Chapter 5 - Fire in the StablesThe heavy iron doors of the old Blackwood stables groaned as they were forced open, admitting a rush of damp, midnight air.
Julian moved through the shadows with the silent grace of a predator. He had slipped back onto the estate hours ago, using the old drainage tunnels his mother had mapped out before her death. His objective was simple: retrieve his mother’s original lab journals from the tack room—journals that contained the exact botanical antidote to Arthur’s neurotoxin, which Clara would need if she ever wanted to walk away from this manor for good.
He reached the heavy oak door of the tack room and slipped inside, flicking on a small penlight.
Rows of polished saddles, bridles, and riding crops lined the walls. Julian knelt down beside a loose floorboard beneath a heavy oak workbench, sliding his fingers into the gap. His fingers brushed against cold leather. He pulled out a thick, leather-bound journal with singed edges—the exact record of his mother's life work.
Clack.
Julian froze.
The heavy iron doors of the stable slammed shut behind him with a resounding echo, followed by the heavy slide of a deadbolt.
"Well, well, well," a harsh, mocking voice echoed from the dimly lit central aisle. "If it isn't the stray dog."
Julian stood up slowly, slipping the journal into his rucksack, and turned around. Emerging from the darkness were four of Arthur Blackwood’s elite private security guards, led by a man holding a heavy steel pipe. Behind them stepped Dr. Vance, his face twisted in a cowardly, sadistic grin.
"Mr. Blackwood sends his regards," Dr. Vance said, adjusting his glasses as he watched the guards fan out, blocking every exit. "He hates loose ends. Especially ones that smell like forest dirt and rebellion."
The lead guard lunged forward without warning, swinging the heavy steel pipe in a brutal arc aimed straight at Julian’s head.
Julian didn't flinch. Years of surviving alone in the rugged wilderness had turned his body into a coiled spring of pure, explosive reflex. He ducked under the swinging pipe with millisecond precision, stepped inside the guard's defensive guard, and drove a powerful open-palm strike straight into the man's chest. The guard flew backward, crashing into a stack of wooden feed crates with a bone-crunching thud.
"Get him!" Dr. Vance screeched, backing away in blind panic.
The remaining three guards rushed him simultaneously. Julian fought like a cornered wolf—fast, vicious, and utterly relentless. He vaulted over a horse stall door, using the architecture of the stable to his advantage, disarming one guard and using a heavy leather riding crop to disable another.
But there were too many. As Julian turned to parry a blow from the side, a heavy sandbag smashed into his ribs from behind, sending him crashing to the concrete floor.
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Before he could recover, two guards pinned his arms to the ground, while a third brought the butt of a shotgun down hard across his temple.
Julian’s vision flared white, then black. As consciousness slipped away, the last thing he saw was Dr. Vance standing over him, smiling coldly as he kicked the leather rucksack containing his mother's journal away into the darkness.
