The smell of blood and smoke clung to the air, a reminder of the chaos that had just unfolded. The clearing, once serene, now looked like the aftermath of a battlefield. The bodies of attackers and nobles alike were scattered across the ground, their lifeless forms eerily still. The fire I'd started had burned itself out, leaving charred patches of earth and the faint scent of oil.
I stared at the scorched ground from my place against the tree, trying to steady my breathing. My hands still shook from the adrenaline, my muscles aching with the effort it had taken to crawl through the chaos. Every nerve in my body screamed at me to move, to run, but I stayed where I was. I couldn't afford to show any weakness now.
The survivors were regrouping. Sir Garret barked orders to the remaining knights, his sword still in hand. His voice carried across the clearing, steady and commanding, as he directed them to secure the perimeter and tend to the wounded. Despite his battered armor and blood-streaked face, he stood tall, a living pillar of strength.
I envied him. While I had cowered behind a log, Sir Garret had fought with the strength of a dozen men. He had held the line when everyone else faltered. Without him, none of us would have survived.
But I couldn't let him carry the burden alone.
---
I forced myself to my feet, using the tree trunk for support. My legs were unsteady beneath me, and I stumbled as I took my first step. Sir Garret noticed immediately, his sharp eyes narrowing as he made his way toward me.
"Master Liam," he said, his voice low but firm. "You shouldn't push yourself."
"I'm fine," I replied, though my voice sounded hoarse even to my own ears. "How many... How many made it?"
Garret's expression darkened. "Four knights and two nobles, including you. The rest..." He trailed off, his jaw tightening. "We've lost too many."
Six survivors out of fifteen. I swallowed the lump in my throat, forcing myself to nod. The ambush had been devastating, but it could have been worse. Without the fire, we might all have been cut down.
Garret's gaze softened slightly as he placed a hand on my shoulder. "You did well back there. That fire turned the tide. Without it, we wouldn't be standing here."
His words should have been reassuring, but they weren't. I hadn't saved us because I was brave or skilled—I had saved us because I was desperate. The fire had been a last-ditch effort, born out of panic and fear. If it hadn't worked, we'd all be dead.
"Thank you," I said quietly, brushing past him before he could say more.
---
I made my way toward the edge of the clearing, my eyes scanning the treeline for any sign of Sir Roland. He was nowhere to be found. My suspicion deepened with every passing moment.
Roland had been present at the start of the ambush, but he had disappeared as soon as the attackers emerged. He hadn't fought alongside the knights, nor had he been among the attackers. When the dust settled, he reappeared as if nothing had happened, his armor unscathed and his expression calm.
The others might dismiss it as coincidence, but I couldn't. Roland's absence during the fight wasn't just suspicious—it was damning. If he was the traitor, he had likely slipped away to coordinate with the attackers, ensuring their assault went as planned.
But why? What did he stand to gain from betraying the Ardens?
"Master Liam," Roland's voice called, smooth and unhurried. I turned to see him approaching, his polished armor gleaming in the sunlight. "You're looking worse for wear. Are you injured?"
I forced a smile, masking the anger boiling beneath the surface. "Just a bit shaken. Nothing serious."
"Good to hear," he said, his tone almost patronizing. "We'll need your strength for the journey back. These woods aren't safe."
Safe? The gall of him. I clenched my fists, keeping my expression neutral as he stopped a few paces away. He looked me over, his gaze sharp despite his relaxed demeanor.
"You did well back there," Roland said after a moment. "That fire was clever. Unexpected, even."
"Desperation can inspire strange ideas," I replied evenly, meeting his gaze. "I was lucky it worked."
"Luck or not, it saved us," he said, inclining his head. "Your father will be proud."
I nearly laughed at that. My father didn't care about me—at least, not as a person. I was an heir, a tool for political leverage. My survival would please him only because it preserved his plans.
But I didn't say any of that. Instead, I nodded, my mask of civility firmly in place. "Thank you, Sir Roland. I'll take that as a compliment."
He smiled faintly, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Of course."
---
The journey back to the Arden estate was somber. The remaining knights carried the wounded nobles on makeshift stretchers, their movements slow and deliberate. No one spoke unless it was necessary, the silence heavy with the weight of loss.
I rode near the middle of the group, flanked by Sir Garret and one of the younger knights. The path wound through the dense forest, each step taking us farther from the clearing and closer to safety. Yet the further we traveled, the more uneasy I felt.
The ambush had been too precise, too well-executed to be the work of common bandits. Someone had planned this, and they had planned it well. The attackers had known our route, our numbers, even the exact moment to strike. And they had given clear orders to take me alive.
The Gavarns. It had to be them. They were the only ones with enough motive and resources to orchestrate something like this. But they couldn't have done it alone. They needed someone on the inside—someone who knew the Arden household and its operations intimately.
Someone like Sir Roland.
"Master Liam," Garret said, his voice pulling me from my thoughts. "You should rest when we return. This ordeal has taken its toll on all of us."
I nodded absently, my mind still racing. Rest would have to wait. There were too many questions, too many pieces of the puzzle still missing. And if I didn't find the answers soon, I might not survive the next ambush.
---
By the time we reached the estate, the sun was setting, casting long shadows across the courtyard. Servants rushed to greet us, their faces pale with concern as they took in the state of the survivors. The wounded were carried inside immediately, while the knights dispersed to report to their superiors.
I lingered near the entrance, watching the bustle of activity with a detached sense of exhaustion. The adrenaline that had kept me going finally began to fade, leaving behind a hollow ache in my chest.
"Master Liam," a soft voice said. I turned to see one of the servants—a young maid whose name I couldn't remember—standing hesitantly a few paces away. "Shall I prepare a bath for you?"
"No," I said, shaking my head. "Just... water and a change of clothes."
She nodded quickly and hurried away, leaving me alone once more. I closed my eyes, leaning against the cool stone wall as the events of the day replayed in my mind.
The ambush had been a warning. Whoever was behind it wouldn't stop until they got what they wanted. If I wanted to survive, I had to act. I had to find the traitor and expose them before they struck again.
But to do that, I needed a plan.
---
The Arden estate loomed in the distance, its high stone walls and towering spires bathed in the orange glow of the setting sun. The sight should have filled me with relief—it was safety, sanctuary, a place far removed from the blood-soaked clearing we had left behind. But as we drew closer, a different emotion took hold: unease.
The estate wasn't just a home. It was a stage, and every person inside it a player in a much larger game. My survival had been a fluke, a desperate gamble that had paid off, but I knew it wasn't the end. Whoever had orchestrated the ambush wouldn't stop. Not until they succeeded.
We passed through the gates in silence, the iron bars creaking open to admit us. The courtyard, usually bustling with activity, fell still as servants rushed forward to greet us. Their faces were pale with shock, their eyes wide as they took in the sight of our battered group. Whispers spread like wildfire, and I caught fragments of their murmurs.
"An attack?"
"...only six made it back."
"...the young master—alive?"
I dismounted slowly, my legs stiff and unsteady beneath me. A stable hand darted forward to take the reins, his gaze flickering between me and the bloodstains on my clothing. I ignored him, focusing instead on the commotion around me.
The wounded were carried inside immediately, their groans of pain echoing across the courtyard. Sir Garret barked orders to the knights, directing them to secure the perimeter and report to Lord Arden. His voice was calm and authoritative, but his expression was grim.
"Master Liam," Garret said, turning toward me. His tone softened slightly, though it still carried the weight of command. "You should rest. This ordeal has been... difficult."
I nodded absently, though rest was the last thing on my mind. My body ached, my clothes were filthy, and my head throbbed from exhaustion, but I couldn't afford to stop. Not yet.
"Thank you, Sir Garret," I said quietly. "For everything."
He inclined his head, his sharp eyes studying me for a moment before he strode off toward the main hall. I watched him go, feeling a pang of guilt. He had risked his life to protect me, yet I had given him nothing in return—no plan, no leadership, no certainty. Just desperation.
---
As I made my way toward the entrance, I became acutely aware of the stares. Servants paused in their tasks to watch me, their expressions a mix of curiosity and unease. Whispers followed in my wake, too faint to make out but impossible to ignore.
The young master, returning from an ambush. Alive, against all odds.
To them, I must have seemed like a figure out of a story—a noble heir surviving a harrowing ordeal. But I wasn't a hero. I wasn't even the protagonist. I was an extra, someone whose survival wasn't supposed to matter. And yet, here I was, defying the script.
"Master Liam," a voice called. I turned to see one of the senior servants, a stern-faced woman named Mariel, approaching me. Her sharp gaze swept over my disheveled appearance, lingering on the soot and oil staining my hands. "Shall I prepare a bath for you?"
"No," I said, shaking my head. "Just water and clean clothes. And food. Something simple."
Mariel hesitated, clearly wanting to press the issue, but she nodded. "Very well. I'll have it sent to your chambers."
"Thank you," I said, brushing past her and climbing the steps to the main hall.
---
The hall was quiet when I entered, its usual grandeur muted by the lingering echoes of the day's events. High vaulted ceilings, polished stone floors, and intricate tapestries adorned the space, but they felt hollow. Lifeless.
I made my way to the side staircase, avoiding the central corridor where I knew my father's study lay. The last thing I wanted was to face him now. Lord Arden would already know about the ambush—news traveled fast in the estate—and he would demand answers. Answers I didn't yet have.
Reaching my chambers, I closed the door behind me and leaned against it, letting out a shaky breath. The room was just as I'd left it: pristine, organized, suffocatingly perfect. A far cry from the chaos of the forest.
A knock at the door startled me, and I opened it to find a young maid standing there with a tray. She avoided my gaze as she set it down on the table, her movements quick and practiced.
"Your water and clothes, Master Liam," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Is there anything else you require?"
"No," I said, dismissing her with a wave of my hand. "That will be all."
She left without another word, closing the door softly behind her. I stared at the tray for a moment before crossing the room and pouring a glass of water. The cool liquid soothed my parched throat, but it did little to calm the storm raging in my mind.
---
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I let my gaze wander to the window. The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky painted in shades of purple and gold. The estate seemed peaceful from this vantage point, its sprawling gardens and courtyards bathed in the soft glow of twilight.
But that peace was an illusion. Beneath the surface, there were cracks—shadows lurking in the corners, waiting for their chance to strike. The ambush had been a warning, a declaration of intent. Someone wanted me dead, and they wouldn't stop until they succeeded.
I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. The fire had saved me once, but it wouldn't save me again. I couldn't rely on luck and desperation to keep me alive. I needed a plan—a way to uncover the truth, expose the traitor, and take control of my fate.
Because if I didn't, this story would end exactly as it was written.
---
The summons came sooner than I'd expected.
I had just finished washing the grime and soot from my hands when a knock sounded at my door. The maid, the same one who had brought me water earlier, stood stiffly in the hallway. She refused to meet my gaze, her eyes fixed on the floor as she delivered her message.
"Lord Arden requests your presence in the study, Master Liam," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Of course, he does, I thought bitterly. My father wouldn't wait for explanations to come to him; he would demand them. And no amount of exhaustion or trauma on my part would delay that demand.
"I'll be there shortly," I said, dismissing her with a wave. She curtsied quickly and disappeared down the hall.
I took a deep breath, running my hand through my damp hair. The idea of facing my father now, when I was barely holding myself together, filled me with a sense of dread that rivaled the ambush itself. But avoiding him wasn't an option. Lord Arden wasn't the type to tolerate defiance, even from his own son.
Especially from his own son.
---
The study was just as I remembered it: a cavernous room lined with shelves of books, ledgers, and maps. A massive oak desk dominated the space, its surface meticulously organized with documents and a single golden quill. Behind it sat Lord Arden, his sharp features illuminated by the flickering light of the fireplace.
He didn't look up as I entered, his focus fixed on the paper in front of him. His quill moved with precision, scratching out neat lines of text that were no doubt of great importance to him. I stood there for a moment, unsure whether to announce myself or wait to be acknowledged.
Finally, he spoke, his voice cold and measured. "Sit."
I complied, lowering myself into the chair opposite his desk. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, the only sound in the otherwise oppressive silence. My father set his quill down and leaned back in his chair, his piercing blue eyes locking onto mine.
"You've returned," he said, his tone devoid of warmth. "Intact, no less."
I bristled at the implication but kept my voice steady. "Yes, Father."
He studied me for a moment, his gaze sharp enough to cut through steel. "I've already been briefed on the ambush," he said, steepling his fingers. "A disaster, by all accounts. Half the knights dead, most of the nobles slaughtered. And yet, you survived."
"I did," I said, meeting his gaze evenly. "Thanks to Sir Garret and the others."
Lord Arden's expression didn't change. "And yet Garret tells me it was you who turned the tide of the battle. He mentioned fire."
"It was a desperate measure," I said carefully. "The supplies in the clearing—oil, torches—I used them to create a barrier."
His lips pressed into a thin line. "Desperation is no excuse for recklessness. Do you realize how easily that fire could have consumed you along with the attackers?"
I bit back the retort that rose to my lips. "I realize it, Father. But it worked."
"Barely," he said, his tone cutting. "Do you know what this attack cost us? The knights, the nobles—it's more than just bodies. Their families will demand answers. Reparations. And those demands will fall to me."
I clenched my fists beneath the desk, my nails digging into my palms. "The ambush wasn't random," I said, my voice firmer than I intended. "The attackers weren't ordinary bandits. They knew our route, our numbers. They gave clear orders to take me alive."
Lord Arden raised an eyebrow. "And your point?"
"My point," I said, leaning forward slightly, "is that someone planned this. Someone with resources and inside knowledge. This wasn't an attack on the hunting party—it was an attack on House Arden."
For the first time, something flickered in his eyes. Interest, perhaps. Or maybe annoyance. It was hard to tell with him.
"And you believe you know who is responsible?" he asked.
I hesitated. "The Gavarns," I said finally. "They have the motive and the means. And if they have someone on the inside—"
"Stop," Lord Arden interrupted, raising a hand. "You are not to speak of this to anyone."
"Why?" I asked, my frustration bubbling to the surface. "If the Gavarns are behind this—"
"Because baseless accusations will only make us look weak," he said sharply. "And weakness is something we cannot afford."
His words struck me like a blow. Weakness. That was what he feared most, wasn't it? Not the loss of life, not the threat to our house, but the perception of vulnerability.
"Then what do you intend to do?" I asked, my voice tight.
He leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. "Leave that to me."
---
The conversation left a bitter taste in my mouth. My father's refusal to act—or, at the very least, to involve me in his plans—was infuriating. But it wasn't surprising. Lord Arden had always been a man who kept his cards close to his chest, even with his own son.
Especially with his own son.
I left the study feeling more drained than before. The halls of the estate were quiet as I made my way back to my chambers, the soft glow of lanterns casting long shadows across the stone walls. My mind churned with unanswered questions, each one more troubling than the last.
Why had the Gavarns targeted me specifically? What did they stand to gain by capturing or killing the heir of House Arden? And most importantly, who within the estate had betrayed us?
Because someone had betrayed us. I was certain of it. The attackers had known too much—our route, our numbers, the exact moment to strike. That kind of information couldn't have come from guesswork. It had to have been given to them.
By someone I trusted.
---
The sound of my boots echoed softly against the polished stone floor as I made my way back to my chambers. The conversation with my father weighed heavily on me, each step feeling heavier than the last. His dismissal of my concerns, his refusal to confront the obvious threat—it left me with one painful conclusion: I couldn't rely on him. Not this time.
The ambush wasn't just an attack on House Arden. It was a direct challenge to my existence. And if I wanted to survive, I would have to take matters into my own hands.
---
When I reached my chambers, I lit a small oil lamp and moved to the desk by the window. The view outside was serene, the sprawling gardens of the estate bathed in the pale glow of moonlight. But beneath that calm exterior lay the cracks—the unseen dangers that threatened to consume me.
I pulled out a blank sheet of parchment and began sketching a rough map of the events leading up to the ambush. Every detail, every observation, every suspicion—I wrote it all down. The attackers had been too coordinated, too precise. They had known exactly where and when to strike. That kind of information could only have come from someone within the estate.
The Gavarns are the most likely suspects, I wrote, underlining the name. They had the motive—our families had been rivals for generations—and the resources to hire skilled mercenaries. But they couldn't have acted alone. They needed someone on the inside.
I tapped the quill against the edge of the desk, my mind racing. Who could it have been? The estate housed dozens of knights, servants, and advisors, any one of whom could have passed information to the attackers. But one name stood out above the rest: Sir Roland.
---
I paused, staring at the name I had scrawled on the parchment. Roland's absence during the ambush was suspicious enough, but it wasn't the only thing that pointed to him. His behavior on the ride back to the estate—calm, unshaken—had been unsettling. And then there were his words, his carefully veiled remarks that seemed designed to test me, to gauge how much I knew.
But suspicion wasn't enough. If I wanted to expose him, I needed proof. And I needed it quickly. The next ambush might come sooner than I expected, and I couldn't afford to be caught off guard again.
I leaned back in my chair, my gaze drifting to the flickering flame of the oil lamp. How could I gather evidence without tipping him off? Roland was cunning, that much was clear. If he suspected I was onto him, he would cover his tracks—or worse, strike preemptively.
You can't confront him directly, I reminded myself. Not yet.
Instead, I would have to set a trap of my own.
---
The estate was vast, its halls and corridors teeming with life. Servants came and went at all hours, carrying messages, delivering supplies, tending to the needs of the household. It was a perfect environment for secrets to spread—and for traps to be set.
I began drafting a message, writing in careful, measured strokes. The letter was addressed to no one in particular, its contents vague enough to avoid suspicion but specific enough to suggest a potential opportunity. It mentioned a shipment of goods arriving from a neighboring estate, along with a list of names and times that seemed important but were ultimately meaningless.
The real purpose of the letter was not the information it contained but the reaction it would provoke. If Roland—or anyone else—was passing information to the Gavarns, they would take the bait.
I folded the letter neatly and tucked it into the drawer of my desk. Tomorrow, I would leave it somewhere conspicuous—somewhere it could be "accidentally" discovered. And then, I would watch. If Roland was the traitor, he would make a move. If he wasn't... well, I would cross that bridge when I came to it.
---
The plan wasn't without risks. If Roland discovered the trap, it could backfire spectacularly. He might see it as a challenge, a declaration of war. And if he decided to retaliate, I might not have the strength—or the allies—to stop him.
But I didn't have a choice. I couldn't rely on my father to protect me, nor could I trust the knights who had already failed to see the ambush coming. If I wanted to survive, I had to be proactive. I had to take control of the story before it took control of me.
The flame of the oil lamp flickered as a breeze drifted through the open window. I stood, closing the shutters and plunging the room into near darkness. The only light came from the dying embers in the hearth, casting long shadows across the walls.
This wasn't the life I had planned for myself. I hadn't asked to be reincarnated into this world, into this family, into this story. But fate had brought me here, and fate had tried to kill me. If it wanted a fight, I would give it one.
---
As I lay in bed that night, staring up at the ceiling, my thoughts churned with possibilities. The trap I was setting was just the first step. If it worked, it would give me the leverage I needed to turn the tide in my favor. If it didn't... well, I'd have to figure that out when the time came.
One thing was certain: I couldn't keep playing the part of the oblivious noble. The world I lived in was ruthless, its players skilled at deception and betrayal. If I wanted to survive, I would have to become a player myself.
I closed my eyes, willing myself to sleep. The days ahead would be fraught with danger, but for the first time since the ambush, I felt a flicker of hope. The threads of destiny were shifting, and I intended to seize them with both hands.
---