Sleep was supposed to arrive like a gentle tide.
Instead, it came crashing with blood-soaked waves.
Every time I closed my eyes, that damn memory played like a stage performance on loop.
Maria's twin daggers flashing under moonlight, aimed right at me.
The glint in her eyes, more beast than human.
And then—Clara. Her shadow lunging into the fray, her blade intercepting the fatal arc like it was child's play.
I woke up more times than I could count. Heart racing. Palms sweaty. A lump lodged in my throat I couldn't swallow.
By morning, I'd surrendered to the fact that sleep had no intention of being kind to me.
The castle had already begun to stir when Clara entered my room like clockwork.
As always, composed. Hair tied, uniform immaculate. But something was different, there was a softness to her expression.
A flicker of something almost... open. Had she decided to drop the whole "stone-faced servant" act around me?
We walked in silence through the west corridor, the marble flooring glowing in morning light.
On our way to the garden, an inquisitor, one supposedly headed for my room, spotted me in the corridor.
He halted, offered a stiff bow, and extended a sealed report.
"It's from Sir Sebastian, my lord."
Clara stepped closer as I broke the seal. Her eyes skimmed the parchment with mine.
It was about Maria, Sebastian's initial findings on her little masquerade.
After a brief exchange of glances, I closed the report and handed it back.
"Good work," I said, tone flat. "Dispose of it immediately."
"At once, my lord," the inquisitor replied before turning briskly down the hall and vanishing around the corner.
The flower field wasn't far, just a turn past the east tower and down a fenced trail laced with creeping vines.
The garden itself was enclosed by tall hedges and soft grass, with a wooden gate acting as its single entrance.
The blooms inside, lavenders, orchids, pale roses, had all been grown with the kind of obsessive care that only nobles with too much land and money could afford.
And, well, we did qualify.
As we stepped through the entrance, I immediately noticed the setup. Table already arranged. Silver cutlery gleaming.
Freshly sliced cakes and delicate tea biscuits rested on fine porcelain.
The scent of morning dew mixed with hints of bergamot and jasmine.
Perfect. Too perfect. Clara-level perfect.
I took a seat under the vine-laced pavilion and watched Clara move with her usual grace as she poured the tea. No hesitation. No wasted movement.
The tea cup found its way into my hand before I even had time to blink. I took a sip.
Balanced. Smooth. A hint of citrus dancing under floral notes. Her signature blend.
"Is it to your liking, my lord?" she asked, her voice light.
It caught me off guard. Clara didn't ask things like that. She usually just gave me a death stare until I finished the tea, then judged me silently if I didn't.
I glanced at her. She wasn't smiling exactly, but there was a tilt to her lips. Like she was trying not to.
"As usual," I said, raising the cup slightly, "a masterpiece. You could ruin someone else's standards for tea with this, you know."
Her cheeks tinged the faintest shade of pink. A modest nod followed. "I shall take that as a compliment, my lord."
Clearly proud of herself. And, for some reason, so was I.
Then, just as I was about to take another sip, the wooden gate creaked open.
Lady Sylvia stepped in, dressed in soft silks that complimented her eyes. Elegant as always.
Behind her trailed her personal maid, who looked like she'd rather be anywhere else than walking through a Falcon duchy flower field this early in the morning.
The moment Clara laid eyes on Linette, her face twitched, tight, restrained, like a thread pulled taut.
Of course. She'd read the report.
I straightened in my chair, my fingers still wrapped around the cup. Clara silently stepped behind me, the usual sentinel she always became when foreign nobility arrived.
"Lord Hugo," Sylvia greeted with a soft smile, elegant and polite.
I stood and returned the gesture with a bow of my head. "Lady Sylvia. I trust your morning is agreeable."
"It is," she said, settling into the chair across from me, Linette remaining dutifully behind her.
After a brief exchange of morning pleasantries and meaningless seasonal commentary, because apparently nobles have mastered the art of pretending weather matters.
Then my gaze shifted ever so briefly.
Her maid, Linette, stood just behind her, rigid, lips pressed into a sour line. She hadn't bowed. Not even a courteous nod.
"Well," I began casually, "your maid seems... less than impressed. I do hope our humble flower field wasn't beneath her standards."
Sylvia blinked and glanced back at Linette with a trace of anxiety. "Ah, Linette's mannerisms can be... misunderstood. She doesn't always express herself well, but I assure you, she liked it."
Linette didn't reply. Not a twitch, not even a glance. For a second, I thought she might be a particularly well-dressed statue.
I gave a slow, deliberate smile.
"I think the real misunderstanding," Linette opened her mouth, eyes sharp with disdain, "is letting Lady Sylvia drink tea with a man who's never lifted a finger for himself."
"If not for Duke Everard's shadow looming over everyone, I doubt you'd even have a seat at this table, Lord Hugo."
The silence was absolute.
The temperature didn't drop. It shattered.
Clara's body tensed behind me before I could even glance her way. I didn't turn.
Sylvia's eyes widened in horror. "Linette—!"
Too late.
"I apologize, Lord Hugo," Sylvia said quickly, trying to salvage the moment. "She doesn't speak for—"
"She speaks too much," Clara cut in, her voice like ice breaking beneath a boot. "One more word about my master, and I will cut that wagging tongue of yours clean out."
Linette's lips curled, and she scoffed. "A maid with no manners. No wonder you serve someone like him. You're perfect for each other—equally shameless."
"Clara," I said as if my words alone can stop the impending flood.
Her hand had already moved.
It rested beneath her skirt, fingers brushing the hilt of a hidden blade.
I placed my hand over hers. Not harshly. Just enough to stop the inevitable.
"Now, now, ladies. We wouldn't want things escalating beyond the point of... recovery."
Linette seized the moment.
"With all due respect, Lord Hugo, she should be punished! Such insolence, right in front of her master—!"
A sigh slipped past my lips. I gave a small nod toward the Falcon soldier waiting nearby.
"Clara," I said, "will indeed be punished."
Before Linette could smirk, the soldier stepped forward with quiet purpose.
His fist buried in linette's hair. Her shriek cracked the air before she hit the ground with a sickening thud, face-first into the grass.
Clara didn't flinch.
Sylvia gasped, rising halfway from her seat. Her obsidian eyes flicked from the fallen maid to me, stunned.
I finished my sentence.
"For disrespecting a maid."
Then I turned my eyes to Linette.
"But you—" I paused, letting my words drop like stones into a still lake. "You will be punished for slandering a noble... and insulting the heir of this duchy. In his own garden."
Her whimper was the only sound for a while.
Sylvia stood frozen, torn between horror and understanding.
Linette whimpered against the grass, her cheek pressed into the soil, her eyes wide with a mix of indignation and fear.
The Falcon soldier didn't move further, just held her down, awaiting my word.
Across from me, Sylvia stood frozen, hand hovering near her heart. The color had drained from her face.
"I..." she began, then caught herself. Her voice faltered for the first time since we met. She took a breath, gathered her composure, and stepped forward.
"Lord Hugo," she said, her voice still poised but trembling faintly. "Please… overlook this one time. I will ensure such disgrace never repeats. I...she did not understand the weight of her words."
Ah. There it was. The difference between the poised noble lady and the girl standing before me now. This wasn't just about a maid anymore, this was about the name she carried.
Linette's insult, in another noble's stronghold, could be taken as treason.
That a maid speaking against a high noble wasn't just insolent, it was punishable by death. And that if such a punishment was carried out, the shame wouldn't just stain Linette.
It would stain the Leons.
I stared at Sylvia for a beat. Her shoulders were squared, but her hands trembled at her sides. She wasn't pleading.
She was taking responsibility.
I glanced at the soldier.
"She's your personal maid," I said softly. "Her tongue reflects on you. I trust you understand the gravity of that."
"I do," Sylvia answered. "Fully."
Her voice didn't waver this time.
Good.
I gave the soldier a nod.
"Take her out of my garden," I said, my tone devoid of warmth. "Show her to her room. Make sure she doesn't wander." I said making sure the last part is feeded as the order.
The soldier obeyed without a word, yanking Linette to her feet. She didn't fight back, just kept her head down and let herself be dragged out of the flower field, the iron door clanging shut behind them.
The silence that followed wasn't peaceful.
It was thick.
Heavy with everything unsaid.
I sat back down slowly, picked up my cup of tea, and took a sip. It had cooled. Shame.
When I looked up again, Sylvia was still standing, eyes lingering on the now-closed gate.
"That," I said, breaking the silence, "was your one mercy. For your name's sake."
Her eyes finally met mine again. A silent nod. No gratitude. Just understanding.
Good.
We could work with that.
Clara remained behind me, silent as stone, though I could feel the unease radiating off her.
Sylvia, now seated, kept her posture elegant, but I saw how tightly her fingers curled around the hem of her sleeve. Not out of fear. Out of restraint.
I set my teacup down, the porcelain clinking softly against the plate.
"Well then," I said, my tone light, about the proposal I made yesterday, "Shall I take your maid's opinion as your own, or might I expect something a little more… refined?"
Her head turned slowly, obsidian eyes locking into mine.
Steady.
Strong.
A brief pause. Then, with a breath she didn't need to steal—
"I am honored to be your fiancée, Lord Hugo. I will carry myself in a manner befitting your dignity. That is my vow."
For a moment, I just looked at her.
And for once, I smiled, not my usual smirk, but something calm. Almost genuine.
I lifted my cup, but then thought better of it, setting it down again with careful grace.
"I'm glad," I said. "Truly. To have such a wonderful fiancée."
A rare quiet settled between us, neither awkward nor frigid.
I let the silence breathe, just for a second longer, before straightening my back and brushing a speck of nonexistent dust from my cuff.
"Well," I said, voice calm, "now that the formalities are done with… shall we get to business?"
Lady Sylvia didn't miss a beat. She placed her teacup on its saucer with a gentle clink and leaned forward, resting her gloved hands on the table—composed, graceful, but unmistakably sharp.
"I'd be happy to," she said, voice cool as morning dew.
I gave her a short nod, allowing a trace of a smirk to slip through.
"As we speak, your father and mine are likely already exchanging pleasantries, discussing plans to solidify the ties between the Falcon Duchy and the Leon Viscounty."
"Last night's banquet was more than just a social affair. It was a public statement… an indirect showcase, if you will."
Sylvia inclined her head slightly, the faintest movement.
"I'm aware," she replied. Her tone never faltered, nor did her posture. It was like talking to a marble statue carved with perfect precision.
"Then," I continued, lacing my fingers together atop the table, "you must also be aware of why they're so eager to strengthen those bonds."
She didn't blink.
"My father is aiming for the Duke's seat of Leon," she said flatly. "And His grace Duke Everard wants a strong connection with whoever ends up leading Leon in the future. My father appears to be a favored candidate."
I paused, just long enough to acknowledge her answer with a hint of admiration tugging at my brow.
Emotionless, accurate, surgical.
A lovely little deduction, except for one thing.
"That was the case," I said slowly, watching her reaction, "until a few weeks ago."
I didn't say more. Not yet. Just let the words linger in the space between us, like the faint curl of steam rising from the tea.
But in my head, I scoffed.
That was never the case, actually.
Father doesn't give a damn who sits on Leon's vacant throne.
He only wants someone competent enough to manage the mess of a duchy alongside his own son, me, the allegedly "useless" heir.
Orion of Leon just happens to be a familiar face with reach inside Falcon's borders… and Sylvia, well—
She fits the bill better than anyone. Sharp. Capable.
Still, I could guess why she thought otherwise.
After what she witnessed last night, she likely assumed it was all to prove a point. A point in my favor.
I didn't bother correcting her.
Instead, I leaned back in my seat, watching her carefully.
"Now," I said, letting the faintest trace of amusement into my voice, "the situation has shifted… quite a bit."
My voice dropped low enough that even Clara's usual soft breathing behind me seemed to fade.
"Your thoughts on this matter hold great importance. Ensuring no third party listens in on this conversation… was our top priority. Especially not moles. Or informants."
Sylvia's eyes sharpened the moment I finished speaking. And then like a sudden click of gears aligning, her expression shifted.
A snap of realization.
Her lips parted. "Linette... you sent her out because—"
I cut in calmly, raising a hand before she could finish. "We'll get to that in a moment. There are matters that take precedence."
Sylvia's mouth closed slowly, but her posture remained stiff. Her gaze dipped in quiet contemplation as if she were trying to recall every moment with Linette under a different light.
"As I was saying, my father wishes for more than just strong diplomatic ties with the Leons."
"The long-term goal is to establish your territory as a major trade hub, linking the Elvian Kingdom, Valthryon, and Tenjiku, effectively turning Leon into the beating heart of east-west commerce."
"This would also allow us to compete with Griffin Vale, which, frankly, has held a monopoly on intercontinental trade for far too long."
Sylvia's obsidian eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion, but deep thought. She delicately set her teacup down.
"That's ambitious," she said, voice smooth. "But the Elvian tax system is notoriously tangled. Imports are taxed by province, not by kingdom decree. How do you plan to streamline trade through that route?"
A small smirk tugged at the corner of my lips.
"We'll start by leveraging Valthryon's mercantile neutrality. If we handle the export-import loop through neutral ports, the goods become harder to tax individually by each Elvian province.
"We'll mask the origin of goods through our own merchant guild, rebranded and unified under Falcon-Leon oversight."
She nodded, fingers tapping softly on the porcelain rim of her plate.
"And Tenjiku?" she asked. "They don't exactly play well with outside merchants. Their guild restrictions are strict, even more so on non-native nobles."
"Which is why we won't use nobles. The Falcon Duchy is grooming merchant families of commoner origin. Clean records, no old nobility ties, to act as intermediaries."
"It creates a facade of grassroots trade, which Tenjiku finds more palatable. Your territory will serve as their primary landing dock, but they'll never know it's us pulling the strings."
Sylvia leaned in, eyebrows slightly raised in what could only be interest. She didn't speak right away.
Clara stood behind me elegantly like a statue, taking in as much information as she could.
Sylvia finally said, "You've already thought this far ahead… And here I assumed your proposal last night was just about titles and ceremonies."
"I don't blame you," I replied, smiling faintly. "It was a simple proposal. But the foundations it laid were anything but."
She tilted her head slightly. "What about enforcement? Even if our merchants pass through Elvian borders with forged port origins, it only takes one ambitious tax officer to unravel it. And if that happens, the blame falls on Leon."
"Correct. Which is why Gaveric, Duchy's finance expert, is negotiating for Falcon-trained legal advisors to be embedded within Leon's merchant guilds.
"They'll teach them how to navigate border law and delay investigations for months."
"That should be more than enough time to re-route and restructure whenever cracks appear."
Her eyes gleamed with understanding.
"Your investment in us Leons is far too significant to be justified by our engagement alone. Do you truly trust us to such an extent?"
I nodded once, reaching for my tea.
"The leverage is you, Lady Sylvia, and truly, I couldn't ask for a better partner."
Sylvia's eyes widened, just slightly, before she lowered her gaze, as if trying to conceal the flicker of emotion that had escaped her control.
Her voice was soft but firm.
"I will assist you in whatever way I can, within my capabilities."
She lifted her gaze from her lap and met mine directly. Obsidian locked against crimson, her pupils sharp with calculation. Then came the real question.
"But someone who knows this much, Lord Hugo, must also be aware of my father's strong connections with Griffin Vale."
Ah. There it is.
She continued, tone polite but laced with cautious steel.
"If he were to learn of this plan… he could very well choose to sell the idea to Griffin Vale instead, annul our engagement, and seek their backing instead. Isn't that a risk you considered?"
A pause. Her eyes studied mine, unwavering.
"Don't misunderstand, I have no intention of betraying you. Not a single ounce. I simply want to understand why you trust me… trust us… this much."
Clara, standing behind me, subtly shifted her weight. From the corner of my eye, I could see her brows draw together, not out of distrust toward Sylvia, but out of concern for the direction this conversation was taking.
I leaned back in my chair, letting out a slow breath as I rested one hand against my chin.
Her favorability towards me is… what, 23 percent? Of course she wouldn't talk about loyalty without collateral. I'd do the same if I were in her shoes. Probably worse.
I honestly didn't expect a seventeen-year-old girl to handle this much.
Not just the trade proposal, but the structure behind it, the administrative branches, the tax discrepancies between kingdoms, even the logistical nightmare of freight routes.
She wasn't just nodding along like some pampered noble's daughter pretending to be helpful. She understood.
Of course, mentioning the possibility of her father siding with Griffin Vale was a mistake. Even if it came from a place of realism, it could be interpreted as saying "they're better than you." That kind of slip can change the entire tone of a negotiation.
Then again she's seventeen. And yet, she's already shown more clarity, control, and composure than most seasoned advisors I've seen strutting through these halls.
Honestly, she's better equipped than half the so-called experts my father puts on the payroll.
Still, it was impressive how cleanly she brought up the concern without actually offending me.
I gave her a small smirk.
"Lady Sylvia, at this moment, our fathers are discussing not just the relationship between our duchies—"
A sharp knock interrupted me.
The garden door creaked open, and a Falcon soldier stepped in, boots silent against the stone tiles. He gave a short bow, expression blank and professional.
The soldier glanced at Sylvia, then back to me.
I nodded, signaling to proceed.
"My lord. Marla has regained consciousness. Her statements are being prepared. With your permission, we can begin cross-referencing them."
Sylvia's hand froze above her teacup, and Clara's brows shot up with surprise. I turned to Sylvia slowly, my smirk curling wider.
"The answer to your question, Lady Sylvia…"
I stood, brushing off nonexistent dust from my sleeves.
"…would be best heard directly."
Then I offered her a hand, my tone light but cutting through the morning air like a blade.
"Shall we head to the torture room together?" I said as if I am taking her to a romantic spot.
Her expression flickered. Calm, but the corner of her eye twitched. And then she took my hand.
Clara, on the other hand, looked way too excited for what should have been a disturbing sentence.