Rustling paper filled the grand study chamber nestled deep within Falcon Castle, its arched windows overlooking a quiet courtyard where the early sun warmed pale stone walls. Light filtered through gauzy curtains, casting soft patterns across the polished floor and the sea-green velvet of the high-backed chair where Duchess Serena sat, hunched slightly over correspondence from the capital.
A gentle knock broke the silence.
"Your Grace, I've brought the letter from Lord Hugo," came the calm, respectful voice of a maid.
Serena's quill halted. "Come in, Seraphina."
The door eased open, and Seraphina, a composed young woman in her late twenties, stepped inside with a letter held reverently in both hands. She barely had time to bow before Serena had already risen from her seat and crossed half the room toward her.
Seraphina smiled, offering the parchment. Serena took it with a subtle nod and unfolded it at once. Her steps continued without pause as she paced back toward her desk, eyes scanning the letter rapidly, reading before she'd even sat down.
Seraphina remained silent, standing a respectful distance away with her hands folded in front of her skirt. The only sound was the faint creak of Serena's chair as she eased into it and read to the end.
Though Serena's face wore the ghost of a smile throughout much of the letter, a hint of shadow crept into her eyes by the final lines. Her expression turned pensive.
"What does the letter say, Your Grace?" Seraphina asked gently.
Serena didn't answer immediately. She laid the parchment down and leaned back, fingers brushing a lock of silver-streaked hair behind her ear.
"Hugo says his journey has been fruitful. Orion's hospitality is generous," she began, her voice steady but faintly thoughtful.
Seraphina moved to the corner cabinet and began preparing tea in practiced silence.
Serena's tone shifted ever so slightly. "But he also suspects that the Griffinvale Duchy has corrupted his viscountcy. He believes that the ministers have been bought, and that the corruption may already be spreading from the inside."
The clink of porcelain came as Seraphina set the teacups on a glass saucer beside the duchess.
"Wouldn't that interfere with Lord Hugo's role as our envoy?" she asked, concern tinting her voice.
Serena accepted the cup with a soft murmur of thanks and took a measured sip before replying.
"He thinks so, yes. He's already considering a response… but he hasn't yet figured out how to alert Orion without causing chaos. If Orion discovers and punishes the corrupted ministers, it might solve part of the problem. But what if there are more? Hidden deeper?"
Seraphina frowned slightly. "Isn't that Lord Orion's responsibility to deal with?"
"In principle," Serena said with a slow nod, "yes. But if our partner begins to rot, the disease doesn't stay contained. A rotten fruit poisons the ones beside it."
Her gaze lingered on the steam rising from her teacup.
"Hugo understands this. That's why he sent the letter, seeking our help."
Seraphina's brows knit together as she absorbed that. "Internal rot is difficult to trace. What do you think Lord Hugo should do, Your Grace?"
Serena leaned back in her chair, her eyes drifting to the window, where sunlight danced over the glass.
"We have no knowledge of the mansion's inner workings or the type of people within. Without that, intuition is blind. All I can offer him is the outline of a plan...one formed from experience, not certainty."
Seraphina, now finished arranging the tea service, tilted her head. "If we know the ministers are compromised, can't Lord Hugo ask Orion to interrogate them? Perhaps uncover others under Griffinvale's influence?"
Serena set her cup down carefully on the glass saucer. "That's a valid strategy. We'll suggest it in our reply. But Griffinvale won't be sloppy. They don't recruit in single threads. They weave layers, batches of corruptions who don't know one another. If one falls, the rest remain buried. Interrogation might still uncover something… if we're lucky."
Seraphina's expression grew more focused. "Then how do we expose all of them?"
Serena steepled her fingers and paused.
"They're not like agents such as Ashen. These people hold influence—they must stand out to be useful. That makes them traceable, eventually. If we delay the arrests and quietly assign spies to observe key figures in the mansion, we could gather far more information. Not acting out of impulse would avoid alerting the corrupt officials."
Seraphina's eyes lit with admiration. "That sounds like a smart approach."
"But not a simple one," Serena countered at once. "It would take time. Months, perhaps. Orion would need to trust Hugo deeply and allow him freedom to act, without impatience or oversight."
She picked up the letter again and glanced at its final lines. "And judging by Hugo's tone… that bond of trust doesn't exist yet."
Seraphina nodded slowly. "Then perhaps we shouldn't rush to suggest anything. We'd only waste his time."
A knock sounded again. This one lighter, more tentative. A younger voice followed.
"Your Grace, a letter from the capital."
Serena and Seraphina exchanged a look. Seraphina moved swiftly to the door, accepted the new envelope from the maid outside, and returned.
"Shall I read it aloud, Your Grace?"
"Yes, please," Serena said, folding Hugo's letter neatly.
Seraphina broke the seal and read in her usual calm cadence.
"I will be departing for Grimmerforge shortly, and from there, I intend to continue on to the Elvian Kingdom. My absence may extend for no less than six months.
In my stead, I ask that you assume full command of the castle.
Additionally, if any representative of the imperial family inquires about the annual budget allocated for the new merchandise initiative, you or Gaveric may respond on my behalf. Ensure they receive accurate reports and answers to any questions they pose.
Keep the halls running with clarity, and do not allow the weight of this responsibility to trouble you. I trust your discernment implicitly."
Seraphina hesitated, then asked, "Glimmerforge...isn't that the forge-town near our border? The one famous for forging equipment from ores mined here?"
"It is," Serena said with a thoughtful hum.
"Why would Lord Everard go to elvian kingdom from there? When we already sent a crest bearer, Lord Hugo?"
Serena didn't respond right away. Her gaze lingered on the flickering light dancing across her desk.
"I've been out of the loop for far too long," she murmured at last. Then, with a touch of dry humor in her voice: "Seems my dear husband and our little brat have been stirring the pot quite a bit. Perhaps they might need help now and then."
Seraphina's lips curved into a warm smile. She gave a crisp, precise salute. The kind Falcon soldiers reserved for their highest commanders. It looked strangely formal coming from a maid.
"Glad to have you back, Madam."
Serena chuckled, the sound low and amused, but her eyes shone with a sharper, steadier gleam than before.
"Still...I hope Hugo doesn't push himself too much...he is still a child." Serena said with a hint of sadness.
"You don't have to worry about that my lady, If anything, I am worried more about Orion and his ministers," Seraphina said, holding back a laugh.
Serena chuckles, "Ofcourse."
"Ackchoo!"
I sneezed with the force of a dying aristocrat writing his will.
Someone was definitely thinking about me.
Someone probably sipping tea and saying things like 'Oh Hugo, that cunning young bastard'—because let's be honest, that's the only way my name circulates these days.
"Young master," Clara said gently from the corner, folding a pair of thick woolen trousers with the grace of a woman preparing a knight for winter warfare. "The closer we get to Elvian Kingdom, the colder it gets. You should start wearing these."
I glanced at the fabric like it had personally offended me.
"It hasn't gotten that cold yet," I declared. "We're still two stations away from the Elves."
Clara nodded and silently tucked the trousers back into the travel chest, not even sighing.
"This will be our last stop then," she murmured with the calmness of someone used to being ignored by nobles with self-inflicted pneumonia.
Sylvia, who'd been poring over my ridiculously long report scroll like it was her new gospel for the last three days, finally looked up. Her eyes were sharper than the edge of an imperial warrant.
"After tonight, the next time we stop for rest," she said, "it will be in an Elf's residence."
If someone heard that without context, they'd assume she hated pointy ears and forests.
I leaned back dramatically.
"If you say it like that, someone might think you're racist."
She gave me a dry look. "I'm being realistic."
"No need to be tense," I said, waving a hand. "You're already good at this. Just imagine the Elvian envoy is me or Clara, and present like you did a good... like what, twenty-three times? with us."
Sylvia looked away. Her grip on the papers tightened like they were her last lifeline before social annihilation.
"But… what if I mess up?"
"If," I cut in, "you mess up. We'll deal with it then. Just do what you always do: be prepared and more logical than should be allowed in a diplomatic setting."
She took a breath.
Then Clara, without warning, decided to add fireworks to the bonfire.
"If you do well my lady," Clara said innocently, "Lord Hugo will gift you a Starlight Opal comb from his own purse."
"Wait..what—"
"It's settled then," Sylvia said, before I could even protest. She smiled with the unshakable confidence of someone who'd just been promised an artifact. "I'll be closing the deal with the Elf."
I stared at Clara.
She just hummed a quiet tune like she hadn't just volunteered my wallet for ritual sacrifice.
"…Whose maid are you, exactly?"
Clara tilted her head, expression unreadable. "Yours, my lord."
I didn't believe her for a second.
Sylvia chuckled.
This was going to be a long trip.
.
In the dark arteries of the capital, where lanterns died young and silence reeked of sin, two figures cloaked in shadow moved through the filth and rot of the underworld.
They passed drunkards slumped against stone walls, smugglers whispering over crates, and local gangs counting coin with bloodied hands.
And yet, no one noticed them.
Not because they hid.
They walked in the open, right past them. Faces visible. Steps firm. Presence undeniable.
But not a soul saw them.
As if the night itself refused to remember.
They stopped before an old smithy. Its signboard was cracked, dangling by a rusted chain, the paint so faded that only memory could recall its name.
The larger of the two pulled back his hood slightly, crimson eyes gleaming in the dull moonlight.
"This is the place, Sebastian?" he asked, voice low, composed, but thrumming with restrained force.
"Yes, my lord," replied the older man, his hair silver, his stance alert despite his age. "I am certain."
Everard turned to the door.
Then, without warning—
BAM.
The wooden door exploded inward like paper before a storm, crashing into the wall at the back of the smithy with such force the bricks cracked.
Sebastian blinked.
"…We are in stealth, my lord," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"Well," Everard said, stepping inside, "not anymore."
Sebastian sighed. "Yeah, I figured as much," he muttered, just as his dagger left his fingers, spinning, silver, precise, and buried itself into the skull of a masked assassin lunging toward him from the shadows.
Another blade flashed. This one aimed for Everard's neck.
No time to react. No time to dodge.
And yet, the assassin's body crumpled mid-strike.
Everard stood a step forward, the head of the attacker dangling from his hand, still dripping.
No one saw him move.
He hadn't drawn a weapon.
He hadn't even broken stride.
Wind from the shattered door swept through the room, tugging back Everard's hood.
Crimson eyes gleamed in the dim light. Calm, unreadable, and soaked in danger.
Time froze.
Every man, every fighter, every thug in that room, even those who had once faced knights and lived...froze.
Their thoughts collided into a single, terrifying word:
Everard?
And then came the panic.
Dozens of hardened criminals turned into frightened animals. They ran, some leaping for the ceiling beams, others trampling their comrades to reach the rear exit. One tried diving through a glass window. It didn't matter.
Everard unsheathed his sword. No battle cry. No flourish.
Just death.
And beside him, Sebastian's eyes burned violet. The temperature dropped.
Three seconds.
That's all it took.
When the silence returned, the scent of blood came with it.
Thirty bodies lay sprawled across the floor. Men of D+ class combat power or higher. Powerhouses, all of them. Slain.
Only six remained. Not untouched, merely alive. Just barely.
And all six of them shook.
They weren't weak. Their combat aura was on par with Varkis or higher. But even giants have knees, and those knees buckled now.
Sebastian, soaked in blood, adjusted his coat with practiced nonchalance. He picked up a chair from the rubble and placed it at the center of the hall, atop the sea of corpses.
Everard walked through the carnage, his boots silent on the blood-slick floor.
He sat.
Not like a conqueror.
Like a man who'd simply taken his seat at the office.
His posture was relaxed, one leg over the other, his sword still red with lives just taken.
His gaze drifted across the six survivors, none of whom dared meet his eyes.
Then he spoke, voice tinged with sarcasm, tone dry, yet somehow heavier than the silence before it.
"Well, shall we get to business now, Rukthar?"
His eyes fixed on a broad-shouldered man in the center of the six.
"What do they call you again...? Black Fist, is it?"
Rukthar didn't speak.
He couldn't.
Not with that gaze on him.
Instead, he nodded slowly, sweat trickling down his neck.
The pressure in the room was suffocating.
So suffocating that the aura from the relaxed figure before them made them envy the dead corpses.