Homecoming and Guilt
The door swung open, revealing Alice Nightingale, my new mother. Her bright blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes overflowed with affection, a warmth that tugged at my heartstrings. Before I could react, she enveloped me in a tight embrace.
For a moment, I tensed, unsure how to respond. But as her warmth enveloped me, a strange sense of peace settled over me. It felt… familiar. Maybe even good.
"Let me get a good look at you!" she exclaimed after a long moment, pulling back and cupping my face in her hands. Her smile was radiant.
Behind her stood my father, Douglas Nightingale. He had the same dark hair I possessed and a deeper shade of blue in his eyes. Compared to Alice's exuberance, he remained more reserved, a faint smile playing on his lips. He stood beside Count Chase as the estate's knight captain.
"Alice, dear, let Arthur greet the Count," my father gently reminded, a hint of amusement in his voice.
With a playful pout, she finally released me. My gaze then shifted to Dad. His physique spoke of strength, a power that prickled my enhanced senses. 'He's holding back his presence,' I realized. Surpassing my current level, Douglas Nightingale radiated a power that placed him firmly within the <Integration > rank, far exceeding me, though not matching the professors at Mythos Academy who had transcended that wall.
With my mother stepping aside, I approached Count Chase and my father. "Your Grace," I greeted with a respectful bow, "an honor to meet you again."
Count Chase, a man with crinkling brown eyes that mirrored amusement, chuckled. "Formalities between family? Nonsense! You've practically known me all your life. Call me Uncle Chase."
My father, ever the stickler for protocol, interjected. "A certain level of decorum must be maintained," before offering his own greeting.
"Don't be so rigid, Douglas," the Count chided, patting my father on the back. "Come, come! Tell me all about your time at the Academy. Your achievements, of course!"
I nodded and followed the Count into the mansion's grand living room. My mother settled beside me, her hand reaching for mine in a comforting gesture. My father took a central seat, while Count Chase positioned himself opposite us. "So, Arthur," he began expectantly, "tell us all about Mythos."
I launched into a detailed account of my first semester: the friendships I forged, the magical arts I learned, the rigorous training I endured, and even my current rank and strength. I kept certain details, like the princess-gifted tokens, close to the vest for now.
As I recounted the harrowing events of the Shadow Seeker attack and demon incursion, my mother's grip tightened on my arm, a reflection of both anger and worry.
"Sounds like quite the eventful semester, wouldn't you say?" the Count remarked when I finished. Eventful indeed.
My father's smile broadened. "And you've grown stronger, haven't you?" My improved abilities were evidently no secret to him.
"High Silver rank in just a few months?" His eyes widened as he subtly assessed my mana core.
"Yes," I confirmed. "My core seems to advance rather quickly."
Surprise mirrored in Count Chase's eyes as well. "Remarkable," he declared. "How about a little test tomorrow to see just how much you've progressed?"
A flicker of apprehension sparked within me at the Count's suggestion of a test. While eager to showcase my progress, facing my father, a seasoned warrior, in a mock battle held a certain intimidation factor. Still, I couldn't refuse.
"Of course, Uncle Chase," I replied, trying to mask my nervousness with a confident tone. "I'm always looking for ways to improve."
The evening flowed with a comfortable energy, a stark contrast to the tense silence that had plagued my journey to this point. My mother bombarded me with questions about my friendships, her blue eyes sparkling with curiosity.
My father, though less effusive, listened intently. He occasionally interjected with pointed questions, testing my understanding of magical theory and combat tactics. Despite his stoicism, I could sense a flicker of approval in his gaze whenever I provided a well-reasoned answer.
As the night deepened, a warmth spread through me. This wasn't just about the physical comfort of a warm room and a delicious meal (though both were certainly appreciated). It was the intangible feeling of belonging, of finally having a family who cared about me, who wanted to know about my life.
The conversation drifted to a close as Count Chase eventually took his leave. A comfortable silence settled as I turned to my parents, a question forming on my lips.
"Should we go to our manor now?" I asked.
My mother's smile widened. "Our own little manor is situated right here on the grounds," she explained. "Just a short walk away."
A wave of relief washed over me. It wouldn't be some impersonal guest room. I'd have my own space, a place to unpack my belongings and finally unwind after a whirlwind journey.
"Let's show you," my father offered, already rising from his chair.
My father led the way out of the grand living room, his steps purposeful yet unhurried. The mansion itself was a marvel of modern architecture, a symphony of polished marble floors and floor-to-ceiling windows that offered breathtaking views of the city's glittering skyline. As we walked, I caught glimpses of ornately framed paintings depicting past generations of Chases, their stern visages softened by the warm glow of strategically placed lamps.
We exited the mansion through a set of heavy oak doors, stepping onto a cobblestone path that meandered through the sprawling estate grounds. Here, the city's relentless thrumming receded, replaced by the gentle chirping of crickets and the rustling of leaves in the cool night air. The path was flanked by meticulously sculpted hedges, their emerald forms casting intricate shadows under the moonlight.
The estate, I soon realized, was an oasis within the urban jungle. Acres of lush gardens sprawled out in every direction, boasting a kaleidoscope of colors. Fragrant roses in every shade imaginable climbed trellises, while vibrant hydrangeas bloomed in plump clusters. Glimmering koi ponds, home to graceful fish, dotted the landscape, their surfaces reflecting the twinkling stars above.
After a few minutes of walking, the path branched off, leading towards a smaller, more secluded area. Here, nestled amidst a grove of towering oak trees, stood a charming two-story manor. White with black shutters, it exuded a sense of warmth and intimacy. A neatly trimmed lawn stretched out before it, bordered by a low stone wall adorned with climbing vines.
"This is Nightingale Manor," my father announced, his voice tinged with a hint of pride. "It's been in our family for generations by the grace of Count Chase."
The Count's generosity, offering a manor on their own estate, spoke volumes about their regard for the Nightingales. Perhaps, this relationship transcended the typical boundaries of master and servant. Intrigued by this unspoken bond, I pushed open the heavy oak door and stepped inside the manor first.
A wave of warmth and the comforting aroma of cinnamon and baked bread washed over me. The foyer was a cozy space, dominated by a large fireplace crackling merrily. A plush rug lay on the polished wood floor, and comfortable armchairs were strategically placed around the fireplace, inviting relaxation. My gaze swept over the ornately framed family pictures adorning the walls, pictures from Arthur's childhood and from past generations of Nightingales.
Pushing open a heavy oak door, I stepped into my new room. A spacious chamber, it boasted a king-sized bed promising restful nights, a well-appointed study desk for honing my newfound magical skills, and a pristine bathroom for a moment's respite. Flat-screen entertainment hung on the wall, a stark contrast to the simpler life I'd known. But it was the other details that lodged a shard of ice in my heart.
Posters of renowned artists adorned the walls – the very same artists Arthur, the boy whose life I now inhabited, had admired. Photographs, faded with time yet brimming with life, captured moments of his childhood: a gap-toothed grin on a birthday spent amidst family, a determined glint in his eyes as he clutched a wooden practice sword.
My mother's warm embrace upon leaving me goodnight echoed in the vast space, only amplifying the hollowness within. A dull thud echoed in my chest, a rhythm mimicking the frantic beat of my guilt-ridden heart. I knew this before, didn't I? The knowledge of replacing someone, of usurping another's life, had gnawed at the edges of my consciousness, a constant reminder of my transgression. Texting Arthur's parents, a simple act filled with anticipation, had always been tainted by a pang of remorse.
But it had never felt so real. Arthur Nightingale wasn't just a name, not just a vessel I'd inherited. He was a living, breathing person whose fifteen years of life had vanished with my arrival. This room, these objects, were testaments to his dreams, aspirations, and loves – a life cut short for mine to flourish. The warmth he'd shared with his family, the joy he'd found in his passions, all stolen and replaced by an imposter.
Grief, heavy and suffocating, threatened to consume me. Arthur had lived, loved, and dreamed, all within these very walls. Now, he was gone, his place usurped by a stranger. A shudder wracked my frame as the weight of my actions settled in. How could I ever repay this debt? How could I justify inhabiting this life, built on the foundation of another's stolen future? The guilt, a ravenous beast within my chest, roared, demanding a resolution, demanding a path to absolve the sin of stealing another's existence. Sleep offered no solace, only the chilling truth that haunted with every passing moment: I was living a life that wasn't mine, and there was no turning back.