Michael strolled through the dim corridor, boots silent against the cold stone. Every hallway in the ancient Blood Keep looked the same once the moon rose—shadowed, endless, and heavy with the weight of centuries. But to someone born within these walls, finding his way in the dark was as easy as breathing. Especially here, near the old prison.
Back when he was seven—or maybe eight—he used to hide here after doing what the castle staff had dubbed "a classic Michael thing." That usually meant some noble act of chaos disguised as innocent mischief—like swapping the castle's sacred relic with a carved turnip, or convincing a dozen servants that the west wing was haunted by a headless bard named Larry. When Lady Jane, his mother, would inevitably come storming after him, her voice echoing like divine judgment through the halls, Michael always slipped into the one place no one dared to search.
The prison.
No sane person expected the heir to Centarious Castle to be hiding in the dungeon with murderers, thieves, and war criminals. Which, in Michael's mind, made it the perfect hiding spot.
Oddly enough, it became more than that.
Back then, his only real friends were the criminals locked behind rusted iron bars. Lonely men with dangerous eyes and sharper tongues—yet eager to talk. Eager to be heard. Michael brought them chocolates and stolen pastries in exchange for stories—bloody tales of rebellion, daring escapes, forbidden magic, and broken empires. He hung on every word like a wide-eyed scribe, ignoring the fact that most of them were probably exaggerating. Or lying.
Did it matter? Not really. Those stories were the first sparks of freedom he ever tasted.
That's when he decided he didn't want to become like his father—a man bound by duty, war, and blood. Michael just wanted to be free.
Then his mother fell ill. The disease took her quickly. And Michael stopped visiting the prison—not because he feared the place, but because, strangely, there was no longer anyone to hide from.
A faint smile tugged at his lips. The kind that flickers and fades before it fully forms.
"Damn," he muttered under his breath. "I really did bribe a serial arsonist with éclairs once."
After that faint smile faded from his lips, Michael continued down the corridor, its walls faintly illuminated by embedded mana crystals that pulsed with a dull, bluish glow. The light wasn't much—just enough to keep shadows at bay, but not enough to chase them away completely.
When he reached the end of the hall, he paused, glancing over his shoulder to check if anyone had followed him. The castle was old, but its walls had ears. Satisfied that he was alone, he turned left into a much narrower corridor—one few dared to walk without reason—and followed it until it ended at a forgotten staircase.
There was no mana lighting here. Only darkness thick as fog and just as heavy.
He squinted into the gloom, then spotted a lantern hanging crookedly on the wall. Reaching for it, his fingers brushed the metal—and instantly recoiled.
Hot.
Michael blinked, then stared at the lantern, his lips slowly curling into a familiar smirk. A soft chuckle slipped out before he could stop it.
"Well, well," he muttered to himself, amusement thick in his voice. "Hot to the touch. Someone's already gone down... I'd wager my next midnight escape it's my lovely maid."
He grabbed the lantern by its handle this time, opened the glass panel, and lit the wick. A warm light burst through the gloom, casting long, flickering shadows along the staircase walls.
Still smiling, he descended into the dark, the firelight flickering in his red eyes like a promise.
…
After searching the entire prison twice, Michael's face twisted into a frustrated grimace.
"Empty cells and wasted time," he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. "This is why I don't trust logic. It always ends up feeling like betrayal."
He stopped in the middle of the hall, staring at the iron bars around him like they'd mock him if they could. If Joan wasn't here, then where? The guards searched every wing, and he was sure—certain—she was hiding in the Keep.
But now? That certainty was unraveling fast.
"I can't be this wrong… unless someone helped her."
His thoughts raced faster than his heartbeat. Panic started curling around his mind like cold vines. The tightness in his chest built.
And then—
Snap.
Like a string breaking, the anxiety vanished. The tension in his chest dissolved. His mind, once a storm, became still.
Too still.
Michael blinked, frowned, then narrowed his eyes.
"…Stay out of my head, old man."
A raspy chuckle echoed from a nearby cell. "Ah, there he is. Still as dramatic as ever, Little Fang."
Michael turned sharply, a smirk already tugging at his lips.
"I was having a perfectly good breakdown, thank you very much," he called out. "You didn't have to go all mystic mind-whisperer on me."
"Your thoughts were loud enough to rattle the dead," the voice replied. "Had to quiet them before you exploded all over the walls."
Michael rolled his eyes, stepping toward the cell. "How touching. You always were good at fixing things no one asked you to touch."
"And you're still good at being a royal pain with a pretty face."
He stopped at the bars, peering inside. "Still breathing, huh? I was hoping you'd be a ghost by now. Would've been less annoying."
"I'm flattered," the old man said dryly. "Your insults are practically hugs."
Michael crossed his arms, leaning casually against the cell door. "So… what are you doing down here? Still hiding from your past or just waiting for mine to catch up?"
"Bit of both," the old man said, voice softer now. "But I wasn't expecting you tonight, lad."
Michael shrugged. "Neither was I. Thought I was hunting a traitor. Turns out, I might've just been chasing shadows."
"Hmm." The old man leaned forward from the shadows; his eyes faintly glowing. "Or maybe the shadows are chasing you."
Michael gave a crooked grin. "If they are, they're in for a surprise."