk at the center, its surface polished and untouched.

But Kieran wasn’t here for books. He was here for secrets.

He moved to the desk, fingers skimming across its surface. His father was careful, but not perfect.

He checked the usual places—the bottom drawer, the compartments under the desk, the gaps between books on the shelves.

Nothing.

His jaw clenched.

There had to be something.

His gaze flickered to the fireplace. The embers had long since died, but the stonework was clean. Too clean.

Kieran knelt, running his hands along the edges of the hearth.

Then—a hollow sound.

He pressed against the stone. It shifted slightly.

A hidden compartment.

He pried it open.

Inside was a single document, folded and sealed with dark red wax.

He broke the seal and unfolded the parchment.

His breath slowed as he read the words.

“Lord Valtheris, the arrangement stands. The boy has been removed, and the inquiry has been silenced. There will be no further disruptions. The knowledge he sought is no longer a threat to the council’s designs.”

No names. No signature.

But the meaning was clear.

His execution had been arranged long before the trial.

And worse—it wasn’t just about him.

It was about something he had been searching for.

Something the noble houses—**the Council of Lords—**had buried.

A slow, cold realization settled over him.

This wasn’t just about Kieran Valtheris, the noble bastard.

This was about what he knew.

Or rather—what he had been close to discovering.

A soft click echoed behind him.

The door had opened.

Kieran’s grip tightened on the parchment as a voice spoke.

“I was wondering when you’d come back.”

He turned.

A figure stood in the doorway—a man clad in noble attire, dark hair tied back, his sharp eyes glinting with quiet amusement.

Someone Kieran recognized instantly.

Someone who had been there when he was dragged to the execution stand.

Varian Drake.

A former friend.

A betrayer.

And now—a problem.