Legacy of Death

Arthur sat up, his breath uneven, his body still trembling from the aftermath of whatever had just happened. The shadows in his room felt deeper than before, stretching toward him in a way that made his skin crawl.

His fingers curled into the bedsheets. He wanted to dismiss it all—a nightmare, a hallucination, his mind cracking under everything he'd been through.

But the weight in his chest said otherwise.

Something had changed.

And no amount of denial would undo it.

The whispering started softly.

A faint, slithering murmur that coiled around his thoughts, barely distinguishable from the silence. Arthur's grip on the sheets tightened.

At first, he thought it was just his mind playing tricks on him.

Then the voices became clearer.

"He stirs."

"The heir awakens."

"He does not yet know, but soon—"

Arthur bolted upright, his heart hammering. His gaze snapped to every corner of his room, but there was no one there. Just the dim glow of the morning sun filtering through his window.

His jaw clenched. No. Hell no.

If the universe thought he was just going to accept whatever the hell was happening to him without a fight, it had another thing coming.

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he forced himself to stand. His body was sluggish, muscles sore as if he'd been in a battle he didn't remember. He ignored it, heading straight for the bathroom.

Cold water. That was what he needed. Something real.

The moment he flicked on the sink, he caught his own reflection in the mirror—and his breath stopped.

For a fraction of a second, the eyes staring back at him weren't his own.

They were darker. Sharper.

Wrong.

Arthur took a shaky step back. His pulse pounded in his ears. The reflection remained unchanged now—his usual stormy gray eyes, the same tired face he saw every morning.

But he had seen it.

He knew he had.

A sudden knock on his bedroom door made him flinch. "Arthur?"

Eleanor.

Arthur exhaled sharply, gripping the edges of the sink as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded.

"Get a grip. Pull yourself together."

With one last glance at his reflection—still normal, still him—he turned off the faucet and walked back to his room.

Eleanor was waiting, arms crossed. Her hazel eyes scanned him with something between concern and suspicion. "Dad wants to talk to you."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Of course he does."

Eleanor's gaze narrowed. "What the hell is going on with you?"

Arthur scoffed, running a hand through his hair. "Oh, you know. Just the usual. Betrayal, suspension, possible descent into insanity. It's been a real blast."

Eleanor didn't laugh. She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "You've been different, Arthur. And don't you dare give me that sarcastic bullshit—I know you."

Arthur met her stare, the sharp retort already forming on his tongue. But then he saw it—the slight crease in her brow, the way she was gripping her own arm.

She wasn't just suspicious.

She was worried.

And for some reason, that made something in his chest tighten.

Arthur sighed. "Look, I'm fine. Just tired."

Eleanor studied him for a long moment before finally nodding. "Dad's waiting downstairs."

Arthur muttered something under his breath and followed her out of the room.

But as he walked down the hallway, something made him pause.

For just a moment, he could have sworn he heard a voice whispering from the mirror he left behind.

"Not yet."

He didn't turn around.

He kept walking.