Chapter 27 : Intruders (5)

The crack of glass breaking somewhere far off was the only warning they got before Sir Richardson moved.

Three figures burst into his study, blades drawn, footsteps silent against the carpet—only to find their target calmly adjusting the cuffs of his coat by the fireplace.

The older man didn’t flinch.

A single ivory pen spun between his fingers.

“Good evening,” Sir Richardson said coolly. 

“Though I imagine manners aren’t a part of your instruction.”

The leader gave a sharp hand signal, and the two underlings lunged.

Steel flashed.

Richardson shifted to the side with uncanny grace for a man his age, letting the first blade whistle past his waist. 

His foot moved like a metronome—precise, controlled—and he twisted his wrist, catching the nearest attacker across the knuckles with the butt of the ivory pen.

It snapped with a shimmer of light.

What had once been a harmless writing tool stretched and morphed into a sheathed sword:

slender, elegant, almost ceremonial. 

The scabbard remained pure ivory, smooth and unmarred, while the hilt was gold-chased steel, crossguard broad and flat like the wings of a falcon. 

It gleamed even in the low candlelight, a relic from a forgotten battlefield.

He didn’t draw it.

He didn’t need to.

The second attacker swung—a high arc toward Richardson’s neck. 

He stepped forward, inside the strike, and slammed the golden crossguard into the man’s temple.

The attacker folded.

“Do none of you teach discipline anymore?” 

Richardson growled, turning just as the leader tried to take advantage of the chaos.

The man leapt—dagger overhead, blade aimed for the older man’s back.

Richardson spun with frightening efficiency and drove the hilt of the sheathed sword into the side of the man’s torso, right beneath the ribs.

A horrible, wet sound escaped the attacker’s mouth as his breath hitched—and then he collapsed, hands to his stomach, gagging.

“Liver shot,” Richardson said with quiet satisfaction, stepping back. 

“That will feel worse before it gets better.”

The final attacker, blood running from his brow, tried to rally his footing. 

He circled to Richardson’s side, hoping to flank.

“You came here in the dead of night,” Richardson barked, stepping forward, eyes burning. 

“You drew steel on an old man in his study. You attack without honor, without respect—without strategy. What are you? Cutthroats? Hired blades?”

The younger man lunged.

Richardson angled his body and slapped the flat of the scabbard across his jaw with a crack.

He stumbled and hit the bookshelf, dragging a few volumes down with him.

Richardson exhaled slowly, standing tall.

He hadn’t broken a sweat.

“I fought in three campaigns before you could walk,” he said coldly. 

“And none of those enemies embarrassed themselves as thoroughly as you just have.”

Behind him, the would-be leader dry-heaved onto the carpet.

Richardson sighed.

“Unacceptable,” he muttered.

He turned his gaze toward the shattered window, the breeze drifting in and ruffling the edge of his coat.

***

Sir Richardson took one measured step toward the intruder leader—the so-called “Crow”—raising the ivory-sheathed sword over his shoulder, ready to deliver the final, decisive blow.

The man was still hunched over, wheezing and pale, one eye twitching as if his soul had momentarily tried to exit his body through his liver.

“Now, sleep,” Richardson muttered, bringing the hilt down.

“WAIT!”

The shout came sharp and desperate.

Richardson froze, mid-swing.

From the far hallway—shadows peeling away like curtains—emerged another figure, ragged, panting, and clutching something—

No. 

Not something.

Someone.

Lucien.

Blood streaked the boy’s temple, matting his hair to one side. 

His shirt was torn at the collar, his legs dragged slightly behind him, boots leaving red-tinged smears across the marble as the intruder pulled him close like a human shield. 

A curved dagger hovered just under Lucien’s jaw.

The grip wasn’t just threatening—it was trembling, unsteady with adrenaline.

Sir Richardson’s breath caught in his throat.

He lowered the sword.

“…Lucien.”

The Crow let out a wet, phlegmy laugh, still cradling his ribs as he slumped upright.

“Finally! A shining moment for my dear Scalon.” 

He gestured dramatically at the man holding Lucien. 

“The only one of my men who didn’t fold like a paper chair tonight.”

The Crow winced.

Scalon didn’t respond—he was too focused on keeping his grip on Lucien steady, too aware of Sir Richardson’s death glare pinning him from across the room.

But then—

Thud. 

Thud.

Boots echoed in the corridor.

From the other side, down the hallway beyond the Crow and Scalon, came two more figures.

Vaelira, wind in her hair, fire in her eyes, skidded to a halt with Thalia right behind her—gun in hand, still smoking faintly at the muzzle, powdery grit dusting her sleeves.

The Crow turned.

He turned back.

He turned again.

A long beat passed.

He looked left. 

Sir Richardson—bruised but standing, ivory blade gleaming.

He looked right. 

Vaelira—storm-eyed and poised to kill. 

Thalia—with the kind of grin that said she hoped he ran.

He looked at Scalon. 

Looked at Lucien. 

Looked back at Scalon.

“Well,” the Crow said brightly, raising one hand in mock surrender, “this is a spot of bother, isn’t it?”

Vaelira took a step forward. 

“Let him go.”

“Mm. No,” the Crow replied, licking his teeth. 

“This one’s our ticket out. And unlike the rest of these walking disappointments I brought along, he’s worth something.”

“Charming isn’t’ it,” the Crow said, chuckling despite himself.

But his eyes?

They never left the exit.

And neither did Thalia’s finger leave the trigger.

***

Thalia lowered her gun’s muzzle as she stepped forward.

“Now hold on, gentlemen,” she said, voice smooth like oiled silk, “nobody’s looking to start a bloodbath here. Let’s all take a breath before you get twitchy and nick something important.”

The man holding Lucien—Scalon—shifted his grip slightly, the blade pressing a little harder under the boy’s chin. 

He didn’t say anything, but the strain in his jaw showed he was listening.

Then Vaelira strode forward, gaze ice-cold, voice sharper than steel.

“Move that dagger one more inch and I will scatter your teeth across this hallway before you blink.”

Scalon’s eyes darted between the two of them. 

One smiling. 

One scowling. 

Both calm.

He turned slightly toward them, angling Lucien between himself and the girls. 

His back was now partially to the Crow.

It was working.

Meanwhile, the Crow stood opposite Sir Richardson, shoulders slightly slouched, face painted with a smug, lopsided grin.

He tutted.

“I expected better from you, old man. Thought you’d be faster on the draw.”

Sir Richardson didn’t respond. 

His eyes didn’t move from Lucien. 

Not even to blink.

The Crow raised an eyebrow. 

“Oh, don’t sulk. Honestly, we were just going to give the lad a few bruises. A little bruising builds character.”

Still no reply.

The Crow rolled his eyes and leaned on one leg dramatically. 

“Well. Since we’re all here… how about some terms? You give us a horse, a five-minute head start, and we don’t carve a smile into the boy’s—”

“—You presume this place is run by cowards,” Sir Richardson said quietly, voice rasping like something ancient breaking free from stone.

The Crow blinked. 

“Pardon?”

Sir Richardson’s grip on his ivory-hilted blade didn’t move. 

But his jaw clenched, tight enough to grind bone.

He wasn’t seeing the Crow anymore.

He was back in the garden. 

Years ago.

The leaves were just starting to turn golden. 

Lady Seraphina stood beneath the blooming arkhazel tree, her hair swept back, one hand resting gently on her cane as she smiled up at him.

“You’re not just an employee here, Sir Richardson. You’re part of the family, this place will always be your home.”

He remembered bowing awkwardly. 

Saying something formal and stiff.

She only laughed and told him to stop acting like a stranger.

Home.

That word meant something.

And now?

Now her son stood inches from death while he stood here with a sword he hadn’t even drawn.

A failure.

A trembling breath escaped him.

You were supposed to protect them.

A tear rolled unbidden down his weathered cheek.

And then—

A sudden vein bulged across his temple.

His throat felt tight, his heart thundered in his ears. 

His teeth clenched so hard it sent a jolt through his skull. 

His body shook, not from fear—

—but from the rage coiled in his gut like a beast rattling its cage.

His hand flexed. 

The scabbard groaned under pressure.

If that boy bleeds another drop—

He nearly spat up blood.

“Sir…” 

Thalia muttered, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.

The Crow’s grin twitched.

“…Oh,” he said softly. 

“There it is.”

***

Vaelira froze.

Her breath hitched—not from fear, but from recognition.

A massive surge of mana was collecting in the room. 

Not in the air, not from a spell, but from the sword.

From the ivory scabbard at Sir Richardson’s side.

She didn’t speak. 

Her body remained poised, statuesque, but her pupils dilated slightly, tracking the way mana curled and sank like a whirlpool around the old soilder. 

It wasn’t flaring outward, it wasn’t showing off—it was sinking inward, being compressed, forced, fed into the sealed blade.

Like a predator drawing breath before the pounce.

Vaelira’s heartbeat quickened. 

She knew she’d only seen the edge of what Richardson was capable of—most of the estate had. 

But this…

This was no warning.

Thalia, on the other hand, was still keeping the talk going, eyes flicking between the hostage-taker and the Crow, fingers never far from the trigger.

“Now listen here,” she drawled with a slight twitch in her eye, “I’ve blown bigger boys than you through a barn door for looking at me wrong. You’re playin’ the wrong kind of game, and the board ain’t wide enough for you to win.”

The Crow ignored her, glancing to the side, watching Richardson with mild interest. 

“You’ve gone quiet, old man. Regretting your place on the board?”

The hostage-taker still had Lucien in a tight grip, knife firm at the boy’s throat. 

He hadn’t noticed the air shifting. 

Hadn’t seen the way the floor beneath Sir Richardson was beginning to lightly crack.

Thalia narrowed her eyes, catching onto the killing intent so dense it clung to her skin like heat in a forge.

Vaelira didn’t blink.

Sir Richardson’s head tilted slightly. 

His expression remained grave, empty, a calm that looked like still water right before a storm split the ocean.

Then, softly, he spoke.

“Your first sin was being born.”

His hand closed around the hilt.

“And your final sin,” he continued, voice like a funeral bell, “was stepping foot into this estate.”

The blade sang.

A single shhhk echoed through the hallway as he unsheathed the sword.

There was no flash of light. 

No thunderclap.

Just motion—a crescent arc of pure mana, silent and silver, gliding through the air like moonlight poured into steel.

The Crow turned.

The hostage-taker blinked.

Neither made a sound.

They didn’t get the chance.

In a single breathless moment, both were cleaved in half at the waist, the upper halves of their bodies disconnecting as if reality had forgotten they were attached.

There was no blood at first—just the thump of two torsos hitting the floor, followed by the soft patter of limbs a half-second later.

Lucien’s eyes went wide as he staggered forward, no longer bound—just weightless, tumbling.

Vaelira was already moving.

She dashed forward in a blur, scooping Lucien into her arms before his knees even buckled. 

She turned mid-motion, landing smoothly in a crouch, shielding him instinctively.

Silence reigned for a long beat.

Only the soft, clink of Sir Richardson sliding his blade back into its scabbard broke the stillness.

Thalia exhaled slowly, eyes slightly wide. 

“…Alright then.”

Lucien trembled in Vaelira’s arms, but he was breathing.

Vaelira glanced up at the bodies.

“Are those…” she muttered, almost numbly, 

“…clean cuts?”

Thalia leaned over, grimaced, and shrugged. 

“Halved like they were never attached.”

Sir Richardson didn’t say another word.

He just turned away, expression unreadable, the ivory sword resting once more at his side—silent, but never truly at rest.

***

Author’s Note:

Hello Hello 

First and foremost, thank you so much for reading—your time and support mean more than I can express. 

I genuinely hope you enjoyed the story and found something in it that stayed with you.

On a less poetic note, a surprise thunderstorm rolled through unexpectedly, and as I write this, half of the ground floor of my building is currently flooded. 

It’s been a bit of an adventure involving towels, buckets, and a heroic attempt at redirecting water with a dustpan. Needless to say, updates might be a little delayed while I mop my life back together—but I’m still here, still writing, and very much grateful for every single reader.