The night sky remained unchanged, stars still scattered across the void. But the courtyard itself had transformed—shadows gathered thick where moonlight should have reached, an unnatural chill settling into the air despite the mild season. Wind moved through the enclosed space with unsettling purpose, carrying the scent of decay and old earth.

  Alph's eyes locked onto the figure perched on the neighboring rooftop. The Necromancer sat motionless, dark robes billowing in that impossible wind. Nothing of his face was visible beneath the deep hood save for two points of cold blue light—eyes that burned with frigid luminescence, studying Alph with measured interest.

  Alph stared back, refusing to break contact despite every instinct screaming to flee. His hand still gripped the bloodied dagger, the assassin's corpse cooling at his feet. Blood trickled from the wound in his shoulder, warm against skin that felt ice-cold in the Necromancer's presence.

  Neither moved. Neither spoke.

  The silence stretched between them, tension building with each passing heartbeat. Each waiting for the other to make the first move.

  The silence shattered with the creak of a door swinging open. Alph's heart lurched as he spun toward the sound.

  Geoffrey stepped into the courtyard, cleaver gripped in one hand and a torch held high in the other. His eyes swept the scene—the dead assassin, Alph's bloodied shoulder, the unnatural shadows, and finally the robed figure perched above.

  He moved with speed that shouldn't have been possible for a man of his years, placing himself between Alph and the Necromancer in two quick strides. The cleaver rose, pointing at the hooded figure on the rooftop.

  "I don't know who you are, but..." Geoffrey's voice dropped lower, carrying a weight that hadn't been there moments before. "Leave. Now. Or face the consequences."

  Surprise flickered in those cold blue eyes. Then a low chuckle emanated from beneath the hood, the sound carrying amusement rather than threat.

  The Necromancer's lips didn't move, but Geoffrey's entire body went rigid. His eyes widened, the cleaver wavering slightly in his grip. Whatever message had been transmitted directly into his mind left visible shock across his features.

  Alph's chest tightened with fear. He didn't understand what was happening—hadn't even registered the unnatural speed Geoffrey had moved with. His only thought was whether the Necromancer would hurt the man who'd shown him nothing but kindness.

  He tried to call out, to warn Geoffrey or plead or something—but his mouth wouldn't open. His body refused to respond.

  Shadow tendrils had wrapped around him the instant Geoffrey appeared, holding him motionless. Binding him in place like a specimen pinned for observation.

  Geoffrey's hand lowered, the cleaver dropping to his side. He turned to look at Alph, taking in the young man's contorted features, the strain of fighting against invisible bonds.

  The relief that had briefly crossed Geoffrey's face vanished, replaced by fury. He snapped his gaze back to the rooftop.

  "Uncle Corbin, stop it!" His voice cracked with anger. "That's the young master you're hurting!"

  The words hung in the air like a thunderclap.

  Alph's mind reeled. Young master? Uncle? Nothing made sense.

  The Necromancer—Corbin—went completely still. "Young master?" His voice carried genuine puzzlement, the theatrical mockery gone entirely.

  Then something clicked. Those cold blue eyes flew wide. "You don't mean..." His voice trailed off, disbelief threading through every word.

  Geoffrey nodded, his expression grim. "The very same."

  Every trace of casual amusement vanished from Corbin's demeanor. The playful malevolence that had defined their previous encounters evaporated like morning mist.

  He dropped from the rooftop in a single fluid motion, landing silently in the courtyard. The shadow tendrils binding Alph released immediately, withdrawing as if they'd never existed.

  Corbin crossed the distance between them and dropped to one knee, his hooded head bowing low.

  "Forgive me, young master," his voice carried none of its previous mockery. "I did not recognize you and caused you discomfort."

  Alph stood frozen, legs locked in place. His mind buzzed with confusion, thoughts colliding and fragmenting before they could form coherence. The Necromancer who'd orchestrated the forest corruption, who'd slaughtered soldiers and unleashed that abomination on Stoneford—kneeling before him. Calling him young master.

  Geoffrey calling this monster Uncle Corbin.

  None of it made sense. The pieces refused to fit together.

  Am I dreaming? The thought surfaced through the chaos. Did the poison actually work? Is this some hallucination before death?

  Geoffrey saw the sincere apology radiating from the kneeling Necromancer and immediately dropped to his knees beside Corbin, his weathered hands clasped together in desperate supplication.

  "Please, young master," Geoffrey's voice cracked with emotion. "Uncle Corbin meant no harm. He couldn't have known who you were." His words tumbled out in rushed pleading.

  "Uncle Geoff." Alph's voice cut through the night air, barely above a whisper. The confusion in his tone stopped Geoffrey's desperate words. "What's going on?"

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  The question hung between them like a blade suspended over fragile glass. Geoffrey's face went pale in the moonlight, his mouth opening and closing without sound. Beside him, Corbin remained motionless, still kneeling with his hooded head bowed.

  Geoffrey lifted his head slowly, meeting Alph's bewildered gaze. For a long moment, silence stretched between them—master and servant, nephew and uncle, secrets and truth colliding in the courtyard's shadows.

  "Both Uncle Corbin and I," Geoffrey began, his voice heavy with the weight of revelation, "are members of the Wincott family." He swallowed hard, forcing the words past years of careful concealment. "We are a subordinate family, young master. We have served the Ormfell bloodline for generations."

  The words struck Alph like physical blows. Ormfell bloodline. His bloodline. The secret he'd carried since Oakhaven—known only to Elara and Hemlock—now lay bare in the night air. The deepest truth of his identity, the reason his family had been hunted and slaughtered, spoken aloud by a man who should have been ignorant of such things.

  Alph's legs nearly buckled beneath him. The assassin's corpse at his feet, the Necromancer kneeling in his courtyard, Geoffrey's desperate plea—all of it seemed surreal against this fundamental shift in everything he thought he knew.

  "You..." Alph's voice failed him. He tried again. "You knew? This whole time, you knew who I was?"

  Geoffrey's shoulders sagged, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. For a moment he looked every one of his years, the weight of hidden truths finally taking visible toll.

  "I've been in Stoneford for sixteen years because of you and your aunt," he said, his voice steady despite the gravity of confession. "The patriarch of the Ormfell family—your grandfather—he ordered me here. To watch. To protect from the shadows."

  Alph's mind reeled. Grandfather. Another revelation, another piece of family he'd never known existed.

  "Sixteen years of doing nothing but watching made me... rust," Geoffrey continued, a bitter edge creeping into his tone. "But the patriarch's orders were explicit. Once you reached eighteen years of age, I was not to interfere with any path you chose. You were to be free to make your own decisions, face your own challenges." He paused, his gaze dropping to the ground.

  His voice softened, guilt threading through every word. "I'm sorry, young master Alph. For the deception. For pretending to be nothing more than a friendly merchant when I was supposed to be your shield."

  The revelation crashed over Alph like a wave. He shook his head slowly, trying to make sense of it all. A grandfather he'd never known. Protectors watching from the shadows. Sixteen years of careful distance.

  "I have so many questions, but..." His voice trailed off, the weight of too much truth in too short a time pressing down on him. He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to focus. "Let's deal with the present first."

  Both men still knelt before him in the moonlight. The sight made something twist uncomfortably in his chest.

  "Stand up," Alph said quietly. "Please."

  Geoffrey and Corbin rose to their feet. Alph's gaze shifted to the corpse at his feet, the assassin's blood still warm on the packed earth.

  "What about this one?" He gestured at the body.

  Geoffrey's brow furrowed, genuine confusion crossing his features. "I don't know. It makes no sense. You're at the height of local favor. An attack now draws more attention, not less."

  Corbin stepped forward, his movements careful, almost hesitant. The cold blue eyes beneath his hood fixed on Alph.

  "Young master, if I may be so bold..." He paused, as if weighing his words. "I might have a way to understand this person's motives. Would you give me the chance?"

  Alph nodded, his own curiosity matching the need for answers. He wanted to know who had sent this assassin and why.

  Corbin moved to the corpse and extended his hand above it, palm down. His voice carried an otherworldly resonance as he invoked Dead Communion.

  Sickly green light flowed from his outstretched palm, cascading down to envelop the dead man's body. The corpse jerked violently, and a translucent humanoid figure tore free from the flesh—a spectral form still wearing the assassin's features, its eyes hollow and unfocused.

  The temperature plummeted. Frost began forming on the nearby walls, and Alph's breath misted in the suddenly frigid air.

  Corbin nodded in satisfaction, then turned to face Alph. "Young master, you can ask the spirit any questions about its motives. Anything recent should pose no lack of clarity."

  The ghost floated there, suspended between death and interrogation, waiting.

  "Who are you?" Alph asked.

  "I am Diego." The spirit's voice was flat, emotionless—the deadpan tone of something compelled to answer.

  Alph's brow creased. The name meant nothing to him. He'd never heard of any Diego.

  "Who sent you to kill me?"

  "My master."

  The straightforward response confirmed what Alph had already begun to suspect—the spirit would answer directly, without elaboration unless pressed.

  "Who is your master?"

  For the first time, the spectral form wavered. Its translucent features twisted as if struggling against invisible bonds, resistance flickering across its hollow eyes. The struggle lasted only seconds before the compulsion won.

  The spirit spoke a name.

  Geoffrey's face went pale. Corbin's hooded head snapped toward Alph, those cold blue eyes widening with alarm.

  Alph stood frozen, unable to process what he'd just heard.

  The spirit's hollow voice spoke the name clearly. "His Highness Giovanni."

  The words hung in the frozen air. Alph's mind spun. What had he done to warrant an assassination attempt from a prince?

  "Why does your master want my life?" Alph pressed forward with another question.

  "Master said you spoiled his plans last time. Your growth surprised him, and he worries that if left unchecked, you will investigate the truth."

  The spirit's answer was longer this time, more descriptive than its previous deadpan responses. The detail only deepened the confusion.

  Alph stared at the translucent figure. He hadn't even known Giovanni existed until yesterday's banquet. How could he have spoiled any plans? What truth was there to investigate?

  Geoffrey, who had remained silent during the questioning, suddenly straightened. His eyes widened with dawning realization, his face shifting from confusion to something darker—understanding mixed with anger.

  But before Geoffrey could confirm his suspicion, the spirit began to fade, its translucent form wavering like smoke in a strong wind. The ghostly features of Diego grew indistinct, his hollow voice weakening with each passing second.

  An awkward sigh escaped from beneath Corbin's hood. He straightened, brushing dust from his dark robes with an almost embarrassed gesture.

  "My apologies again, young master," Corbin said, his tone carrying genuine regret. "It seems the ethereal essence of the dead required for the spell has run out. The communion can only last so long before the spirit is pulled back to whatever realm awaits it."

  The last wisps of Diego's spectral form dissolved completely, leaving only the cooling corpse in the courtyard. Alph stared at the empty space where answers had been moments before, frustration building in his chest.

  Geoffrey stepped forward, his weathered face grave in the torchlight. "I have a theory," he announced, drawing both Alph's and Corbin's attention to him.

  Alph turned expectantly toward the man who had been secretly protecting him for sixteen years. "What is it, Uncle Geoff?"