How to Liquidate a Ghost Story

"What is history? An echo of the past in the future; a reflex from the future on the past."

— Victor Hugo

———

The morning air carried the scent of dew and dying leaves as I stood in the main courtyard, my travel bag slumping from one shoulder.

Lord Aldric's steel-grey eyes swept over me once, cataloging my rumpled clothes and nervous posture. His single nod said try not to embarrass us further than you already have.

Lady Vivienne remained inside, likely counting silver saved by not feeding me next term. Every copper spent on my education couldn't go toward Lucius's political ambitions.

"Try not to bring any more shame to our name than necessary, brother," Lucius called, loud enough for all servants to hear.

"I'll do my best, Lucius."

"Your best." He chuckled. "How reassuring."

The modest carriage waited by the gates, unmarked by any family crest. Henrik, the weathered driver, helped load my single trunk.

Lyra emerged from the servants' entrance in her plain brown attendant's dress.

"Young Master," she said, curtsying. "Shall I take your coat?"

"No, I can manage. Are you certain about this, Lyra? The academy can be demanding."

"I will handle whatever it requires. You need not worry."

Henrik opened the door, and I climbed inside like a man facing execution. Lyra sat opposite, hands folded. The door closed like a coffin lid.

"Ready when you are, Young Master," Henrik called.

"Yes, let's go." I pressed my face to the window. Lucius had already turned away, while Lord Aldric watched with disinterest.

The carriage lurched forward, wheels crunching on gravel. Once the Leone gates vanished behind a bend, I exhaled.

"Better," I said, rolling my shoulders. "Much better."

"You wear the mask so well, Master. For a moment, even I almost believed it."

"The mask is just another tool, like a knife or lockpick. The trick is remembering which face serves which purpose."

I activated [Narrative Appraisal], transforming the countryside into a map of overlooked opportunities.

"See that ridge, Lyra? The locals call it Widow's Leap. Supposedly, a merchant's wife threw herself from there after her husband died."

"A tragic story. Why mention it?"

"Because tragic stories make excellent camouflage for valuable resources. There's a silver vein beneath that ridge, rich enough to fund a small army, but locals avoid mining it because of ghost stories."

Lyra leaned forward. "Superstition protecting wealth."

"Exactly. This is how you must learn to see the world—not as people and places, but as exploitable assets."

"Assets," she repeated. "Everyone is an asset."

"People are the most valuable assets of all." I withdrew a leather-bound journal. "The Twilight Society has no sacred texts. We will write our own gospel, crafted from those the narrative deemed disposable."

I placed it in her hands, watching her fingers trace the embossed patterns. Though purchased cheaply, what it would contain would be priceless.

"This is our codex. Every recruitment, manipulation, calculated risk, and victory against the narrative goes here. This will be the true chronicle, not the sanitized heroics of the Scions. History is written by victors, and we'll hold the pen."

She opened it reverently. "Where do I inscribe the first verse? What tale shall be our foundation?"

I produced a folded parchment: RHYS BLACKWOOD - Age 18 - Earth Affinity - Narrative Role: Tragic Sacrifice.

Her eyes scanned the document—physical description, magical capabilities, family relationships, fears and ambitions.

"House Blackwood. Minor but respected."

"For now." I indicated a date in the margin. "In the original script, his story ends here. A training 'accident' that motivates our hero, Leo."

"The Morgenthornes?"

"Clever girl. They weaken a rival and give Leo reason for vengeance. Rhys is just collateral."

"And if he proves unworthy of salvation?"

"We save him anyway. The Twilight Society doesn't force membership. We offer alternatives."

"How many others?"

"Forty-seven students marked for disposal over four years. Each represents a potential recruit, a life salvaged from narrative necessity."

"And those who can't be saved?"

"Their deaths become lessons. We save those who want a new script."

The carriage hit a bump, jostling us as the landscape shifted to forest.

"Tell me about the academy," Lyra said, securing the journal.

"Politics disguised as education. Four Houses compete for resources and prestige. You'll have access to most areas as my attendant, but be careful. Academy servants see everything—they're the perfect intelligence network."

"Where will you be?"

"Playing my role—the pathetic third son. The beauty of being underestimated is that no one expects anything significant from you."

"And when we've recruited enough? When the Twilight Society can act openly?"

"Then we discover what happens when extras write their own stories. The script says heroes win, villains lose, and extras vanish. But what if supporting characters refuse to fade?"

"They become proof the story was wrong, Master."

I settled back. "Rest while you can. Soon, we begin our most important performance."

As she nodded, my gaze fell upon the journal. For an instant, [Narrative Appraisal] flickered to life on the book itself.

[Item: The Heretic's Gospel]

[Description: A tome destined for tales of those defying the script. Each entry anchors a soul to its new fate, at a cost the author doesn't yet comprehend.]