Everybody was crying.

  Especially Seraphine.

  Her eyes, red and swollen, had darkened like the storm brewing in her chest. She clutched Tobey’s lifeless body with a grip so tight it seemed she’d never let go. His small form, limp in her arms, still wore the faintest trace of warmth, but it was fading fast.

  No one dared to touch her.

  More specifically—no one dared to come near him.

  Not Reed. Not Marin.

  She wouldn’t even let them step close. Her gaze toward the outsiders burned with something far from grief. Grief, at least, could be shared. What Seraphine felt now was turning to something else.

  Elias stood in the corner of the room, unusually quiet. His arms crossed, jaw tight. No tears fell from his eyes—he’d expected this. They both had. The moment the witch spoke of impostors and death, he knew this was coming. He just didn’t know it would happen so soon… or to Tobey.

  Bridget stood beside him, composed as ever. Unblinking. Silent. Yet her eyes watched everything. Not emotionless, but unreadable. As if she, too, had seen this coming.

  Elias wanted to check the body. He knew they needed to investigate—he had to. If he couldn’t save Tobey, he had to protect the ones still breathing. But telling Seraphine to let go of her little brother’s corpse…? He didn’t have the heart.

  She had raised him like a son. And now he was—

  Bridget stepped a little closer to him, sensing his hesitation. She didn’t speak. She never needed to. Her presence alone reminded him of his duty.

  After nearly an hour of sobbing, Seraphine finally stirred.

  Elias stepped forward, gently. “Seraphine… I need to examine him.”

  He braced for shouting. For sps. For fury.

  But it didn’t come.

  She looked at him, trembling. And slowly… she nodded.

  Carefully, she lowered Tobey onto the carpet and backed away. Her hand lingered a moment too long on his cheek. Her eyes glistened, but she stepped aside.

  “I’m trusting you,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Find who did this. Find them and kill them.”

  Her fists clenched. “I want revenge. I want to kill that witch. I want them all dead.”

  She was sobbing again by the time she finished, shoulders shaking with fury and sorrow tangled into one.

  Elias walked to her, unsure of what to say. Words didn’t come. Instead, he gently reached out and rested a hand on her head.

  She flinched—he was taller than her now, always had been—but she didn’t pull away. He ruffled her hair, awkward but sincere. The gesture surprised them both.

  They were siblings, but in this moment… it was the first time in years they felt like it.

  Still, Elias couldn’t ignore the flicker in her eyes.

  When she turned to sit, her gaze lingered—too long—on Reed and Marin. A look Elias knew too well. Not grief.

  Suspicion.

  He watched in silence as Seraphine sat down, arms folded tight.

  She was already drawing lines in her mind. Family on one side. Outsiders on the other.

  And things were about to get much, much worse.

  Elias knelt beside Tobey’s body.

  There were no wounds. No bruises. No blood. Just stillness—as if something had quietly stolen the breath from him, like a thief in the night.

  “Could it be magic?” Elias wondered aloud.

  The thought made him pause. Then he shook his head. No. That was ridiculous. If the impostors could use magic to kill without leaving a trace, they would have won already. There had to be something more grounded. Something real.

  He carefully checked Tobey’s small belongings. A paper toy—Lina always made them for him. A tiny wooden comb, one Seraphine insisted he carry everywhere, no matter how often he forgot it. And a folded scrap of paper—probably something Tobey had grabbed when they fled the rebel attack days ago. Nothing strange. Nothing suspicious.

  Elias sat back on his heels.

  There were three mysteries, he reminded himself: How, who, and why.

  Why was easy. Because someone in this mansion wanted the rest dead. Because there were impostors. Killers.

  But how Tobey had been killed... and who had done it... those answers were still shadows.

  He leaned in again, scanning the body for any detail he’d missed.

  And then—he saw it.

  A faint line of foam clinging to the edge of Tobey’s lips.

  Elias's stomach dropped.

  He wasn’t a doctor, but he’d seen this before. A poison—famous among assassins, once used to kill nobles in their sleep. It left no trace, no smell, and no taste. On adults, its effects could go unnoticed. But in a child...

  Foam. Weak breathing. Sudden colpse.

  It was rare. Expensive. And nearly untraceable.

  The killer had made a mistake.

  They used the perfect poison… on the wrong target.

  Elias didn’t say it aloud, but others were watching. And they saw it too—the foam.

  Whispers passed through the room.

  Poison.

  The word was enough to send fresh chills across everyone’s skin.

  Elias stood and walked to the table where Tobey’s half-eaten food remained. Bridget had cooked it, as she always did. But something was off. Bridget always made more than Tobey could ever eat. The portion was untouched—except for what he had taken himself.

  Elias turned to her.

  “Bridget. Taste it.”

  The room went still.

  Marin gasped. “Are you insane?! That food might’ve been poisoned!”

  Seraphine said nothing. Her eyes had locked on Bridget long ago. Her silence wasn’t approval—it was focus. Obsession. Rage.

  But Bridget... she didn’t hesitate.

  She walked to the table, picked up the spoon, and took a bite.

  The room held its breath.

  She chewed. Swallowed.

  Nothing.

  She turned to Elias, calm and composed, eyes unreadable. “It’s clean.”

  Marin exhaled loudly in relief. “That was reckless,” she snapped.

  Elias didn’t respond. Not right away. He stared at Bridget for a long moment, as if something had passed between them no one else could see. His expression was unreadable—somewhere between cold and protective.

  It was strange.

  The same man who had ordered her to risk her life had also looked like he would die if anything happened to her.

  A contradiction.

  Or maybe not.

  He turned back to the table. “It wasn’t the food.”

  He looked toward the others now—Reed, Marin, Lina. His voice was low.

  “So... how did the poison get in his body?”

  No one answered.

  Elias sat frozen.

  He had thought through every possibility—every angle, every timeline—but no answer came.

  Tobey had always been watched. Always supervised.

  When awake, he was with Seraphine, Lina, and Reed—pying, ughing, under eyes that never strayed. And when he’d fallen asleep, he y curled on Seraphine’s p, the very center of the room. Under everyone's gaze.

  There had been a moment, a tiny window—two or three minutes—when Seraphine had left his side.

  But even then, Bridget had been standing quietly nearby. Elias himself had never taken his eyes off the group. No one had approached. No one had touched him.

  So how?

  What piece was he missing?

  His mind ran in circles. Nothing fit. Every theory colpsed under contradiction or ck of proof.

  Seraphine was staring at him, her eyes sharp and expectant. Her disappointment wasn’t loud—it didn’t need to be. Elias felt it like a knife.

  Still, she waited. Patiently. As if she believed he could pull an answer from thin air.

  But hours passed. Three of them.

  And Elias remained silent.

  He didn’t want to accuse the wrong person. He didn’t want to say something that would make Seraphine snap. Because if she believed she had found her brother’s killer... no one could stop what she'd do.

  So he shifted his strategy.

  Not accusations.

  Questions.

  He started with Lina.

  “Tobey had a paper toy,” Elias said. “One of yours?”

  She flinched. “Yes,” she said, voice trembling. “I gave it to him.”

  “Why?”

  “I was showing it to Reed. Tobey liked it... so I let him have it.”

  He nodded slowly. “Where’d you get the paper?”

  Her eyes flicked to Reed. “From his pocket. He had a few.”

  Elias turned to Reed.

  Reed blinked, confused. “I always carry some paper. I had some in my pocket the day we were attacked.”

  It made sense. There was no one to confirm it—but who would question such a small detail?

  Still... a small thing could be everything.

  Next, Elias looked at Seraphine.

  “The comb,” he said. “You gave it to him?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I always do.”

  “And... the perfume?”

  She hesitated—then nodded. “Yes. That morning, before the attack, I put a tiny vial in his pocket.”

  Elias’s breath caught.

  Wait.

  The perfume.

  “Where is it?” he whispered.

  His mind reeled. He had checked Tobey’s pockets. He remembered the comb, the toy, the paper...

  But not the perfume.

  Was it lost when they ran? Or...

  Was it taken?

  His gaze dropped back to the small body wrapped in cloth.

  Could the perfume have been swapped?

  Was that how it was delivered?

  He didn’t know yet.

  But something had shifted.

  Something clicked in his mind, faint as a whisper.

  The key wasn’t in what Tobey ate.

  It was in what he carried.

  Elias had made progress—but only just.

  He now had a theory. A pusible one.

  Tobey hadn’t been poisoned through food. That much was clear. His belongings were next. And among them, one thing was missing:

  The perfume.

  Seraphine confirmed she gave it to Tobey that morning. But it was gone now.

  Vanished.

  It wasn’t much, but it was something. Elias could reasonably assume the perfume had been used to deliver the poison, and that the killer—whoever they were—had taken it back to hide the evidence.

  But that left one impossible question:

  When?

  Tobey had never been alone. He had been surrounded at all times—by family, by people who were always watching. Even in those short moments when Seraphine stepped away, others were present. Bridget. Elias himself. Marin. Lina. Reed.

  Someone would have seen something.

  Unless... it had been done right under their noses.

  Elias exhaled and turned back to the group.

  “Did anyone take anything from Tobey? Anything at all?” he asked quietly.

  One by one, they answered. “No.” “No.” “Of course not.”

  He listened. Watched. Waited for a flicker of guilt, a hesitation. But there was nothing. Not even a blink out of pce.

  Another dead end.

  So, he changed his approach.

  A full check.

  He started with Reed—quiet, still, cooperative. Nothing unusual in his pockets. No perfume. No residue. Nothing to note.

  Bridget was next. Always calm. Always unreadable. She stood still, arms slightly apart, gaze steady on Elias as he searched. Just her usual items: cleaning cloth, hairpin, a small pouch of herbs she carried as routine.

  Then Lina. Just the folded paper, which Reed had given her. Harmless.

  Seraphine had more—a pendant, some hair ties, her usual kit of family items. But nothing out of pce. Nothing that didn’t belong.

  That left Marin.

  When Elias turned toward her, she stiffened.

  Her face flushed faintly red. “Um… would it be okay if... Bridget checked me instead?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

  Elias blinked. Then nodded.

  He understood.

  Seraphine and Lina were his sisters. Bridget was… well, Bridget. But Marin wasn’t family, and she wasn’t unfeeling like Bridget. She was embarrassed.

  He gestured to Bridget. “Go ahead. But I’ll supervise.”

  Bridget stepped forward with practiced efficiency, not a trace of hesitation. Marin stood still, flustered but compliant.

  Elias watched carefully.

  Bridget checked every fold of Marin’s coat, the inside of her sleeves, her pockets, her belt, even the cuffs of her boots.

  Nothing.

  No perfume vial.

  No scent.

  No trace.

  Just like that, they were back where they started.

  Another dead end.

  Elias frowned. His mind was sharp—but the answer kept slipping through like mist through fingers.

  If the perfume had been used... and it had been taken...

  Where was it now?

  No human had it.

  Then maybe... it was hidden.

  That thought became Elias’s second approach.

  For hours, he searched—every corner, every crack, every possible hiding spot in the room. He combed the pce without rest. Beneath the tables, behind shelves, inside empty containers. Not even a rat stirred in this dead, silent mansion. Nothing was out of pce. It was as if the house itself was holding its breath.

  He was exhausted. Still, he pressed on.

  By the time he stopped, Reed and Lina had already fallen asleep in the corner, their small bodies curled up close. It was impossible to tell how much time had passed—half a day? More? There was no sun, no clock. Just the endless weight of night.

  Seraphine remained quiet, but the disappointment on her face was clear. She returned to Tobey’s side. Silently, she tore a strip from the hem of her long skirt and id it gently over his face. She whispered a prayer no one else could hear.

  Then she spoke at st.

  “When we were sleeping… three people were on watch. We switched after a few hours. The kids were excluded. So only the four of us were involved.”

  Elias understood. He nodded.

  He turned to Marin. “You should sleep first. We’ll rotate the watch.”

  Marin hesitated, then gave a small nod. She y down beside Lina and Reed and drifted off.

  Now, only three remained awake—Seraphine, Bridget, and Elias.

  Seraphine sat stiffly on a chair, her gaze fixed on the darkness, as if waiting for something to emerge from it. She didn’t speak. Her presence was like a shield for the family, burning with silent fury and pain.

  Elias sat down heavily, worn out. Bridget remained standing beside him. Always beside him. Unmoving.

  He looked at her, frowning slightly. “Sit down,” he murmured.

  Bridget obeyed without a word, lowering herself to the chair next to him.

  They sat a little apart from Seraphine, who didn’t seem to notice. Her focus was on the dark. She had become the protector now—tense, alert, and ready to face whatever came next.

  Elias, meanwhile, looked over at the ones sleeping. Then to the shadows. Then to Bridget.

  And he asked her softly, “Are you the impostor?”

  Bridget turned her head. “No.”

  He smiled faintly. He knew it was foolish to ask. But some part of his tired brain wanted to believe her. Needed to.

  She watched him for a long moment.

  “I’m sad,” Elias said quietly. His voice trembled. “Really sad.”

  She knew he was talking about Tobey.

  “I’m scared,” he admitted next.

  He had been brave in front of the others. Cold. Commanding. But here, alone with Bridget, his mask slipped. This was the real Elias—the one who feared the dark, who mourned the dead, who didn’t have answers.

  Bridget opened her arms.

  He hesitated. Then gently pced his head against her chest.

  She embraced him, letting his tears soak her shirt, holding him in silence.

  And in that moment, Elias cried—not as a leader, not as a brother, but as a boy broken by loss.

  The mansion remained cold.

  The air still heavy.

  But for a little while, in Bridget’s arms, he was warm.