The grand iron gates of the Thorne estate loomed in the misty evening air, their intricate patterns of coiled serpents and thorns casting long, twisted shadows beneath the lanterns that flanked the entrance. The carriage rumbled to a stop in the cobblestone courtyard, and the moment the door opened, the girl stepped out, her movements rigid with frustration.
Her black hair, normally pristine, was slightly tousled from the long journey, but she paid no mind to her appearance. The weight of failure pressed against her shoulders, an unbearable burden that only grew heavier as she walked up the stone steps toward the entrance.
Her father was waiting.
The grand doors opened before she could reach for them, and there he stood in the dimly lit hall. The flickering chandeliers cast harsh shadows across his sharp, imposing features. His cold, steel-gray eyes locked onto her, piercing through her like an unforgiving blade.
But his gaze did not linger on her face. It fell to her hands.
Silence thickened between them like a slow-moving storm.
"You return," he said at last, his voice dangerously low, measured. "But without his head."
She clenched her jaw, her fingers twitching at her sides. "I—"
"Enough," he cut her off, stepping forward. His heavy boots echoed against the marble floor, the sound as ominous as thunder. His expression remained unreadable, but the disappointment that radiated from him was suffocating.
"You were gone for nearly a year," he continued, his voice cold and clipped. "You followed his every trace, every whisper of his name, and yet—"nothing." Not a body, not a drop of blood. Not even the tattered remains of his damn cloak."
The girl swallowed back the sharp retort that threatened to escape her lips. Her failure already burned deep within her, and yet hearing it from him made it unbearable.
"He was always just ahead of me," she bit out, her tone laced with restrained fury. "Everywhere I went, he had already left. Whether it was a day, an hour, or mere moments—he was always gone before I could reach him!"
Her fists curled, her nails digging into her palms as she fought against the simmering rage that clawed at her insides.
Her father's expression hardened further. "Excuses," he said simply, and the word sliced through her like a blade.
She lifted her head sharply, eyes blazing with barely contained fury. "I hunted him relentlessly!" she snapped. "I tracked him through the Andelheim Tournament, through the roads leading west, into the ruins of Verekhold, even across the northern border. I followed his trail, his supposed victories, the traces of his existence, but every time—every time!—he vanished into thin air!" ((N1))
Her breath was ragged now, her control slipping.
"He left no corpses behind, only rumors," she continued, her voice quieter but no less venomous. "No real allies, only the ghosts of those who had once fought beside him. His very existence is like chasing smoke."
A long pause. The fire in the hall crackled, filling the silence that stretched between them.
Then, her father exhaled slowly, his disappointment sharpening into something heavier, something laced with restrained fury.
"A man who was meant to be executed like a dog," he said coldly, "now moves like a phantom beyond our reach. That is what you are telling me?"
She said nothing, her silence an answer in itself.
His lip curled slightly, barely perceptible, but his contempt was clear.
"You failed," he stated plainly.
The words struck harder than any blow.
Her shoulders tensed, her breath hitching for only a fraction of a second, but it was enough.
"The Thorne family does not tolerate failure," he said, walking past her, the finality in his tone as cutting as a sword through flesh. "I gave you this task because I believed you capable. Because I trusted you would not return empty-handed."
He stopped at the base of the grand staircase, his back still to her.
"And yet here you are, standing before me with nothing."
Her hands clenched into fists, her nails biting into her skin so hard she nearly drew blood.
The girl stood rigid, her breath uneven as her father's words settled into her bones like ice. You failed. She had known it long before she had returned, known it with every step she took toward the estate, but hearing it spoken aloud still struck like a blade between her ribs.
She clenched her jaw, swallowing down the humiliation that threatened to choke her.
And yet, despite her failure, something gnawed at her—a question without an answer, a riddle without a solution.
How had he—Lucavion, the disgrace of the Thorne family—become this strong?
Her fingers twitched at her sides, her nails still digging into her palms, frustration pulsing through her.
"It doesn't make sense," she muttered, more to herself than to her father. Her voice was quiet but sharp, carrying the weight of her anger and confusion. "His name has spread too far, too fast. Sword Demon—that title shouldn't belong to him."
Her father turned his head slightly, steel-gray eyes flicking toward her, but he remained silent.
"I've spent the better part of this year chasing his shadow," she continued, the words bitter on her tongue. "And now, because of his name, it's even harder to track him. Every city, every town, every godsforsaken battlefield I went to—there were dozens claiming to be him. A wave of impostors, all eager to wear his mask."
Her voice darkened, thick with venom. "They die just as easily as the filth they are."
The only problem was that none of them were him.
The truth settled like a lead weight in her stomach. Wherever she went, Lucavion had already left. He was just ahead, just out of reach, a phantom that existed only in whispers and fading footprints.
Her father let out a long, slow exhale, his shoulders shifting ever so slightly before he turned toward the great windows of the estate hall.
The dim glow of lanterns flickered against the glass, casting shadows across his stern face. His fingers twitched at his side, curling slightly before relaxing.
"First, he awakened," he murmured, as though speaking to no one in particular. "Then he deserted."
A bitter scoff left his lips. "And now, he has somehow become a man whose name carries weight in the empire."
His gaze darkened as he looked beyond the window, beyond the mist-shrouded courtyard, toward the unseen lands that stretched into the horizon.
"It doesn't make any sense at all," he admitted finally.
The girl shifted slightly, her sharp gaze flicking to his profile. Her father was not a man prone to confusion. And yet here they both stood, unable to grasp how Lucavion had risen from disgrace to something beyond their control.
Her father let out a slow, deliberate sigh, his fingers pressing against the window frame. "And while we waste time trying to understand how this happened, the Thorne family's position continues to erode."
The girl's fists tightened. She knew it all too well.
The Dukedom of Valoria had already set their sights on them, their influence pressing harder and harder like a slowly tightening noose. The Thorne family had its share of enemies before, but Lucavion's desertion had given their political rivals a reason to strike at them with renewed force.
And now—now—some were even daring to accuse the Thorne family of aiding in his escape.
The thought alone sent a fresh wave of rage coursing through her veins.
"Assist him?" she spat, her voice sharp with disdain. "Assist that filth?!"
Her father remained silent, his gaze still fixed on the distant darkness beyond the glass.
"The accusations are growing louder," he admitted after a long pause. "Those who have always waited for a chance to see us fall are growing bolder. This time, they have something to sink their teeth into."
Her breath was steady, but inside, she burned.
Even now, even in his absence, he continued to be a thorn in their side—an insult to their name, a shadow they could not shake.
Her father finally exhaled, the sound heavy with exhaustion. But he did not turn to face her.
He knew she had done all she could.
He knew that even with her skill, with her relentless pursuit, tracking a ghost in an empire as vast as this one was near impossible.
"It is unacceptable," he muttered, his voice low, clipped. "That we, of all people, have no control over our own blood."