As Viktor stepped cautiously across the threshold and into the Avlorios manor, the once-familiar landscape felt foreign and unwelcoming. His senses screamed that something was terribly wrong, but he couldn't afford to dwell on the fear gripping his heart. He needed to find his family and make sure they were safe.

The heavy silence lay thick as he moved deeper into the cavernous halls. His footsteps echoed with uncharitable volume against the polished marble floors, reverberating off the chandelier fixtures dangling above—mute sentinels to the evening’s ominous events.

He darted a glance towards the side corridors, usually bustling with the gentle shuffle of maids and footmen managing the routine necessities of their lives. Now, that familiar bustle was replaced by shadows that stretched unnaturally long, layered over each surface by the absence of customary warm lamplight.

"Mother? Father? Alara?"

His voice trembled slightly, chipping through the oppressive silence like it was a hardened crust of snow. He anticipated the serene echo of his mother's answer, the dependable warmth behind his father’s words.

Instead, the only response was the unyielding quiet that pressed back upon him, an unwelcome sentinel of disquiet.

He hurried toward the study, where Barath would typically guide his evening lessons surrounded by the fortress of knowledge found within the library’s confines. His pace quickened, edged by rising panic—a reminder of the unease that tugged insistently at the corners of his mind.

The corridors seemed longer than usual as uncertainty spread with each passing moment, a dissonance that refused to resolve.

As he neared the ornate archway leading to the study, Viktor's heart dropped into his stomach—a sudden cold dread seizing him almost physically.

Lying in the corridor, surrounded by the stillness of furniture askew and the oppressive curl of shadows, was Anira—the constant, reassuring heart of the household staff.

But Anira would never bustle with welcoming greetings again.

Her body lay splayed on the floor, clothes stained with rivulets of dark crimson that pooled beneath her. Her eyes, usually so bright and lively, were open—frozen wide in a tableau of unfathomable horror.

A gasp tore from Viktor’s throat, unbidden and strangled, catching in his chest as he recoiled, the truth slamming into him with merciless clarity.

His mind spun wildly, unable, unwilling almost, to process the enormity of the vision before him. Anira, who had been like an aunt to him—her life abruptly, violently snatched away.

For a moment, all was stillness.

Time fragmented into broken shards, everything around him—the distant rustle of fabric, the muffled drips of settling liquid from an unseen source—seemed to focus sharply into hyperreal segments.

A mounting scream lodged in his throat, yet instinctively Viktor forced the noise down, channeling the combustible mixture of fear and sorrow into tense action.

He dropped to his knees beside her, trembling, not knowing what to do, only feeling the compulsion to breathe life back into her somehow. But though his soul cried for redemption, Viktor knew there was nothing more to be done.

Caught between paralyzing grief and desperate urgency, he laid a trembling hand against Anira's cooling cheek, an unspoken gesture of farewell and deepest respect for her unyielded spirit.

His brain struggled to reconcile what his eyes witnessed, but another part of him—knew he could not linger.

He had to move forward, find the rest of his family.

With a whispered apology curving on his lips, Viktor rose, staggering momentarily before using the wall to steady himself. Offering Anira a final glance heavy with remorse, he turned, cinching his fear tightly, drawing a deep breath to focus his senses.

The rest of the manor sprawled ahead, chilled darkness clinging stubbornly to each corridor, yet one pressing thought illuminated his senses: his family—he needed to find them.

Each step was agonizingly slow, part of him straining to retreat even as another part surged ahead out of desperation.

Every door leading off the corridor seemed suspect, a potential scene of similar devastation. His progress was marked by the splintering sound of his footsteps, occasionally fearing he might hear the same fate that had befallen Anira visiting upon others he cared for.

The manor, typically a place where every corner was filled with life and routine, now felt like a malevolent shadow realm, lurking with possibilities he could only dread.

In his resolve, a small chant began to form, vibrating beneath his breath—a chant that bore no words, merely an insistent thrumming that kept him moving, kept him steady against everything unknown.

With the dawning realization that the house was no longer a sanctuary but a potential site of horror, Viktor pressed deeper, cruel determination in his grip to fend against the specters of uncertainty that haunted every mislaid gaze.

Each step carried determination and panic intermingled in a potent drive, a race against time to salvage whatever hope might remain amid deepening shadows and the unspeakable loss he had already endured.

----------------------------------------

In the great manor of the Avlorios family, Viktor's search for his loved ones pulled him unwillingly toward the heart of the estate—the great hall. Each step down the shadowy corridors was weighed by dread, his senses alert to the slightest whisper of disturbance, every nerve tense with the hope and fear of what he might find.

His heart ached with urgency, the desire to see his family safe driving him through the oppressive stillness that refused to loosen its grip on the household. He pressed on, past elegantly draped rooms now swallowed by gloom, their once-vibrant tapestries ghosts in the murk.

The approach to the great hall was marked by an eerie stillness, a hold-your-breath kind of pause that seemed to wrap around him, squeezing tighter with each step. Viktor knew this place well, knew it as the core of family gatherings, laughter, and memories now soaked in foreboding.

It was the sudden, metallic tang of blood in the air that reached Viktor first, sharp and unmistakable, sending a jolt through his spine. He stumbled slightly, caught off guard by the intensity of scent and what it might presage.

Reaching the entrance to the hall, his hand barely registered the cool wood of the double doors before he pushed them open. They swung wide, revealing the cavernous room within, the shadows clinging to its corners in defiance of the faint moonlight spilling through the stained glass windows.

And there, against the twilight's pallor, lay a tableau that seized Viktor's breath, squeezing his chest with the iron grip of horror.

His family lay scattered across the hall, their lives extinguished with a brutality that eclipsed understanding. His eyes, uncomprehending at first, slowly traced the devastating scene—the delicate pool of crimson that mocked the grandeur of the chamber, the lifeless forms of those he cherished beyond all words.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Barath, the wise and trusted tutor, lay sprawled near the grand table at the room’s heart, his body irreversibly still amid a sea of parchment and ink where he once sought to impart knowledge and wisdom.

Viktor’s gaze, torn from the path Barath no longer guided, settled next upon his mother. Castina, who had greeted so many days with grace and warmth, now lay motionless, a crimson stain marring the serenity even in death. A gasp escaped him, followed by a choking sob caught in his throat, the sound flung into the void of this scene of unrelenting sorrow.

His father, Sanos, who had embodied strength and stability across his years, now lay crumpled near the hearthside, the fire within extinguished, leaving only hushed shadows to feel the void where he had stood.

And there... there was Alara, his little sister—a vibrant soul now silent forever, cradled amidst the inevitabilities that defied Viktor’s every instinct to protect. Her presence, small and limp among the ruins of family, shattered him with an intensity that defied words.

A keening wail rose unbidden from his lips, echoing in the vastness, a lamentation carried by haunting silence. “No... no, no!”

He staggered across the space that had once been filled with laughter—the room a museum of memories perverted into obscenity. Collapsing by Alara’s side, he reached out with trembling hands, hoping, praying for an impossible reversal, a heartbeat beneath his fingers, but finding nothing.

As the moments marched relentlessly forward, Viktor knelt there, anchored by an ocean of grief that swept the shores of sanity, washing away reason and leaving the raw essence of sorrow.

His family, the digits of his life’s compass—that generous balance between affection and duty—had been struck down in unforgiving finality. Each breath threatened to dissolve into cries, burdened by the vastness of all that had been lost.

The world around him dimmed, his thoughts a cacophony trapped within the echoes of loss, each beat of his heart a mournful tolling.

The ghosts of memories played across closed eyes: Alara’s bouncy laughter, Castina’s warm embrace, Sanos’ nod of approval—the kaleidoscope now turned to muted gray. The grand hall, a place of unity, joy, and moments passed in familial camaraderie, now resonated only with the hollow emptiness of lives abruptly stolen.

----------------------------------------

Bile rises from Viktor's stomach, and he doubles over, retching onto the cold, hard floor. The vomit splatters onto the tiles, mingling grotesquely with the darkening pool of blood that stretches like a morbid carpet beneath his feet. The mingled odors—pungent and acrid—assault his senses, yet he remains frozen in shock, trapped in the aftermath of what he has just discovered.

Some detached part of Viktor's mind registers how they blend—his bile, the pools of lifeblood—and how indistinguishable they have become, melding in a grotesque tapestry of grief and horror. He remains crouched there for a moment, mentally paralyzed, the images etched into his mind refusing to fade. It feels as though his world has been shattered into countless pieces, each jagged shard burying itself deeper into his conscious awareness.

Time slips away from him, each second lazily dragging into eternity, his senses numbed by the enormity of what he confronts. Staring at everything and nothing all at once, Viktor's mind slides restlessly, trapped in the loop of horror and disbelief that churns sluggishly like a stagnant tide against its tethered moorings.

It might have been mere minutes, perhaps hours; Viktor is bereft of any concept of time, nestled among the fallen specks of dust that swirl through the ambient moonlight whispering in from a chink in the curtains. But unbidden, the distant thread of voices begins to needle its way through the oppressive silence that has smothered the room.

The voices, murmuring in tones too distant for comprehension, prick at Viktor's shattered consciousness like shards of glass. They revive some primal sense of self-preservation as fear wrenches him away from his stupor, pulling him back into the immediate world.

Frantically, driven by a new harsh instinct, he scans the blood-drenched space, every corner of the grand hall suddenly sharpened into focus by adrenaline's searing clarity. The whispers gain in volume, though still undefined—somewhere distant, yet incomprehensible as they weave through the void, gnawing urgently.

Mind racing, Viktor's body acts before conscious thought takes hold. On unsteady legs, he rises, his realm of memories yanking at him, pleading to release grief to movement. His footfalls, unmoored from silence, echo across the chamber floor as his gaze shifts wildly, evaluating both threat and sanctuary.

The sense of urgency pulses louder with each beat of his heart—a primeval drum coaxing him into action, away from peril, propelling him forward until the cacophony nearly reaches him.

The voices, once indecipherable, sharpen into distinct tones though conversation eludes clarity. In an almost surreal flash, realization strikes: these voices might belong to the perpetrators of this heinous act, this devastation laden before him. The oppressively silent manor rings anew, now with suspicions and the metallic promise of danger.

Moving rapidly, Viktor darts toward the far corner of the grand space where the heavy drapes—forgetting their elegance—offer the camouflage he desperately seeks. Ducking behind them, he coils into the smallest shape his trembling body will allow, ensconced in heavy fabric among the folds of crimson and gold.

Breath shallow and pulse hammering with feverish insistence, he forces himself to listen; strained ears strain further still within the oppression of existence drawn down to heartbeats. From beneath the fabric, Viktor clutches silence close, wrapped tightly in fear and adrenaline.

He focuses intensely, straining to make sense of the approaching cadence—a blend of footsteps and whispered urgency underscored by hesitation. Is it curiosity that drives them towards the hall, or do they bear intentions dark as the night's grief?

With each second suspended breathlessly, the steps draw closer, melding into something more decisive, more real; the great hall, with its frightful revelations, becomes a web of fear knotted around Viktor's beating heart.

----------------------------------------

Viktor clutched the drapes tightly, heart pounding against his ribs as he tried to quiet his panicked breathing. The fabric clung to him, its rich crimson folds offering a tenuous refuge from the nightmare unraveling around him. Somewhere beneath his fear, a cold dread took root, sending shivers up his spine, for he had no idea how long he might be able to remain concealed.

He listened intently, ears straining to catch the muted conversation of the intruders. Their voices threaded through the hall, a chilling reminder of the danger lurking just beyond his fragile veneer of protection. They drew closer, their steps cautiously probing the room's perimeter as they spoke in low, conspiratorial tones.

"Did you confirm the brat?" one voice asked, though its texture was rough, its cadence a mix of authority and irritation. Viktor swallowed hard, the question slicing through him with chilling understanding.

"Yeah, the Avrolios brat and the mother both," another voice replied, sounding somehow more resigned. Viktor's blood ran cold. They had intended his death, believing they had taken his life in their ruthless sweep. In their haste, they must've mistaken Anira's son, Sami, for Viktor himself, he realized with dawning horror.

"Why'd we have to hurry the job," a third voice broke through, echoing uncertainty and tense annoyance. "We'd have a better setup if you'd given us time. Those guards weren't pushovers."

Silence hung in the air, thick and oppressive, before the leader—a man who, even unseen, exuded authority—spoke up. "It had to happen now. The mage test moved up the timeline. Couldn't risk the boy ending up at the capital. That would complicate matters."

Viktor's heart pounded a bruising rhythm against his chest, each beat a mix of apprehensive shock and a faint, furious spark of resilience. This wasn't an unprovoked attack. It was targeted, coldly calculated to eradicate him.

“Avrolios sure didn’t know when to quit, did he?” one of the men said with a grim chuckle.

“Ambition got the better of him,” the leader returned, disdain souring his words. "Reached too far and now they're paying the price. It was the only move left on the board."

Viktor's vision blurred momentarily as emotions collided within him, a maelstrom of fear and grief entwined with smoldering outrage. Infiltration and murder orchestrated by calculated ambition or survival of politics—all aimed at obliterating the Avlorios lineage.

"Let's finish sweeping the place," the leader barked sharply, the words jarring Viktor out of his turmoil. "We torch the house when we're done. Better for us and better for cleaning up. Burn the story with the building—rumors will cleanse it from truth."

The group agreed hastily, boots clomping with renewed purpose across the hall. Viktor waited, breath shallow and purposeful tears clinging to his eyes, as the men retreated into the gloaming shadows lining the corridors.

Exhaling tremulously, Viktor finally allowed himself to cry, silent tears bleeding into the fabric as his chest rocked with restrained sobs. These assassins were intent on eradicating all evidence of the Avlorios legacy, with him a heartbeat away from discovery.

As the commotion slowly faded and solitude claimed the room once more, Viktor's instincts, honed by desperation and necessity, took over. This lull was a fragile window, his one chance at escape—towards the world that lay beyond the estate's smoldering ashes.

With cautious, deliberate movements, he unfolded himself from the cocoon of drapery, casting a quick glance toward the entrance. Shadows flitted with uncertainty and distance, now was his moment.

Silencing a closing sob that threatened to wrack his frame, Viktor steeled himself, rehearsing the path through memory's recall and its impending execution; across the hall, down the corridor, and through the side entrance that led to the dark embrace of the forest beyond.

He broke into a calculated stride. Each step propelled him silently toward the future he must now forge by himself.