Moonlight streamed through the stained glass window, painting intricate patterns on the stone floor. Evan stood motionless at the window of his chambers, his fingers leisurely fingering a silver dagger engraved with flames on the hilt, an unexpected find in a secret compartment of an antique chest of drawers. In the reflection of the glass, he saw his new face—high cheekbones, sharp features, a scar across his left eyebrow. A face that was gradually becoming his own.
Midnight struck somewhere in the castle. Evan sighed, feeling a strange excitement in his blood. He had been waiting for this moment all day, ever since he found that mysterious note with the initial "V."
"My Lord?" The maid's soft voice was heard outside the door. "Do you need anything else?"
"Nothing, Ilse. You can go to sleep."
He waited until her footsteps had died away in the hallway, then another ten slow counts. Only then did I start preparing. Dark leather doublet, soft boots without heels, gloves made of the finest leather. All the things of the old Evan, but now they served a new master.
Evan reached into a secret drawer at the head of the bed, where he found another interesting object — a ring with a dark stone, which made the wearer's fingers weightless when put on. The former owner was obviously preparing for night trips.
When the last rays of the moon disappeared behind the clouds, Evan went out into the corridor. His movements were silent, smooth, like those of a predator accustomed to night hunting. Every turn, every staircase was familiar to him, as if he had spent his whole life in this castle, thanks to the memories left over from the previous owner.
The library greeted him with silence and the smell of old parchment. The moonlight coming through the tall windows picked out the rows of bindings from the darkness. Evan walked past them to the far corner, where a narrow service staircase was hidden behind a heavy tapestry depicting the Battle of Darrow.
The stone steps were cold even through the soles of his boots. Evan descended slowly, listening for every rustle. Somewhere below, the steady drip of water could be heard, and the air became more and more stale and humid.
Finally, he found himself in a long, low-vaulted basement corridor. Remembering the directions from the note, Evan counted seven doors on the right side and stopped in front of the eighth, which was unremarkable except for a barely noticeable crescent—shaped scratch on the handle.
Three knocks. Pause. Two. Another pause. One.
The lock clicked with a soft screech.
The room was tiny, no bigger than a storage room. Stone walls, a simple oak table, an oil lamp smoking in the corner. Old Walter, Lord d'arclent's advisor, sat at the table, his wrinkled face contorted with a grimace of triumph.
"I'm two hours late," the old man hissed, staring intently at Evan. "I already thought you'd changed your mind. Or maybe he finally realized how dangerous the game is..."
He didn't have time to finish. Evan moved with impossible speed—one step, a deft throw. The silver dagger plunged into the advisor's throat, pinning him to the back of the chair. Blood gushed onto the parchments spread out on the table, turning the strange symbols scarlet.
"You know what's funny?" Evan leaned over the dying man, his voice as cold as the winter wind. "The real Evan d'arclent is really dead. But you were wrong about one thing—no one should have known about it."
The old man wheezed, his fingers clenched convulsively on the arms of the chair. Evan watched as the life gradually left the old man's eyes, in which a moment ago the confidence in his victory burned.
"You... don't... you see..." Walter croaked, barely squeezing out the words. "They're... already... they know..."
His fingers opened, and a small silver-framed mirror clattered to the floor. Evan picked it up, examining the strange opaque surface, which did not reflect the light, but seemed to absorb it.
"Thanks for the tip about the room of mirrors," he turned the artifact over in his fingers, then carefully placed it in the folds of his cloak. —But next time, if you want to play blackmail, choose someone dumber."
The last wheeze of the dying man died away in the stone walls. Evan methodically searched the room, sorting through parchments with incomprehensible symbols, a map of the northern lands with markings in places that did not match the official maps of the kingdom, a small bottle with a transparent liquid that smelled of mint and something metallic. He carefully packed all this in a special bag, which he found in the secret pocket of the former Evan's raincoat.
Of particular interest was a small leather-bound diary. Evan scanned a few pages and frowned. Walter kept detailed notes about his—no, the old Evan's—movements, meetings, even moods. And the most interesting thing is that "Operation Mirror" was mentioned several times without any explanation.
Before leaving, he paused at the door, taking in the crime scene. Then he took out a small bag from his pocket—salt, sulfur, a pinch of ash. The components of the simplest flame spell that the old Evan, judging by his memories, used to destroy the traces.
"Pure chance," he muttered, scattering the powder on the floor and walls. - "The old adviser was carelessly working with fire. How sad."
When the door closed behind him, the first smoke came out from under it. By morning, all that will be left of the room is a pile of charred stones and a melted skeleton. An accident. Tragedy. Nothing more.
Evan walked back through the dark corridors, his mind as clear as ever. Every step was measured, every move was thought out. The northern residence of the House of Ice was waiting. And with it, a room of mirrors and, perhaps, finally, the answers to all questions.
But first— the duel. And it's a great opportunity to demonstrate that the new Evan d'arclent is not the man everyone underestimates. He could already imagine the faces of the Council members when the "loser" and "incompetent" would show their true skills.
When he returned to his chambers, the first rays of dawn were already gilding the tops of the castle towers. Evan went to the window, looking out at the waking city. Somewhere out there, in the maze of streets and alleys, those who were behind the "accident" were hiding. Those who, in the words of the dying Walter, "already know."
He smiled, feeling a pleasant tension in his muscles. The game had just begun, and he intended to play to the end. See you later.