Within the humid confines of the duchy's lower kitchen chambers, two women stood by the sink, scrubbing away at already-clean utensils.
The air smelled of burnt onions and hot iron, the copper pots above them rattling faintly with each step from the hall above.
"I swear, if this goes on for another week, I'll hang up this disguise myself," Maria, the elderly maid in her 40's, muttered, her voice low but sharp. Her hands trembled slightly as she gripped a wooden spoon, scrubbing it as if it had personally offended her.
Marla, younger by a handful of years but twice as rigid in manner, didn't look up from her bowl. "You'll do nothing of the sort. Orders are orders."
Maria threw the spoon into the water with a soft splash, then reached for a plate, more to keep her hands busy than for any real purpose. "We lost four this week, Marla. Four. That's not normal."
"That's why we adapt. The Falcon soldiers weren't supposed to be stationed inside. That wasn't part of the plan," Marla replied, her brow furrowed.
Maria leaned closer, her voice a heated whisper. "Exactly! Everard's getting paranoid. They've even begun patrols inside the servants' quarters. How long do you think before they sniff us out?"
Marla paused, then let out a short breath. "The captain ordered us to fall back. That means we stay quiet."
Maria's grip tightened. "The captain isn't here, Marla. We are. This was never supposed to escalate this far. You know that. We were here to observe and kill. Not to get ourselves killed one by one."
She was about to continue when Marla's hand shot up—two fingers resting gently against Maria's lips.
Single presence, moving towards them with constant pace.
Their eyes darted toward the arched entrance of the chamber.
And then he stepped in.
Hugo Gyrfald.
No Clara by his side. No guards at his back.
Just him.
Tall. Unhurried. One hand buried in his pocket. The other brushing his tousled golden hair back as though he hadn't just wandered into enemy territory unarmed.
Maria's lips parted in disbelief, her fingers instinctively twitching toward the hidden blade under her apron.
Her knees bent slightly, like a hound preparing to lunge.
But Marla's fingers pinched her wrist, firm and silent.
"Don't..don't move..." Marla whispered under her breath, clearly terrified.
Maria froze.
She followed Marla's gaze—not to Hugo, but around the room.
Nothing.
No shadows shifting. No door creaking. Not even the softest breath from an unseen corner.
But the feeling… the feeling was unmistakable.
It wasn't magic.
It wasn't even presence.
It was instinct.
A primal sense honed by years of living on the edge of death—a sensation Maria hadn't felt in years.
Gaze.
The oppressive weight of something ancient and lethal watching from beyond sight.
Not like being observed.
Like being targeted.
The kind of gaze that didn't study its prey… it measured it. Calculated it.
And then waited for it to make a mistake.
Maria's spine stiffened. Her instincts screamed, told her to run, to hide, to vanish.
But the command in Marla's grip held her still.
Whatever was watching them, it didn't move.
It didn't have to.
Because even without a sound, without a shred of presence…
Death was already in the room.
Maria swallowed.
Then slowly, as if nothing happened, she turned back to the dishes—her trembling fingers wrapping around a ladle.
Scrubbing.
Washing.
As if the devil hadn't just walked into their kitchen.
"Good afternoon, ladies," I said, stepping further in like I'd just strolled into my drawing room and not a chamber packed with suppressed bloodlust.
Both of them froze, then spun around like I'd just appeared from thin air. A second later, they bent into a deep and practiced bow—too perfect to be genuine. Cute.
"Y-Young Master Hugo," the elder one, Maria, said. Her voice smooth, professional. Not a single tremor. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"
I smiled, the kind that never really reached the eyes.
"Well, you see, I was hoping I could borrow a few seconds from your rather… eventful day."
They straightened, eyes sharp, postures stiff. Good. They weren't stupid enough to pretend I was here for small talk.
"You both work in the kitchen, yes? Which means you're quite familiar with the routines, patrols, and the rather charming chokehold Seraphina has placed on the food security system."
Marla nodded slowly. "Yes, my lord. The head maid's protocols are thorough. Nothing escapes—"
"Except when someone leaves a window open," I cut in, tone light. "A window that, oh no, might just let the breeze of opportunity in."
Maria's brow furrowed.
"Let me be blunt," I continued, still keeping that casual drawl. "I'm planning to open a few holes in that airtight security of hers. Not too obvious, just… tempting enough."
I looked between the two maids, letting silence stretch just enough to make them lean in mentally.
"My guess? If someone's been waiting for the right moment to poison a high-profile guest like... say, me, this would be their golden ticket."
Marla's fingers twitched.
"And when that golden ticket gets used," I said, voice dipping slightly lower, "you'll already have Falcon soldiers on standby to apprehend whoever bites the bait. Quietly. Efficiently. With grace."
Maria's lips parted as if to protest, but I raised a hand, eyes glinting.
"This conversation never happened. The windows were always open. And the predators…?"
I leaned in just a little, letting the smile twist sharper.
"They're the ones who think they're hunting alone."
Marla parted her lips, voice composed but firm.
"My lord, we can't act without our supervisor's authorization. Even if you are the heir—"
But before the sentence could even finish dressing itself up, Maria—bless her blackened soul—stepped forward, slicing the air with a graceful hand and a smile far too obedient to be real.
"We'll see it done, Young Master," she said smoothly, nudging Marla's side like they were childhood friends sharing a private joke. "The Falcon's name will be protected."
Marla hesitated for a breath too long, then bowed in sync with Maria. Old instincts winning over hesitation.
I returned the gesture with a courteous nod.
"Then I'll leave the Falcon's respect in your hands," I said with a lazy grin. "Try not to drop it."
I turned without fanfare and walked off.
Just as I stepped out of the kitchen, I paused mid-turn, acting as if a sudden thought tickled my memory.
"Oh, and one more thing," I said, glancing back over my shoulder with a half-smile. "I'll be dropping by to personally oversee the interrogation."
Their expressions didn't flinch, but I knew the words sank in.
"When I arrive," I added, voice calm but pointed, "make sure to receive me and guide me to the place... at the crossroads."
Then I turned away, hands slipping into my pockets.
Let them stew on that.
Behind me, the sound of light steps echoed briefly—two maids bowing, the silence broken only by the faint creak of Maria's wicked little grin stretching across her face.
Now that was promising.
Just as I exited into the corridor, a familiar figure emerged from the veil of nothingness, falling into step beside me without so much as a whisper.
Sebastian, looking as sharp as ever and about as amused as a lion at a rabbit's poetry recital.
"I thought you asked me to find their location to show me Ashen agents in the flesh," he muttered, disappointed like a man denied dessert after a full-course meal. "Instead, you handed them a riddle."
I offered a half-hearted shrug. "If I hunted one now, the rest would scatter like roaches under sunlight. Scared rats change routes. I need their paths predictable."
Sebastian exhaled through his nose, clearly not thrilled. I glanced his way.
"So what was the point of all that back there?"
"Oh, that?" I smirked. "Laying the groundwork. You know, I actually admire how Father's been setting up this little game. Breaking the stalemate by flexing his military strength and all. It's undeniably briliant but…"
I paused.
"…Just a bit rough around the edges. See, I'd rather announce the war in style. Not just by flexing power, but proving it."
Sebastian tilted his head, intrigued. I let the silence stretch a second longer—just enough.
"I'm going to wipe out every Ashen spy in the castle. All of them. In one sweep. No theatrics, no chase. Just... gone."
"Never corner a beast," I said. "Kill it before it realizes it's trapped."
His brow rose slightly, and I smiled.
"But since you're already here, let's strike a deal."
Sebastian tilted his head, curious.
"I'll hand you the entire Ashen nest in the castle, every last one of them."
That got his attention.
"In return," I added, voice light but unyielding, "you owe me one favor. I won't ask now, and it won't clash with my father's. You've got my word."
Sebastian's gaze lingered on me for a moment. Calculating. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"Deal."
I gave him a wink.
"Glad we understand each other, old man."
.
I told her it was madness.
Whispered it, pleaded even, but Maria's obsession had long since twisted itself into something unrecognizable. When Lord Hugo left the kitchen chamber, calm as still water, I tried to get through to her. But reason was already dead in her eyes.
"You just returned from the Captain," she hissed, her voice nearly trembling with fervor. "And still, you haven't alerted the others. Don't worry. I'll pretend you never told me."
She turned toward me with a twisted smile—one I once trusted, back when we were just loyal maids of the order.
"After we kill him, we'll tell the Captain you were found by the head maid and only avoided suspicion by showing proof of an errand from young lady Priscilla. But before you could pass on the fallback orders, we'd already done our duty. That'll be our story."
Even then, I didn't move. Just clenched my fists and sank into the shadows of the corridor, heart pounding.
Now here I am.
Watching from the darkness as chaos unfolds before me.
Maria stands face-to-face with Lord Hugo, smiling like she has already won. But that boy....no, that monster in noble's skin doesn't even flinch.
There's no time to reflect. Clara moves first, swift as a breathless whisper, her blade already drawn, parrying three attacks at once before spinning gracefully into the next flurry. Every movement flows like water—elegant, brutal, precise. She's not fighting for her life.
She's dancing through death.
And then he comes forward—Sebastian.
Saints have mercy.
I've seen him once before, when I was but a trainee spy stationed outside the capital. A specter on the battlefield. But watching him now?
It's like witnessing myth.
He doesn't move fast.
No.
He moves correctly. Every strike a deliberate execution, every evasion an unspoken warning: "I see you. I've already ended you."
Three assassins tried to circle around him—trained, hardened killers. And yet, before their blades even reached his coat, two were dead, and the third had her spine severed by a backhand swing that looked effortless.
Someone screamed. Someone always screams.
Sylvia, the young noble girl—surprisingly effective. When one of the shadows tried to leap at her, she blocked the strike with the hilt of her fan....a fan?...before slamming her elbow into his jaw and driving a knee into his gut. The assassin folded like parchment.
It was war in motion. And we were never meant to win.
Maria... oh, Maria.
She made her final gambit....she threw twin daggers at Hugo's heart with a speed that could shame most trained killers.
But Clara was already there, the flat of her blade ringing out as she deflected them. One even bounced toward me, skidding across the stone tiles near my hiding place.
By the end of it, most of them were already dead. Those who fled?
Sebastian chased them like a hound loosed from chains, cutting them down in the dark corners of the hall. No mercy. No hesitation.
Clara finished the rest, shielding Lord Hugo all the while just like a guardian knight from storybooks.
Maria was captured.
And I—I was already retreating, my heart pounding so loud it might give me away. I thought I could escape unnoticed. That maybe I'd survive to warn the others.
But then I saw him.
Hugo.
He wasn't fighting.
He was looking. Eyes following something invisible in the air, like he was tracking a glowing light only he could see. And when he stopped, his head tilted toward me and then ....he smiled.
He. Smiled.
I froze. My breath caught in my throat. How? How did a mere seventeen-year-old noble boy....how did he see through my stealth?
"I believe one's still left," he said softly, like talking about the weather. "Killing her would be optimal. We've already captured Maria for questioning."
And then Clara moved.
Faster than thought, she flicked her dagger in my direction.
I barely deflected it, but the impact slammed me against the stone, forcing an ugly sound from my lips.
"Ugh!"
Clara's eyes locked on the noise. And then she came.
Graceful. Deadly. Beautiful. Death.
My legs refused to move.
I forced my legs to move.
Clara was already on me.
Steel hissed through the air as I parried her first strike, barely catching the angle. My wrist trembled from the impact. She flowed into the second blow like wind over water—no delay, no hesitation.
I retaliated, slicing low, aiming for her knee.
She pivoted.
Not dodged. Pivoted—graceful, effortless.
I gritted my teeth. She was fast. Too fast. But… she looked tired. There was a shimmer of sweat on her brow, the faintest hitch in her breath. If she was even slightly off her game, I could—
I tried to drive a feint into her side, then twist into a stab toward her throat.
She stepped in, inside my guard, and slapped my dagger hand away like I was a misbehaving child.
Pain sparked up my arm.
I twisted, kicked, ducked low..I tried anything, everything. The fight blurred.
I couldn't tell how many times I tried. How many times she outmaneuvered me. Her steps were lighter than they had any right to be. Her blade was everywhere.
And I was losing.
Fast.
She flipped my final attack aside with a flick of her wrist, the flat of her blade smashing into my shoulder. My knees buckled.
Then came the point of her sword, gleaming under the flickering chandelier light—its tip hovered just a breath from my throat.
I clenched my teeth, bracing myself for the end.
And then I heard it.
"Wait."
A voice like velvet soaked in confidence.
Lord Hugo.
"Clara… don't kill her."
His words reached me like a lullaby, surreal and distant.
And in that moment, everything slipped away. The pain, the panic, the fight.
Darkness took me.
.
The sound of boots hammering the cobblestone echoed in the distance. Falcon soldiers—finally.
"Late to the party as always," I muttered, dusting off my sleeves. I turned to Sebastian, who stood still as a statue in the aftermath, gaze sweeping over the unconscious bodies.
I caught his eyes and gave him a casual nod. No words needed. Handle the cleanup, deal with the formalities. He blinked once. Understood.
By the time the soldiers burst into the garden, weapons drawn and eyes scanning the carnage, I was already walking away.
No fanfare. No questions.
Just me, Clara, and Sylvia slipping into the shadows like we were never there.
A few turns and corridors later, our footsteps slowed to a stroll. I even stretched a little.
"Now that was a refreshing walk," I said, hands behind my head.
Sylvia let out a small huff beside me, her arms crossed, "yeah, a bit too refreshing". She said her eyes smiling.
Clara was just behind us—quiet. Too quiet. Suspiciously quiet.
When we reached the edge of the gathering again, the warm light of chatter and clinking glasses greeted us like nothing had happened.
The garden was peaceful, blissfully unaware of the blood just spilled on its far side.
Sylvia looked sideways at me. "So… are we pretending we didn't just assassinate a squad of assassins?"
"Correction," I said, holding up a finger. "Not 'we', I didn't even move. The heavy lifting was done by the charming duo over here." I gestured loosely toward Clara.
Clara didn't respond. Not even a scoff.
I turned back to Sylvia with a grin. "That aside, I'll be waiting for your answer. If it's convenient, let's meet in the flower field tomorrow morning. It's peaceful there."
She gave a small nod, eyes down. "Definitely, my lord. I'll be there."
The gathering began to wind down, nobles exchanging formal farewells. The cool night air brushed against my neck as we headed back toward the residence.
And that's when I felt it.
The stare.
A very specific kind of stare.
Burning. Questioning.
Right behind me.
I could feel the air pressure shift with her silence.
Yep.
She was waiting.
For the conversation.
A bead of sweat slid down the back of my neck. Maybe not telling Clara everything beforehand hadn't been my brightest moment.
And as her quiet footsteps followed mine, steady and measured like the ticking of an executioner's clock, one thought crossed my mind:
Yeah… I'm definitely going to die before breakfast.