"Good morning, Your Grace."
"Good morning, Sanders."
Grand Duke Matthew Devensian entered his sprawling, high-ceilinged study, the weight of his station visible in the lines around his eyes. He hadn't had a serious, uninterrupted conversation with his daughter in two weeks, and the lapse in his personal life was mirrored in his professional duties. He looked utterly drained, having let his daily responsibilities slide, leaving his imposing oak desk piled high with neglected documents.
"This is the daily intelligence report, Your Grace."
Baron Sanders, his meticulous valet, served the Grand Duke a cup of hot, strong coffee, adding precisely two cubes of sugar—just the way his master liked it. Sanders was an encyclopedia of the Duke's habits and movements, dedicated to ensuring the smooth operation of the Devensian household and, implicitly, the Duchy's administration.
"Thank you."
Matthew took a fortifying sip and immediately began reading the intelligence report presented by his valet. As he delved into the mounds of paperwork, his expression became progressively more solemn, his focus absolute. He knew he had no choice but to gradually resume his work; he could no longer afford the luxury of grief and neglect.
"It is clear how vast Your Grace's workload usually is."
Sanders observed his master from a respectful distance, noting the Duke's intense concentration. He pointed toward the left side of the desk.
"The supplementary reports are over here, Your Grace. I have arranged the audit paperwork into four classified sections, precisely as you require."
"Thank you, I will confirm them."
"Please, do so, Your Grace." Sanders paused, adding one last piece of external news before attempting to retreat. "Also, His Highness the Crown Prince appears to have a matter of some urgency he wishes to discuss, and he will be stopping by later this afternoon."
He turned to leave, aiming to give his master solitude, but then remembered a final detail. "The tax records of the different fiefdoms have also been delivered this morning; please ensure you review them. Please contact me if there is anything else."
"Hold your horses, Sanders!"
The Grand Duke exclaimed, his voice sharp with shock, clutching the papers he had been reviewing.
"What is the meaning of this blatant misuse of funds?"
"Your Grace, is this not the budget application task you assigned to the gentleman from the Trade Guild?" Sanders responded, examining the specific documents Matthew thrust toward him. Matthew's serious reaction concerned him; he had merely sorted the files and checked basic information, never presuming to analyze the privileged details.
"Have all of these figures been confirmed as accurate?" Matthew demanded, his eyes blazing.
"I believe so, Your Grace. They were submitted under the guild's seal."
Matthew sprang from his seat, still gripping the documents. "Bring the person who prepared this report to me now! This is intolerable!"
What on earth is going on? Sanders wondered, hurrying out to execute the urgent order.
The specific documents Matthew was furious about concerned the budget application for proposed renaissance and agricultural grants. The Devensian Grand Duchy possessed three primary fiefs. One of them had submitted a highly irregular and inflated request. The justification cited was low harvests due to unfavorable weather and the failure of a post-Crusades renaissance project. Yet, the adjacent fiefs, which shared the same geographical constraints, had submitted no such desperate petition.
"I have allowed myself to be so distracted, I didn't even notice something so fundamentally corrupt," Matthew muttered to himself, pacing the study. "All those funds come from the vassals' hard-earned levies, meant to keep the Duchy strong. The Lord of that territory needs to establish an ironclad management structure, or I shall find someone who can manage it for him. This blatant theft cannot stand."
**************
"Good morning, Papa."
"Good morning, sweet Eli."
I entered the study, moving toward the deep, cushioned sofa—my customary spot—planning to quietly observe him work. However, my casual greeting was met with a strained, preoccupied response. I was instantly concerned; he appeared unusually pale and agitated.
"Is everything all right with you? You seem pale, Papa."
I rose from the sofa and approached the desk, intent on discovering the source of his distress. I gently took the stack of papers he was silently brooding over—the very papers that had caused him to ignore my question—and began going through them.
I then picked up his half-full cup of coffee, carrying it with me back to the sofa. I sat down, sipping the dark, bitter liquid while my eyes remained fixed on the documents. They did, indeed, contain some very interesting information, mostly columns of figures and ledger entries. The professionalism with which the previous and subsequent accounts were organized immediately caught my attention—the discrepancies were subtle, yet deliberate.
After a few moments, the study doors opened, and Sanders entered, followed by a surprisingly familiar figure. I tried to ignore them, maintaining my focus on the documents in my hand, my fingers tracing the smooth, empty porcelain of the cup beside me in circular, restless motions.
"Excuse me, Your Grace, I have brought the gentleman from the Trade Guild."
"Could you please come this way, sir?" Matthew commanded, his voice formal and severe.
"Greetings, Your Graces. My name is Heinley Briggs."
Heinley—the audacious bastard from the memorial service—greeted us. I was shocked to realize he never took his gaze away from me, the moment he stepped into the study. I had assumed he had long forgotten me, but I was mistaken. I couldn't help but steal a glance at him, quickly covering my suddenly flushed face with the papers in front of me. I prayed Sanders and my father hadn't noticed my reaction.
My father raised his head, looking at the young man with an intense scrutiny I had never witnessed before. It was a look of dangerous assessment, entirely devoid of his usual paternal warmth. I had always heard that Matthew Devensian was one of the most feared and respected men in the Empire, but I only ever saw the soft father. This severity was new, terrifying, and compelling.
"I was referred by the Trade Guild to handle this audit assignment, Your Grace."
"It's nice to meet you again, Lord Heinley."
I stood up, closing the documents and placing them neatly on my father's desk. I felt a sudden, awkward pressure to leave, assuming their business was too serious for my presence.
"You two... are you already acquainted?" Matthew asked, his eyes narrowing slightly, taking in the easy confidence of the young man before him.
"Yes, Papa. We met once, but it is a story for another day or time." I turned to face my father and executed a swift curtsy, ready to depart. "Well, you seem busy. I shall excuse myself."
"Many thanks for this opportunity, Your Grace." Heinley bowed deeply to my father but gave me a distinct, sidelong glance as I moved toward the door. He was incredibly handsome, a true masterpiece of refined masculinity, and the mere thought of his slight smile was enough to send my heart racing. I hoped to God he hadn't seen the sudden heat in my cheeks.
"Where do you think you are going, Eli?" Matthew's voice, suddenly commanding, stopped me mid-stride. "I also require your assistance with this matter. Would you mind warming that chair over there? The one with your entire presence written all over it."
My father gestured toward the sofa where I usually sat, then turned back to Heinley, his fingers interlaced beneath his chin. His tone had shifted from formality to a cool, strategic intensity. I was still unsure if this was truly my Papa, but if it was, I was thrilled to witness this formidable side of him.
"I'll go straight to the point, Lord Heinley," Matthew began. "Could you please explain to me how you got wind of this particular problem in the audit? You were only asked to check the overall budget application."
"Well, Your Grace," Heinley began, his posture relaxed, his voice low and deliberate, "a fief of this agricultural size is unlikely to require such an enormous capital grant. Furthermore, based on our preliminary study of the previous harvest records, there are clear indications that certain districts appear to be doing rather well. They cultivate the necessary cash crops for sustenance and revenue, but the strange anomaly is in the accounting records."
He paused, gathering his thoughts, his chartreuse eyes sweeping over the documents. "The peasantry has been recorded as paying their taxes in full, yet the local nobility continues to extort them with additional, undocumented fees. The evidence suggests the vassal lord actively supports this deep-seated corruption."
"I can't deny that I'm impressed, Lord Heinley," I interjected, stepping into the conversation. I couldn't help myself; his sharp analytical skill was exhilarating. "I like your ability to discover and articulate the improper use of the fief's budget with such clarity."
Heinley's choice of words, his confidence, and his intellectual honesty made me wonder what other formidable skills he possessed. The present vassal lord was clearly deficient. Corruption had been allowed to fester, and I agreed that an example must be made.
My father handed the central report to Heinley, while Sanders presented me with some of the related fief accounts I hadn't yet seen. I was appalled; the calculations were deliberately nonsensical, a transparent veil over theft.
"How would you handle this issue, Eli, if you were the present lady of that fief?" Matthew asked, placing the pressure squarely on me.
I took a moment, studying the messy ledger pages. A particular expenditure figure grabbed my attention. I blinked, massaged my temples, and then lifted my head to address the two men, answering with the confidence of my upbringing.
"Theoretically, Papa, the first step must be the establishment of a robust and independent management structure to oversee all fiscal matters and land output."
"What is the underlying reason for your answer, my dear?"
"It is obvious, Papa. The present lord is either complicit in the extortion of his own vassals, or he is criminally incompetent. Either way, something shady is afoot, and we should investigate immediately, as they cannot continue demanding these astronomical sums from the Devensian coffers every month."
I shrugged, adding the definitive proof. "Papa, you may view this figure for yourself." I pointed to the page I was holding. "The majority of the tax revenue is being diverted to this private account here, which appears to be entirely separate from the state accounts."
"If I were the lady of the fief," I finished, my voice hardening, "the first thing I would do is require all accounting officials to take advanced accounting courses so that they can no longer hide these details. Beyond that, there is the immediate, non-negotiable issue of dealing with punitive proceedings for the vassal lord."
I handed the incriminating report to my father. The three men—the Grand Duke, the Baron, and the Bastard Marquess—stared at me with expressions of utter, profound surprise, making me doubt myself momentarily. But I knew the truth was on the page. The funds we had been faithfully providing, knowing the fief's fertility and potential, were being systematically squandered by a corrupt lord who brazenly asked for more every month. Clearly, something was rotten in the state of that fief.