Michail Varga rode his horse through the withering gardens of the Anroth family estate. The flowers, once bursting with life, now drooped their heads in mournful wilt. Grand statues and fountains stood cracked and covered in moss, once manicured hedges now overgrown and unkempt. A faint smell of rotting vegetation mingled with dampness of the gloomy sky.

The sprawling estate, which had once been a testament to the Anroths’ power and influence, now seemed to be swallowed by the encroaching wilderness. Twisted branches reached out like skeletal fingers, clawing at the crumbling walls that struggled to maintain their dignity. The air hung thick with an eerie silence, broken only by the distant caw of crows and the crunch of hooves upon gravel.

Michail's grip tightened around the hilt of his sword as he witnessed the degradation of the estate. The familiar weight and balance of the weapon gave him a sense of comfort. With his thumb, he felt the two symbols carved on the hilt – one represented his father's lineage, the Vargas, while the other represented his mother's side of the family, the Anroths. The sword symbolized the unbreakable alliance between those two prominent families, the bond that had been forged long ago by Michail's grandparents. Michail himself was the brightest epitome of this alliance.

Michail remembered the day when he got the sword. On his 15th birthday, his uncle had presented him with the finely crafted weapon that he still carried with pride.

“You are growing up,” Uncle Jeremy had said. “Soon you will leave your boyhood behind and become a man, and man needs a decent sword.”

Since then, he had trained tirelessly, honing his skills in the art of swordsmanship. His uncle had always believed in him, even in the most difficult times. And now he was dead.

“Good day, Master Varga,” a voice croaked, startling Michail from his thoughts. A gnarled old gardener emerged from behind a row of neglected rose bushes, his hunched form blending seamlessly with the twisted flora. “I trust you've come to offer your condolences?”

“Yes, I have,” Michail replied, his voice strained as he attempted to hide his unease. “May I find Lady Belinda within?”

“Indeed, she awaits you in the drawing room,” the gardener rasped, pointing towards the looming manor. “But beware, young master – the shadows that cling to these halls are not easily dispelled.”

With a shudder, Michail urged his horse forward, leaving the old man to tend to his dying roses. He imagined Lady Belinda Anroth within the manor, a ghostly figure draped in sorrow and shadows, her heart heavy with the weight of her husband's tragic end. He could sense the dark tendrils of sorrow and fear that entwined themselves around Lady Belinda's heart, and he wondered how she found the strength to endure such grief.

“What about the grief of your own,” a voice whispered in the back of his mind, “not so different from hers?” He pushed the thought away, focusing instead on the task at hand: he would offer his condolences, listen to Lady Belinda's laments, express his disappointment at not having been invited to the funeral, and then return home. There he would find peace in solitude, occupying himself with studies and exercises with Magister Cornelius.

As Michail dismounted and entered the dimly lit manor, he felt as though he were stepping into a twisted dream. Shadows danced along the walls, and the air was heavy with the scent of decay and despair. Sound of dripping water echoed in the distance, adding to the ominous aura of the place. Yet, even in this dark landscape, there was a strange beauty – a haunting allure that beckoned him deeper into the manor's embrace.

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He entered the drawing room, guided by flickering candlelight that played tricks on his eyes like a macabre puppet show. There, amidst the swirling shadows, sat Lady Belinda Anroth, her once radiant beauty fallen prey to the ravages of grief.

“Ah, Michail,” she whispered as he approached, her voice a brittle echo of the melodic lilt he remembered from brighter days. The young man's eyes were drawn to the gaunt visage before him; lifeless eyes that had shed every last drop of tears, a drooping cascade of greyish hair that seemed drained of its former golden tone, and a hunched posture that belied her slender figure.

“Forgive me, my lady.” Michail bowed low, unable to hide his shock at the sight of her. “I am here to offer my condolences.”

“Condolences?” Lady Belinda's lips twisted in a bitter mockery of a smile. “How very kind of you, but it is far too late for such pleasantries. My husband was murdered, and I am left with nothing but these tremulous hands and a heart steeped in despair.” Her fingers quivered as if to underscore the point, a fragile bird's wing caught in a merciless storm.

“Murdered?” Michail flinched, his heart racing with a sudden sense of unease.

“That's what I said.” Lady Belinda's eyes gleamed with a steely resolve that was at odds with her delicate frame. “A coward's blade in the dead of night, a hero struck down in his prime. That is what they'll say, isn't it? But I know better, Michail. There is more to this than meets the eye.”

“What do you mean?” Michail asked cautiously.

“I mean that there are those who would see the Anroth family fall,” Lady Belinda hissed. “Jealous rivals, treacherous allies – someone wanted him dead, and they succeeded. And I have my suspicions as to who the culprit may be.”

Michail leaned forward, eager to hear more. “Who do you suspect?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Lady Belinda hesitated, her eyes flitting nervously about the room before settling on Michail's face. “I cannot reveal that,” she finally said. “Not without proof. But I know in my heart that Jeremy's death was not the work of a common thief or cutthroat.”

Michail felt a chill run down his spine at the intensity of Lady Belinda's words. “Please, Lady Belinda,” he implored, struggling to maintain his composure amid the oppressive atmosphere of the room. “Allow me to help you in any way I can.”

Lady Belinda's eyes searched Michail's face, and he could see the flicker of doubt and desperation in her gaze. “You are a brave soul, Michail,” she said. “But there is nothing you can do to bring him back to me.”

“I know,” Michail sighed. “But perhaps I can help you find the truth.”

“The truth...” Lady Belinda echoed, lost in thought. “Yes, perhaps you can help me find that.”

As they spoke, Michail couldn't shake the feeling that Lady Belinda was holding something back. “Please, my lady,” he pressed gently. “I cannot sit idly by while my uncle's killer remains at large. I will not rest until the person responsible for this heinous act is brought to justice, whoever that person might be.”

At these words, Lady Belinda gave Michail a long, searching look. “Very well,” she said with low, yet determined voice. “But know this, Michail Varga – what you are about to uncover may be more than you bargained for. There are forces at work here that even I cannot fully comprehend.”

“I understand,” Michail replied. “But I will not be deterred. I will find the truth, no matter the cost.”

A faint smile played at the corners of Lady Belinda's lips. “I have no doubt that you will, Michail. You are your father's son, after all.”

The mention of his father caused a pang in Michail's chest, but he quickly pushed it aside. “Thank you, my lady,” he said softly. “I will keep you informed of my progress.”

Lady Belinda nodded. “May the gods be with you, Michail. And may they grant you the strength and wisdom you will need to navigate the treacherous waters ahead.”

With that, Michail bowed, turned on his heel, and left the drawing room. As he made his way back through the manor's desolate halls, he couldn't help but feel a growing sense of unease – as if someone, or something, was watching him.