Chapter 23: Intruders (1)
by fnovelpia
The last of the dinner plates had been cleared.
Silver clinked against porcelain, conversations faded into yawns and goodnights, and the grand halls of the D’Claire estate, once warm with candlelight and laughter, began to surrender to stillness.
Outside, the storm gathered strength.
Thunder muttered in the far hills, a low and distant warning, while cold rain began to pelt the windows in uneven rhythm.
Wind howled through the trees at the estate’s edge, bending branches and sending dry leaves skittering like whispers across the stone paths.
In the dark, the riders returned.
Figures on horseback—cloaked, silent, faceless—emerged from the treeline like phantoms.
One by one, they took their positions in the rain, encircling the estate at a distance.
No torches.
No banners.
Just shapes in the storm, waiting.
Unseen.
Patient.
***
In a bedroom that was finally, undeniably his, Lucien groaned as he dropped face-first onto the mattress, muffling an expletive into the pillow.
“Why,” he muttered, voice hoarse, “does everything just keep escalating?”
The mattress creaked as he rolled onto his back, dragging a hand down his face.
His limbs ached in ways he hadn’t earned.
Sword drills, surprise guests, shady negotiations, and whatever that awkward moment at the orchid field had been.
His body had begged for rest the moment he’d woken up, and now, at the end of the day, it was still on red alert.
“I need a refund on this reincarnation package,” he grumbled, stretching his sore legs out.
“The ‘new life, same stress’ deal is not what I signed up for.”
He sat up, grimacing as he reached behind to massage the base of his neck.
Still, despite it all, he let out a breath—somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.
“Could be worse,” he said aloud, wryly.
“I could still be arguing with offshore insurers about whether a yacht counts as ‘sunk’ if it’s technically lodged in a whale carcass.”
The storm outside cracked louder.
Lucien didn’t flinch.
Down the hall, Vaelira reclined on a fainting couch, legs tucked beneath her, her long braid resting over one shoulder.
A leather-bound book lay open across her lap: Fundamentals of Mana Enfusement in Carbonized Steel: Revised Edition.
Her eyes moved with practiced speed, but her fingers tapped rhythmically on the page—a habit of hers when processing information.
‘Interesting,’ she mused silently, noting a diagram of runic flow etched into sword metal.
‘But still too volatile under pressure.’
Lightning flashed beyond her window.
She didn’t look up.
Only turned the page.
A brief image flickered in her thoughts—Lucien’s awkward stance during sword practice.
She sighed softly and shook her head, though the corner of her lips twitched, just barely.
***
In her room on the second floor, Thalia was already asleep, sprawled diagonally across her bed in a decidedly un-diplomatic posture.
Her leather satchel had been placed neatly on a chair.
On the bedside table, her Everwind-issued silver pin rested like a badge of quiet menace—polished, unassuming, and far heavier in significance than its size suggested.
The soft patter of rain against her window deepened into a steady drum.
She didn’t stir.
Elsewhere in the manor, the maids extinguished hallway sconces, trading tired goodnights in whispers before retreating to their dormitories.
Kitchen hands rolled down pantry shutters and secured the cellar.
The stable boys shut the gates and slipped inside the bunkhouse, glancing up at the sky with nervous eyes as the wind picked up.
At the edge of the estate grounds, in his toolshed-turned-cottage, Terrin lit a fresh wick in his lantern and adjusted the flame with practiced ease.
The wind groaned against the wooden walls, and he glanced out toward the orchard, brow furrowing.
“You old bastard,” he muttered to himself, “what was that nonsense about wind and bones?”
But he still checked the lock on his door. And he still set the shovel beside his bed before blowing out the lamp.
And in the manor’s west wing, Sir Richardson sat in his high-backed chair by the window, coat draped over the armrest, pen in hand.
Not writing.
Just turning the ivory thing between his fingers.
Raindrops traced cold lines down the glass before him.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, a clock ticked too loudly.
A soldier’s instinct.
A hush before musket fire.
A wrongness in the quiet.
His eyes flicked to the window again.
But there was nothing.
Only trees.
Only storm.
Only shadows.
And outside, the riders waited.
Unmoving.
Unbreathing.
The circle closed.
Night deepened.
And soon, the quiet would end.
***
The storm came in like a gift from the gods.
Wind howled through the hills, lashing rain over the countryside and blanketing the roads in muddy blackness.
No merchant would travel.
No patrol would wander.
No one sane would even open their shutters tonight.
And that was exactly why it was perfect.
Just behind the tree line bordering the D’Claire estate, dozens of cloaked figures gathered in a loose semicircle—saddles creaking, blades sheathed, and breath fogging in the chill air.
The scent of wet leather and sweat clung to them like a second skin.
At the center stood the man they called “the Crow.”
He wasn’t large, but he didn’t have to be. When he spoke, even the loudest shut their mouths like beaten dogs.
He held up a crooked finger.
“Only eight go in. Quiet, clean, through the storm-side wall. That’s the side with the greenhouse, no lights near the servant paths.”
A tall, wiry man to his left chuckled, spit in the mud, and asked, “Only eight? Thought this place didn’t even have a guard dog.”
The Crow didn’t smile.
He never smiled.
“Because if it does, I’d rather lose eight than forty.”
Another snorted.
“If it does, I say we just burn it to the ground and pick through what’s left.”
“And if it doesn’t,” said a third, younger and already fiddling with the buckle of his sword belt,
“we get in, bag the brats, and have a nice quiet night with some noble wine and a few—”
“You touch nothing,” the Crow snapped, voice like cut iron.
The group fell silent.
He scanned their faces, hood shadows flickering in the occasional flash of lightning.
“No gold. No girls. No wine. No trinkets. We take what we were paid for. That’s it.”
“Aw, come on,” someone muttered.
“Not even a silver spoon? Not even a peek?”
The Crow turned his head just slightly.
“Do I look like I want to get strung up in town square because one of you fingerless rats decided to pocket a candlestick?”
Grumbling rippled through the group, but no one argued again.
He continued.
“Rest of you spread out around the perimeter. Stay out of sight. Eyes on every possible exit. If the estate gets word out—” he tapped the side of his head, “—the town’ll be sending knights, dogs, and a bloody choir by dawn. We cut that off now.”
Another man yawned from atop his horse, pulling his cloak tighter.
“Storm’ll cover us anyway. No one’s hearing a damn thing.”
The Crow nodded at that.
“Exactly why we strike tonight. This storm’s our friend. The wind’ll swallow screams. The rain’ll wash the tracks. And anyone inside that house is going to be so warm and fat they won’t even piss straight when the blades come out.”
A round of dark laughter circled the group.
Some exchanged wagers.
Others bragged.
One lit a pipe and passed it along.
They were filth—but they were coordinated filth.
Broken men who knew how to work like wolves when there was meat on the table.
The Crow looked back at the estate—its stately silhouette barely visible through the curtain of rain.
“We go in thirty. First group moves then. The rest wait.”
He pulled the reins of his horse to the side, stepping into deeper shadow.
“Let’s make it clean. I want them gone before the wine in their cellar stops breathing.”
A bolt of lightning cracked the sky behind them, illuminating their jagged silhouettes like a chorus of death.
The estate still slept.
But not for much longer.
***
The wind had picked up.
The storm roared now like some ancient beast shaking its cage.
The Crow checked the sky, the hour in his mind.
The appointed time had long passed.
Still no signal.
No runner.
Not even a flicker of torchlight from within the estate.
He gritted his teeth and spat into the mud.
“What the hell are they doing in there?” he growled, more to himself than anyone else.
“I told them. Fast in, fast out. Bag the marks, gag the servants, out before the soup even cools.”
The men around him had begun to shuffle in their saddles.
Restless.
Annoyed.
One kept glancing over his shoulder like the trees might suddenly start whispering.
The Crow turned sharply and pointed to six men nearby—ones he knew wouldn’t stop to loot the wallpaper.
“You, with me. Rest of you keep your eyes on the goddamn walls. If anyone bolts, I want arrows in the air before they hit the hedges.”
“Aw, come on—” one began.
“Now.” the Crow snapped.
His tone left no room for argument.
They dismounted, moving through the thickening rain toward the outer wall.
The trees bent low from the wind’s force, and the old iron gate hung slightly ajar, creaking on its hinges like a coffin lid left open.
The Crow entered first.
And instantly, the world changed.
No crunch of gravel.
No hiss of wind.
No pounding rain.
The storm outside was still visible—lightning arcing across the sky in fractured streaks—but inside the estate grounds, it was as if someone had pressed a pillow over the ears of the world.
It was too quiet.
He turned to speak, but even his voice sounded… off.
Like it was swallowed halfway between his lips and the air.
The others paused too, looking around.
Even the dumbest among them could sense it now.
Something wasn’t right.
“What the…” one of them murmured.
“It’s like… like we walked into a tomb.”
The Crow didn’t reply.
His eyes were on the estate itself—towering above them in solemn stillness.
Not a single candle in the windows.
Not a single shadow moving across the curtains.
He motioned them forward, muttering curses about spellcraft and half-trained idiots who probably triggered some noble’s defensive magic with their grubby fingers.
Then came the shout.
“BOSS!”
It came from one of the men trying to follow behind them, just as he stepped through the wrought-iron gate. Or tried to.
He bounced off something.
He staggered back like he’d been elbowed in the ribs by the air itself.
“What the—?” he swore, and tried again.
This time, his hand stopped mid-air—just inches into the grounds—like it had hit a wall of glass.
The rest of the men outside started to gather around, poking, testing, whispering.
The Crow walked back quickly to the invisible edge. His own fingers met resistance, smooth and cold.
Solid, but unseen.
“What is this? A damn barrier?”
He stared down at the soil beneath his boots.
No sigils.
No runes.
Nothing obvious.
He could see the trees outside, and the men beyond them, their shapes slightly distorted like he was peering through warped water.
He cursed under his breath.
“Idiots must’ve triggered it. Of course they did.”
Behind him, one of his men fidgeted.
“Boss… we’re locked in?”
The Crow didn’t answer.
His gut twisted—tight and sharp, like the moment just before a trap snaps shut.
The storm continued to rage just outside the barrier.
Lightning strobed again, and this time, in the flickering shadows cast against the estate walls, something moved.
Something tall.
No footsteps.
No voice.
Just that feeling—primal and unwelcome—crawling up their spines like cold, wet fingers.
The Crow inhaled sharply.
He could taste the wrongness in the air.
But he had no choice now.
He turned to his men, voice low.
“Weapons out. Keep your mouths shut. If my first crew made a mess, we clean it and we leave. Understood?”
They nodded, though none looked convinced.
With blades drawn and eyes sharp, they began to approach the estate.
Behind them, the barrier shimmered faintly.
And the dark pressed just a little closer.
***
Author’s note:
Hello Hello ( ^_^)／
First off—thank you so much for reading this chapter!
Seriously.
It really means a lot that you’ve made it this far.
I still get nervous sharing these scenes, especially the quieter, build-up ones like this… but they are super important because… well… ( ⚆ _ ⚆ )
Let’s just say things are about to really pick up. ヽ(O_O )ﾉ
Like, storm’s-here-and-so-are-the-knife-wielding-nightmares kind of pick up.
So, please stay tuned!
The next chapters are going to be a lot, and I’m honestly kind of excited (and terrified) for you to read them.
There will be action, twists, and maybe a few moments where everyone screams internally. ( •̀ᴗ•́ )و ̑̑
Thanks again for being here.
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