Chapter 5 - The Trap Springs Shut
Before Rowan could fold the document and slip it into his coat, a heavy hand slammed down onto his shoulder.
"Curiosity, Mr. Mercer, is a fatal affliction in this house," a cold, patrician voice echoed through the dim archive.
Rowan spun around, wrenching himself free. Standing in the doorway was Lord Alaric Blackthorn himself. Despite his seventy-two years, the patriarch stood tall, clad in an embroidered ceremonial coat, flanked by two armed household guards whose drawn sabers gleamed in the candlelight. Behind them, stepping out of the shadows, was the estate steward, holding a heavy iron cage.
"You're hunting the wrong things, Lord Alaric," Rowan said, his voice dropping an octave as he clutched the incriminating document against his chest. "Or maybe you've spent your whole life hunting your own blood."
Alaric’s expression did not flicker with surprise; instead, a dark, venomous smile touched the corners of his thin lips. "You always were an obstinate parasite, Rowan. Just like your mother, sneaking around corners, thinking a simple winter storm would finish what she started when she stole you away from my cradle."
Rowan’s blood ran cold. The words slammed into him with the force of a physical blow. Your mother. Not a foster home. Not an orphanage. His mother had hidden him—had given him up to a poor mountain family to save him from the very monster standing across the room.
May you like
"Seize him," Alaric commanded softly. "And bring the ledger. The cleansing of the estate is nearly complete."
The guards lunged forward, their heavy boots crashing against the hardwood floor. Rowan ducked beneath the first swing, kicking backward into the shin of the second guard, but the sheer numerical advantage proved overwhelming. A heavy blow to the back of his head sent stars bursting across his vision, and he collapsed onto the Persian rug as the world faded to black.
