They moved swiftly and silently, blending into the shadows near the servants' entrance. Arlon led the way, his steps precise and soundless, his every movement guided by the mental map Dimitri had provided of the mansion's layout.
The dimly lit corridors stretched ahead, their silence broken only by the faint creak of old wooden beams. Navigating the twists and turns with practiced ease, Arlon kept his focus sharp.
It didn't take long. Just as Dimitri's notes had indicated, the room lay ahead—a sturdy oak door slightly ajar, faint light spilling into the hallway.
Arlon pushed the door open with measured care, the faint creak of the hinges barely audible in the stillness. His sharp purple eyes scanned the room as he stepped inside, his movements precise and deliberate.
The study was quiet, save for the faint crackle of the fireplace casting a soft, flickering glow across the room. It was lavishly decorated with heavy bookshelves, thick rugs, and golden accents on the furniture—an indulgence befitting noble status. Arlon slipped inside, careful to close the door silently behind him.
His purple eyes swept the room, scanning for anything out of place, anything that might hint at the hidden secrets he sought.
Ace perched on his shoulder, his black fur blending with the shadows of Arlon's dark robe. His crimson eyes flickered with sharp curiosity as he glanced around the room. "This is it, huh? Fancy. Very 'I'm-hiding-something' vibes. Where do we start?"
Arlon didn't answer immediately, his focus fixed on the details around him.
His gaze settled on the ornate desk at the room's center, its surface unnaturally pristine—unused but carefully displayed. Across the study, rows of towering bookshelves stretched to the ceiling, the leather-bound volumes clearly for show.
Above the fireplace, a hunting scene in an elaborate frame dominated the wall. Its placement felt deliberate, too perfect to be innocent.
"Start with the obvious," Arlon muttered finally, moving toward the desk.
He knelt beside the drawers and ran his fingers along their edges. Locked, as expected. Without hesitation, he retrieved a slender lockpick from his robe. Ace let out a soft hum of approval from his perch.
"Impressive," Ace mused, his tail flicking with approval. "Next, you'll be leading your own covert league of thieves."
"Save it," Arlon said flatly, though the faintest flicker of a smirk crossed his face.
Click—
The lock clicked open, and the drawer slid out smoothly. Inside, stacks of neatly organized correspondence and records awaited him. Arlon sifted through them quickly, his sharp eyes scanning each page. Most of it was mundane—purchase orders, financial transactions, formal letters. Then he paused, pulling out a folded letter sealed with wax.
The seal bore an unfamiliar insignia, but the words inside needed no introduction. As Arlon scanned the parchment, his expression darkened, the message confirming his suspicions.
"To Lords Everson, Dwyer, and Fontaine,
The arrangement is proceeding as expected. The Celestial Clan has agreed to our terms, and in exchange for their share of Throndsen east land, they will ensure financial support for our efforts. It is imperative that the heir remains the scapegoat for any suspicion. His position ensures plausible deniability for all parties involved."
"The meeting tomorrow must conclude with an agreement. Remind the Throndsen heir that his loyalty to maintaining the family's alliances outweighs any personal ambition."
Arlon's grip tightened on the letter, his jaw clenching. The Celestial Clan. The Pry. So, this is what they were up to. The three nobles had struck a deal with the Clan—a deal to hand over Throndsen east land in exchange for financial support. And they planned to frame him, the heir, as the one behind it all.
"Lovely bunch, aren't they?" Ace muttered, reading the letter over Arlon's shoulder. "Selling off land to the Celestial Clan and pinning the blame on you. Classy."
Arlon didn't reply, his mind racing. The three nobles had been against him taking the heir's title from the very beginning—he remembered that much from the novel. They hadn't agreed to his appointment, and now, they were twisting the role of heir to their advantage.
Their ploy to frame him wasn't just about discrediting him; it was about forcing him to carry the burden of their schemes, so they could claim innocence while benefiting from the deal.
He set the letter aside and moved to the bookshelf next. His hands brushed over the spines of the books, scanning for anything that seemed out of place. Many were large volumes on history and politics, clearly for show.
Then, his fingers found a gap—a space too small for a book but just wide enough for something to be hidden. Reaching in, he pulled out a small ledger.
Scrrrk—
Flipping it open, he scanned the contents. It was handwritten, the script hasty but legible, detailing transactions and notes. It was a financial log, and as Arlon read, the pieces of the conspiracy became clearer.
"Dwyer: 10,000 crowns—arranged transport for Clan operatives."
"Everson: 15,000 crowns—secured loyalty from smaller noble families to sway the vote."
"Fontaine: 20,000 crowns—bribes to key council members for their silence."
Arlon's jaw tightened further. They were using their funds to not only secure the deal with the Celestial Clan but also to manipulate other nobles into supporting their actions—or at least turning a blind eye. The money was coming from Throndsen resources, disguised as necessary expenses to "maintain the family's alliances."
"They're bleeding the family dry," Arlon muttered, his voice low with restrained anger. "And framing me as the one responsible."
Ace hissed softly, his tail flicking irritably. "I never liked these guys, but this is a new low. What's next, though? Got enough proof, or are we looking for the cherry on top?"
Arlon's gaze flicked to the painting above the fireplace. It was too prominent, too perfectly placed to be ordinary. Setting the ledger aside, he approached the painting, his fingers running along the edges of the frame.
Creak—
Sure enough, he found a hidden groove at the bottom. With a soft push, the painting swung outward, revealing a small compartment.
Inside was a black leather-bound folder, its edges worn from frequent handling. Arlon pulled it free and opened it, revealing a set of carefully written documents.
The first page outlined the terms with chilling precision: "In exchange for Throndsen east land along the eastern border, the Celestial Clan will ensure annual financial support of 100,000 crowns…"
"The transfer of land will be formalized through a forged decree bearing the Throndsen heir's signature."
The second page bore the forged decree itself, complete with an exact replica of Arlon's signature. The words accused him of willingly ceding the land to the Celestial Clan in exchange for "strengthening ties" between the two factions.
Ace let out a low whistle. "That's it. That's the nail in the coffin. These guys are done."
Arlon tucked the documents into his bag, his movements quick and precise. "Not yet. This isn't over until I've exposed them."
Arlon scanned the study one final time, his sharp gaze ensuring nothing appeared out of place. The documents—tangible evidence of the conspiracy—rested securely in the satchel strapped beneath his shirt. He moved toward the door, his reach on the knob, preparing to slip out unnoticed.
A faint creak shattered the stillness, followed by the soft shuffle of footsteps. Arlon's hand froze on the doorknob, his senses sharpening as the sounds stopped just beyond the door.
Flip— Flip—
The narrator screen flickered faintly, its golden glow reflecting off the polished floor.
[—As Arlon opened the door, he came face-to-face with an unexpected obstacle: a servant. Swift action was no longer optional—it was inevitable.]
Of course, Arlon thought, suppressing a sigh. This won't end without a surprise.
The door cracked open to reveal a young servant, arms full of linens, staring directly at him.
For a split second, both of them froze.
"Who—"
The door swung open, and a startled servant froze, a stack of linens teetering in his arms. Arlon acted instantly, seizing the man's collar and pulling him into the room with one fluid motion.
Thud—
The door clicked shut just as the linens hit the floor, scattering silently across the rug. Before the servant could shout, Arlon struck the back of his neck with practiced precision. The man slumped forward, unconscious before he could even register the danger.
Ace, perched on a nearby bookshelf, let out a soft, amused hum. "Wow, subtle as always. And here I thought we were going for finesse tonight."
Arlon ignored him, kneeling to drag the unconscious servant behind the desk. He straightened, brushing off his gloved hands. His heart was steady, but irritation simmered beneath his calm exterior. This could've been cleaner.
The narrator screen pulsed softly again, its text updating as Arlon adjusted his gloves.
["The servant, now unconscious, would be no further problem. But the sound of footsteps approaching from the hallway made it clear: time was running out.]
Arlon exhaled sharply, his mind racing. No time.
He moved swiftly, tugging at the servant's uniform. It was simple enough— he only took the vest and its necktie. Within moments, he had pulled it on over his own clothes, adjusting the fit and straightening the necktie His movements were fluid but rushed, his mind focused entirely on the task.
Ace tilted his head as the scene unfolded, his sharp crimson eyes glinting with amusement. "Well, this is one way to secure an invite," he purred, his voice light and teasing.
"Quiet," Arlon snapped, shooting him a glare.
Ace only smirked, his tail flicking lazily.
"You've got quite the talent for improvisation," he said, his voice laced with mockery. "Knock him out, play dress-up—what's next? A dramatic dance routine?"
Ignoring the comment, Arlon adjusted the vest tucking the satchel inside, his ears straining to catch the sound of the approaching footsteps. They were close now. He stepped away from the desk, turning to face the door just as it swung open.
The footsteps grew louder. Arlon glanced down at the unconscious servant, ensuring they were well-hidden behind the desk, before turning toward the door. The lock clicked, and it swung open.
A second servant appeared, this one older, with sharp eyes and a tray of glasses balanced expertly in his hands. He stopped short, his gaze narrowing as it landed on Arlon. "What are you doing in here?"
Arlon straightened, his expression neutral but his mind already working. Stay calm. Look useful.
"There was a rat," Arlon said smoothly, pointing toward the corner of the room. His voice carried just the right mix of irritation and embarrassment. "It ran across the floor. I thought I could deal with it before it caused any trouble."
The older servant's lip curled in mild disgust. "Rats? Filthy creatures. You'd best handle it quickly. The last thing we need is guests hearing about this."
"Yes, sir," Arlon replied, inclining his head slightly to emphasize his supposed deference. His pulse quickened as the servant's sharp gaze lingered a second too long, his mind racing with contingency plans.
When the older man finally turned to leave, Arlon exhaled silently, the tension in his chest easing by a fraction.
The servant gave him one last scrutinizing look before turning on his heel and leaving the room, the door clicking shut behind him.
The narrator screen flickered faintly, its text reappearing in the quiet.
["With the second servant gone, Arlon had successfully diffused the situation. But his exit needed to happen now—before another interruption derailed the mission.]
Ace leapt gracefully from the bookshelf, landing silently at Arlon's feet. "That was impressive," he said, his tone laced with mock admiration. "Though I half expected you to actually chase down an imaginary rat. Would've been a nice touch."
"Do you ever stop talking?" Arlon muttered, already moving toward the hallway.
Ace hopped onto his shoulder, settling in with a lazy stretch. "Not when you make it this fun."
Without another word, Arlon moved toward the door, his steps deliberate and silent. His mind buzzed with a sharp focus, each action carefully calculated. One mistake. That's all it takes to bring this whole thing crashing down.
The mansion's bustling hallways were alive with the quiet hum of servants moving trays and guests laughing in distant rooms. Arlon moved seamlessly among them, the borrowed uniform allowing him to blend in without drawing suspicion. He carried a tray now, using it as a prop to further sell his role.
Ace, perched casually on his shoulder, kept his voice low as they navigated the maze of corridors. His small size and nimble frame made him blend in with the shadowy edges of Arlon's disguise, an unspoken testament to how often they'd pulled stunts like this together.
"For someone who hates being noticed, you're surprisingly good at slipping under the radar. Almost like you've done this before."
Arlon's lips twitched faintly—almost a smirk, but not quite. "Let's just get out of here."