Cling-cling!

  Servants and footmen scurry around to set a long table in the luxurious dining room, laying down fine ivory plates and golden utensils across a saturated turquoise table mat. Itinerary so generously bought that these daily rounds of breakfast look as if a prince or princess could waltz right through the front door of the estate at any time and sit down to eat without anything amiss.

  A footman in blue jotted himself down a spiral of stair steps coming from the 3rd floor, “His Lordship Leonor wishes for his breakfast to be served in his office within the next 30 minutes.”

  “The patriarch sure sounds busy. Lord Leonor has been reading, writing, and signing documents since last night non-stop,” commented one of the servants setting the table.

  An older servant replied, “Honestly, those two are probably the only ones in this entire mansion that like to eat in private. I can practically see the table seething and boiling from the tension those siblings exude against each other at the dinner table.”

  “On that note, will young master Jakob be eating in his room again?” asked a young and seemingly inexperienced female servant.

  “Probably. He seldom comes down to eat with the rest of the family anyways,” responded the older maid, her developing wrinkles sunken around her cheeks.

  The inexperienced female servant perked up and asked, “Why doesn't he even bother coming down to eat with the rest of his siblings and the patriarch in the first place? I’m quite curious.”

  The other attendants in the know subconsciously hesitated for a second, half-expecting themselves to go missing in their sleep if they were to oblige whatever they had heard or known onto her.

  An old servant with graying white hair finally broke the silence.

  “Young master Jakob is an illegitimate son and heir, despite being the eldest out of all the Jakobster siblings,” she said with reverence. “The young master was originally meant to inherit the Jakobster family estates and guaranteed to assume the role of patriarch after his father. He was even named after the dynasty for heaven's sake." She hesitated.

  "But, the revelation of his birth changed things considerably.”

  “Ah, yes. The affair with the head maid. That was a scandal that spread even outside the county,” another servant murmured, shaking his head. “Not that the young master seems to mind. He’s… unusual. Bold, clever, and rather irreverent if you ask me.”

  The younger servant whispered, “I hear he doesn’t even try to impress the patriarch anymore. Does what he likes, and no one dares scold him. I don’t know how he manages it.”

  “Because he is the bastard son,” the graying maid replied. “He has nothing to lose. The legitimate heirs? They fear Lord Leonor.”

  “-Jakob? I’m not quite sure, really.”

  ```

  At the mention of my name, high in the north wing, I stirred in my bedchamber. I yawned, stretching long, lean limbs over the silk sheets. The morning sun had just begun to filter through the heavy curtains, and the faint aroma of freshly baked bread from the kitchen reached me. My eyes squinted against the light, and a lazy smile crept across my face.

  Nothing to do today.

  I swung my legs over the side of the bed, bare feet touching the polished oak floor. After my leisurely stretch, I tried to comb my golden blonde hair, a trait I inherited from my father, but later gave up on it after I found my hair too stubborn this early in the morning.

  I dressed with care, though not overly so. A fitted tunic of muted gray, soft trousers, and boots polished to a dull shine. I don't want to make the patriarch think I was completely careless, even if his leisure-driven disposition suggested otherwise.

  The knock came sharply at my door, polite but insistent.

  Who could it be this early in the morning...

  "Come in."

  A servant opened the door, bowing slightly. “Young master, his Lordship master Leonor, patriarch of the Jakobster Dynasty, Lord of all lands in the northern Territories of Frandor, and Subjugator of The Reb-”

  “-Yes yes, I know how awesome and cool my father is, cut to the chase.” I half-irritatedly raised my hand and stopped the servant's glaze.

  The servant cleared his voice, “Ahem” and spoke; “His lordship summons you to his office.”

  My brow arched.

  “Right now?”

  “Right now, yes.”

  Why? And here I thought today would be dull. Maybe father finally grew bored of keeping me hidden away. But it’s so early in the morning… what does this guy want with me?

  I stepped out of the room, closing the door behind me, and walked down the ornate hall toward the central chambers. The corridor was silent except for the muted clatter of my boots on the stone floor. Portraits of Jakobster ancestors lined the walls, eyes painted in eternal disapproval. I ignored them with practiced nonchalance.

  My father’s chambers were large and austere, dominated by a desk stacked with documents and ledgers. Leonor Jakobster, a man of measured presence and cold eyes, sat behind it. His sharp gaze did not waver as I entered.

  “Jakob,” father said without preamble. “You will be riding to the far reaches of our dynasty’s northern territories that lay beyond Jabbelore Forest. You are to assume command over a small and remote village by the name of Foklunn.”

  I blinked, holding the sentence in my mind. Foklunn. A remote village at the far edge of the territories beyond Jabbelore Forest. Father’s tone was clipped, emotionless. No warmth, no hint of concern.

  I finally understood my father's intentions.

  So this is his subtle way of getting rid of me without outright declaring it. Why don't you just kill me already?

  From what I remember though, the territories past Jabbelore Forest used to belong to the Ashwynn Dynasty before they fell during the Civil War. After the fall of the Ashwynns in the civil war, the king allowed for their territories to be absorbed by the Jakobster Dynasty as a reward for their loyalty.

  Hah, giving the long-overdue spoils of a civil war to his most rebellious son. What is this man thinking?

  I forced a polite nod, keeping my expression neutral. “I understand,” I said smoothly, my mind already racing with possibilities.

  To lounge in a manor, subordinates handling the work, and none of the piercing glares from those snobby bitches we call nobility. Actually, that doesn't sound that bad at all.

  Leonor did not offer approval or commentary. His gaze remained cold, measuring, as if the room itself were a chessboard and Jakob the next piece to be moved. I inclined my head politely and turned to leave, careful not to betray the thrill I felt at the thought of freedom, even under the guise of exile.

  The hallways of the Jakobster manor were quiet that morning, the usual bustle muted as if the house itself sensed the gravity of the moment. I moved with calm, my mind cataloging tasks. Packing, checking the carriage, ensuring no unnecessary attention would follow me.

  It was in the north wing corridor that I ran into my younger brother, Edwin, a boy two years my junior and just as sharp-tongued. Edwin lounged against the wall, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips.

  “Well, well, well.” Edwin said, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Off to your little vacation in Foklunn, are we? Don’t get lost, dear brother.”

  What the fuck does this guy want.

  Though I couldn't say it directly, my lips curled slightly, and I kept my snake tongue to myself.

  Edwin scoffed, stepping closer. “You’ve never done anything right in your life. The only thing you’ve inherited from our father are his looks. Everyone knows you’re a bastard, Jakob. You’ll never be anything but a bastard.”

  I stopped, meeting Edwin’s gaze squarely, but my body remained relaxed, fighting the internal urge to hurl profanities at Edwin right then and there.

  I need to be careful, an actual fight with Edwin ends badly for me, and I can’t afford to ruin this day.

  “If you’re done dispensing with the pleasantries, I’ll take my leave now.” I said mildly.

  Edwin’s smirk faltered, replaced by a scowl. “One day, you’ll be cast out of this family like a stray dog on the street; just what you deserve.”

  I only smiled faintly, turning to continue down the corridor.

  Ugh, so melodramatic. One day, Edwin will realize how tiring and boring being the 'perfect' heir actually is, while I get to do whatever I want.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  The carriage waited outside, a polished coach adorned with the Jakobster crest. Horses stamped their hooves impatiently, harnesses jingling as I stepped up. Servants and guards moved to assist me, loading my luggage with careful efficiency.

  A young servant came out at the very last second, "Your requested packed breakfast and lunch for the trip, young master." she hands him two small boxes of intricate wood and metal designs, wrapped in soft silky paper.

  As the coach rolled away from the Jakobster estate, the central territories began to fade from view. Fields of green stretched out in orderly rows, dotted with smaller estates and farmlands, until the sprawling manor was a distant silhouette against the morning sun. I leaned back, feeling the tension of his previous life ease just slightly with each passing mile.

  Foklunn lay at the far northern borders of the territories. The lands there were newly expanded after King Victorious I had granted the Jakobsters greater influence following the First Frandor Civil War. The journey would take days, but I welcomed this new quiet, and the chance to observe life beyond the scrutinizing eyes of central nobility.

  ```

  Two lean figures were present in the dimly lit office, a mess of documents scattered on the floor surrounding a polished oak desk. One was sitting directly behind the desk, busying himself with something. The other figure’s silhouette was almost merging with the first.

  It was none other than Leonor Jakobster himself.

  The patriarch sat in the dim light of his private study, a low fire flickering against the stone walls. Across his lap, a mistress leaned without shame, her laughter soft and teasing as her fingers traced patterns over the fine fabric of his tunic.

  Before them, there were masked figures that remained in a deep bowing position, almost as if they were awaiting further orders.

  “My shadows,” Leonor said, his voice calm, detached. “Follow Jakob."

  The masked figures bowed low, as silent and obedient as shadows themselves. Their leather armor absorbed the firelight with a dull glint. The patriarch’s gaze swept over them, unyielding, calculating.

  “My, my! I didn’t expect you to kill one of your own sons so brazenly, Leo!” the mistress said softly, tilting her head, curiosity mixed with amusement. “And that’s really hot.” she whispered as she playfully nibbled on his ear lobe.

  Leonor’s expression did not change. “No,” he said plainly, almost coldly. “I don't plan on killing him off so soon.”

  The words hung in the air, more chilling than any threat. The mistress raised an eyebrow, her smile fading slightly, unsure whether to laugh or shiver.

  Leonor gave one final order this his shadows,

  “Keep him alive.”

  ```

  Back in the carriage, I leaned lazily against the velvet upholstery, a stack of my traveling suitcases balanced haphazardly beside me. The wheels hummed beneath the floorboards in a steady, almost comforting rhythm. I lifted one suitcase and then another, pretending to assess their weight before setting them down again, nodding to myself as if I had just completed some crucial task.

  I pushed a small chessboard onto my lap and began moving the pieces in a self-play game, murmuring quietly as my fingers danced across the squares. Each move felt like a minor victory, each counterplay a small betrayal. It kept me awake. It kept me alert. It kept me… entertained enough to survive the trip.

  Occasionally, I picked up a wooden practice sword from the side of the carriage and swung it with practiced precision, letting the blade whistle through the air. Sometimes I struck the upholstery. Sometimes I struck my luggage. Mostly I struck nothing but the air.

  I feel like a schizo.

  The carriage traveled on, steady and smooth, the morning light spilling through the curtains in soft, warm lines. The plains outside drifted by lazily, calm and bright and peaceful in a way that almost made the boredom tolerable.

  Almost.

  But then the edge of the Jabbelore forest appeared ahead.

  It approached slowly at first, like a dark smudge on the horizon. The smudge grew into a vast, towering wall of tangled branches and swollen canopies. From a distance, it was already oppressive; a dark sea of green that promised nothing good. The closer we came, the more the sky dimmed, swallowed whole by the web of leaves overhead.

  The carriage passed beneath the first heavy boughs. Everything changed.

  The light vanished almost instantly. The temperature dropped. The cheerful morning air died in the throat of the forest, leaving behind a thick, cold stillness.

  The road beneath the carriage turned to mud, each wheel sinking a little deeper than the last. Stiff roots curled across the path like the spines of sleeping bnorths. Stones jutted out at odd angles, half-hidden beneath rotting leaves. The carriage groaned in protest, creaking with every inch we pushed forward.

  The horses snorted and shuffled nervously. Their hooves splashed through stagnant puddles. Every snort sounded louder than it should have. Every exhale puffed outward in a fog.

  Then the real bumping began.

  I gripped the sides of the carriage as the vehicle lurched violently to the left, then to the right. My suitcases toppled with a dull thud, the chessboard slid off my lap, and my wooden sword flew across the carriage with a clatter.

  The bumps became relentless. Sharp. Unpredictable.

  The forest pressed in closer and closer, branches scraping along the windows like bony fingers. The darkness thickened until I could barely see the path ahead through the small slit in the curtains. I felt caged. Trapped in a dark throat the carriage was slowly being dragged down.

  My earlier amusements felt like things done years ago. Swinging a sword in here now was suicide. The chessboard was hopeless. Stacking luggage was a fool’s errand unless I wanted a suitcase to break my nose.

  Minutes passed.

  The trees thickened around us, stretching taller and tighter, their branches weaving together overhead as if trying to cage the path. The carriage sank deeper into shadow, the light dimming until it felt like dusk despite the early hour. I shifted in my seat, rubbing my palms against my trousers, annoyed at how damp the air had become.

  Then more minutes passed.

  The forest seemed endless, each tree more gnarled than the last. Every so often, a distant sound echoed—something falling, something snapping, something moving just out of sight. I tried to distract myself with small tasks: rearranging my sleeves, adjusting the curtains, counting the grooves on the wooden window frame. Nothing helped. The air felt heavy, thick enough to swallow my thoughts, and the constant swaying of the carriage stirred my stomach uncomfortably.

  Then an hour.

  My world became a cycle of rocking, rattling, and bracing myself against the seat. The trees outside blurred together, nothing but streaks of black and green. The roads had grown far worse. Every bump shot up through the wheels, shaking the carriage so violently that my teeth clicked together. I rested my forehead against the cool glass of the window, trying to breathe through the tightness in my chest while the horses fought the uneven ground. My stomach churned with each lurch, the memory of breakfast rising like a threat I couldn’t ignore. I tried counting the seconds between each bump. There were no patterns. Only chaos.

  Then another hour passed.

  By now the gloom had grown oppressive, almost suffocating. I felt trapped in a moving box, swallowed by the endless stretch of forest. The air inside was hot, humid, and filled with the smell of old wood and jostled luggage. Every shift of the wheels dug deeper into my nerves. My bladder pulsed. My stomach rolled. My head throbbed from the constant jarring. I had long stopped trying to distract myself. The world outside was a solid mass of dark leaves, as if the forest itself wanted to pull me in. I pressed a hand to my abdomen, breathing slowly, trying not to gag as another wave of nausea hit. I needed air. I needed stability. I needed to get out before my insides rebelled entirely.

  The monotony fused with the constant rocking, leaving me nauseous and light-headed. My stomach churned violently, the memory of breakfast crawling its way back up into my throat. Every bump pressed my bladder harder against my ribs.

  I’m going to die of boredom before I even get to the village. Or before I get exiled. Or before I get eaten by some tree monster.

  Finally, I felt the nausea swelling too high.

  “Coachman!” I called out, my voice cracking over the creak and groan of the carriage. “Stop! I need air.”

  The carriage slowed immediately. The horses, grateful, came to an uneasy halt.

  I clambered out as quickly as I could, stumbling a little when my boots sank into soft, damp earth. The air outside was cold and heavy, thick with the scent of wet bark and decomposing plants. Droplets clung to the leaves like beads of glass. The air tasted stale, almost metallic.

  I looked around desperately for the widest, sturdiest tree I could find.

  There; near the split path, a massive trunk twisted like a coiled serpent.

  I dashed toward it. My stomach heaved.

  I braced myself against the trunk and let the contents of my breakfast spill out over the roots. The bitter taste of bile burned up my throat, stinging my nose and forcing my eyes shut.

  I tried to swallow it back. I grimaced, breathing hard.

  ...I should've waited for my stomach to settle down from breakfast for a bit before setting off.

  ...

  I felt a touch on my shoulder.

  It pressed lightly at first, almost like someone resting their hand there to steady me.

  But it felt too cold to be a human hand.

  My thoughts froze. I whipped around instinctively,

  But there was nothing.

  The forest stretched outward, silent and unmoving. No footsteps. No breathing. No rustling. Even the air felt suspended, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

  A chill slid down my back.

  Then deeper.

  Almost into my spine.

  A GASHING PAIN TORE THROUGH MY SPINE!

  A blade slid between my ribs with a sickening, effortless glide.

  A cold burst of agony shot through my entire body.

  My knees buckled. My breath fled my chest.

  I collapsed forward, catching myself on trembling hands as my vision spun wildly.

  Shapes flickered to my left.

  Figures in the distance. Familiar silhouettes.

  I blinked hard, my sight blurring. But I knew them. Even in this hellish gloom, even with the fog blurring their outlines, I knew them.

  My father’s shadows. The elite forces of our house that fought in the First Frandorian Civil War.

  They lay scattered across the forest floor like broken dolls. Each one had the same wound; horrific holes in their chests and faces, as if their lives had been snatched away in a single, silent strike. No struggle. Just… a bloody mess of a butchering.

  Father’s shadows…? What're they doing here...

  No… no, no. I can’t die like this…

  not here… not now… please, anybody-

  I could feel the pulses of my heart gradually slowing down, diminishing my ability to think & making my thoughts turn numb and slow.

  My last breath came fast, sharp, shallow.

  Life's...

  ...a bitch.

  And then the world went black.

  ```

  My eyes snapped open. The hallway of the Jakobster estate stretched out before me, sun spilling across the polished floor. Edwin stood there, smirking, arms crossed, just as he had moments ago. The familiar portraits of ancestors stared down in eternal judgment.

  My breaths came in short, uneven gasps. My hands shook slightly, still gripping the edge of the wall for support.

  No. That… that didn’t just happen. The memory of the forest, the Jabbelore trees, the cold touch, the stabbing, it had been vivid, real, terrifying.

  I stumbled back a step, clutching my chest. Sweat dampened my hair, and my stomach felt hollow.

  Was it a dream? A vision?

  Edwin tilted his head, confusion faint in his smirk. “Jakob? You look like you’ve seen a ghost, ya’ scared to go on this little vacation? brother?”