[Oliver's PoV]

  'Mordred.'

  Oliver didn’t know what Mordred had looked like as a boy, nor the design of the old Lot uniforms. Yet here he was, trapped inside the past, a passenger in someone else’s body, watching a memory unfold as vividly as life itself.

  He couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. He was just… there. Seeing through Mordred’s eyes, feeling the faint echoes of his heartbeat, the weight of his breath, the thoughts that weren’t his own.

  'He knew John and Arthur,' Oliver realized slowly, piecing together the fragments. 'Arthur… was Katherine’s older brother.'

  Oliver remembered the reports. A mission gone wrong. A disappearance in deep space.

  Now, he was seeing the ghost, most likely, in the final moments.

  Mordred didn't stop. He kept walking and running the way Gareth had left.

  His boots crunched against gravel as he entered what looked like a transit station. He descended several flights of stairs.

  At the bottom, the space opened into what looked like a subway gallery, though it was far more advanced than anything Oliver had ever seen. The architecture was seamless, white alloy walls curved into a long, hollow tunnel that seemed to stretch endlessly in both directions.

  Mordred paused at the edge of the platform, glancing left, then right, searching for Gareth. He ran the length of the station, scanning every corner. But there was no one.

  When he reached the far end, he stopped.

  He sighed, dragging a hand down his face.

  Oliver could feel the frustration, the exhaustion, the quiet ache of disappointment that wasn’t his but felt real.

  Then the sound came.

  A low, rising rumble.

  Mordred looked up, his eyes narrowing as the vibration grew stronger, the air around him trembling. The walls shuddered faintly as a train approached from the tunnel.

  It moved fast, too fast, but as it neared the station, its velocity dropped in an almost unnatural way.

  The train slid to a stop in perfect silence.

  Every door remained closed. The carriages' reflective surfaces gave no hint of what lay inside.

  Then, with a mechanical hiss, a small section of the barrier disengaged, forming a narrow bridge between the platform and the train’s entrance.

  Mordred hesitated.

  He turned, his gaze flicking back toward the stairs he had come from. For a moment, Oliver felt the indecision. However, with a shake of his head, Mordred stepped inside and took the train.

  Oliver didn’t know where Mordred was going. He didn’t even know when this was. The train continued its silent journey through the tunnels, the rhythmic hum of its engines the only sound breaking the monotony. Stations came and went in a blur of light and motion. People entered, people left, faces that meant nothing to him, fragments of a life that wasn’t his.

  Time blurred.

  And then, just as Oliver’s focus began to drift, Mordred moved.

  The boy’s body stirred. The train slowed, the mechanical voice announcing the next stop.

  When the doors opened, Mordred stepped out without hesitation.

  He took the stairs two, three at a time, his movements quick and practiced. But instead of emerging into the open air, he turned sharply, slipping into one of the side exits.

  The tunnels narrowed, the metallic walls giving way to smoother, reinforced panels. And after a few turns, the passage opened into something else entirely.

  Oliver blinked.

  They had entered a city beneath the city, a massive enclosed district built under a transparent dome.

  Artificial light filtered through the translucent barrier above, simulating daylight. The sky was a soft, painted blue, streaked with the illusion of clouds. Rows of houses, not towers, not industrial blocks, but homes lined the streets. Each one was built in the old style, with stone facades and arched windows, the kind of architecture that belonged to the noble Houses.

  Mordred didn’t slow. His small boots clicked against the cobblestones as he wove through the narrow lanes.

  Finally stopping before one of the larger buildings. Its design was unmistakable: tall columns, ornate carvings, and the sigil etched above the doorway.

  The Lot crest.

  Mordred pushed open the heavy wooden doors and slipped inside. The interior was warm and dim, the scent of polished wood and old books filling the air. The décor was classical, portraits in gilded frames, marble statues, and chandeliers.

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  As soon as he crossed the threshold, a figure approached. A butler, tall and composed, his uniform immaculate. His hair was silver, his posture rigid, but his eyes softened at the sight of the boy.

  “Master Mordred,” the man said, bowing slightly.

  “Hi, Nuno!” Mordred greeted, his tone bright, almost cheerful. The warmth in his voice startled Oliver; it was such a sharp contrast to the cold, calculating man he knew.

  “Have you seen Gareth?” Mordred asked, the name carrying genuine affection.

  “Yes, sir,” Nuno replied smoothly. “He is in his room, preparing for the trip.”

  “Thanks!” Mordred said, already moving.

  Oliver felt the familiar surge of energy as the boy sprinted down the main hall. He reached the grand staircase, a sweeping spiral of dark wood and marble, and began to climb two steps at a time.

  The hallway stretched long and quiet, lined with portraits of ancestors whose eyes seemed to follow every step. Mordred’s smaller feet made no sound as he moved. He didn’t even think about it anymore. He had learned long ago how to walk without being heard, how to move like a shadow.

  Oliver, trapped inside the boy’s body, could feel the tension in his muscles, the lightness of his steps. Even the wooden floorboards, old and prone to creaking, remained silent beneath him.

  At the far end of the corridor, to the right, was Gareth’s room, the youngest’s. To reach it, Mordred had to pass by the family’s private offices, his parents’ quarters.

  As he neared the door, a voice cut through the quiet.

  “Are you insane? It’s impossible!”

  The words hit like a slap. Mordred froze mid-step. Oliver felt the sudden jolt of adrenaline in the boy’s chest, the instinctive pull of curiosity overriding caution.

  Mordred crept closer, pressing himself against the wall, peering at the small gap in the old wooden door.

  Inside, the air was thick with tension.

  He couldn’t see the entire room, but through Mordred’s eyes, he caught glimpses. Three figures sitting around a large central table.

  “For God’s sake, Beatrice, talk some sense into Godfrey!”

  The voice came from a man sitting near the center of the room. He was older, heavyset, his uniform straining around his midsection. Sweat glistened on his forehead despite the cool air, and he shifted restlessly in his chair.

  Across from him stood another man, tall, broad-shouldered, his short black hair neatly combed, his uniform pristine. His expression was calm but resolute. The insignia on his shoulder marked him as part of the York House, and his features were unmistakable.

  He looked so much like John that Oliver’s breath caught.

  “No, Ludwig, I am thinking clearly,” Godfrey York, the family patriarch. His tone was steady, but his eyes burned with conviction. “You know as well as I do that we can’t keep this hidden any longer. One Great House knowing was bad enough. But now two? Word will spread. It’s only a matter of time before all of them know.”

  Ludwig’s face twisted in frustration. “And what then? You think they will let this go? They will wait for us to be ready to fight?”

  Before Godfrey could answer, another voice joined the conversation—softer, but commanding in its own way.

  “Ludwig, he’s right. We can’t keep pretending everything is fine. You were the first to uncover the emperor’s farce; it didn’t take us much longer. Sooner or later, there will be a revolt against the Emperor and this ‘god'.”

  Oliver’s gaze shifted toward the source.

  A woman stood beside Godfrey, tall, poised, her presence filling the room even though she hadn’t raised her voice. Her hair was long and golden, cascading in soft curls down her back. Her eyes were sharp but kind, her expression calm yet unyielding.

  Beatrice York.

  Oliver recognized her immediately.

  Even though he never met her. The resemblance to Katherine and Arthur was undeniable.

  “You’re not going to tell anyone, are you?”

  Ludwig’s voice trembled, the fear in it barely masked by the veneer of authority. His hands fidgeted on the table.

  “Of course I’m going to tell them,” Godfrey said, his tone steady, resolute. “Everyone deserves to know. We’ve been fighting this war for decades, bleeding, dying. It hasn’t moved an inch. Now we know why. Someone is pulling the strings.”

  He struck his hand against his thigh with a sharp thud.

  Ludwig’s eyes widened. “Godfrey, it’s a god.” His voice cracked on the word. “You don’t understand. I’ve seen this before. My father tried to expose them. They know everything. Maybe not every thought, not every whisper, but they’re watching. Always. They see enough.”

  His voice dropped to a near-whisper, trembling with paranoia. “They’re always watching.”

  Godfrey exhaled slowly, his jaw tight. “I know losing Cecily broke you, Ludwig. But courage isn’t pretending you’re not afraid, it’s standing tall in spite of it. We can’t—”

  “You don’t understand!” Ludwig snapped, slamming his palm on the table. The sound was sharp, final. His face twisted into something desperate, haunted. “None of you do.”

  He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the polished floor. His voice softened, the anger fading into resignation. “For your sake, for your family’s, forget everything we talked about. Don’t even think about it.”

  Godfrey rose to his feet, his expression unyielding. “You know I can’t do that.”

  The scrape of his chair startled Mordred into motion.

  He bolted.

  Oliver’s perspective lurched as the boy turned and sprinted down the hall. He didn’t look back.

  But something was wrong.

  The hallway stretched longer than it should have.

  The familiar doors, the portraits, the ornate patterns in the carpet, all of it began to distort. The more he ran, the farther away the end of the corridor became.

  He pushed harder, lungs burning. The door to Gareth’s room was right there, just ahead.

  But it didn’t get closer.

  No matter how fast he ran, it stayed the same distance away, taunting him.

  Then, suddenly, the world faded.

  The walls fell away like mist. The floor vanished beneath his feet. The ornate hallway, the doors, even the air itself dissolved into nothing.

  For a moment, there was only darkness.

  Then the light returned, cold and gray.

  Oliver blinked, disoriented. He was standing again, but not in the mansion.

  He was outside.

  The sky above was grey, clouds swirling violently, the wind cutting across his face like blades. The air was sharp, carrying the scent of rain.

  He looked down.

  The grass beneath his boots was wet, trampled. Rows of people stood in silence, their uniforms dark against the pale horizon. Soldiers, nobles, civilians, they all faced the same direction, heads bowed.

  Mordred’s hands were clenched into fists at his sides. His knuckles were white, his nails biting into his palms.

  “Today, we honor the lives and deaths of Godfrey and Beatrice York,” a voice announced.

  Mordred didn’t look up.

  He couldn’t.

  “As well as that of Gareth Lot.”

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