That night, Vivan slept under the weight of heavy thoughts, sprawled across the soft bed of the guest chamber in the royal castle of Novarim.
Doubts about the system and the world, the motive behind Clevon's murder, the Serpent, Minister Hollowart- everything collided in his mind, churning and twisting as sleep slowly claimed him.
But the night was still young for Novarim.
A candle flickered beside the grand bed in the minister's manor bedroom.
Soft curtains allowed the silver gleam of moonlight to spill in through the open windows, while a cold breeze drifted through, cooling the room.
Veldrick Hollowart turned the unread pages of Novarim's and Clevon's history. Each page sent a shiver down his spine, fueling a relentless curiosity that urged him to keep reading.
It was nearly dawn when Hollowart finally rose from bed. His body was exhausted from the long night, yet his mind raced too fast to allow sleep.
From the drawer of the study table, he pulled a sheet of parchment. With swift, practiced strokes, a letter took shape upon its blank surface.
A soft whistle escaped his lips, and an eagle glided into the room. Hollowart rolled the parchment and tied it securely to the eagle's claws.
As he prepared to leave his manor, the eagle launched into the air, flying straight toward the royal castle.
The sun crept slowly, and the morning breeze of fresh Novarim drifted into Vivan's chamber.
Soft knocks at the door stirred him from sleep, while energetic golden rays spilled through the window, warming his drowsy face.
"Coming," he murmured, voice thick with a yawn.
By the door, Elara waited with a tray of bed tea.
Her snow-white gown shimmered in the morning light, every fold catching the golden rays as though the sun itself traced her form. When she stepped inside, elegance followed her like a shadow.
Vivan's lips curved into a smile.
"What an honor- the princess herself, bringing me tea?"
Elara tucked a loose strand of silver hair behind her ear, her cheeks blooming pink at his teasing words.
"I wanted a word with you, Ghostwalker," she replied, her voice soft- shy, yet steady with intent.
She set the tray down by the table, the faint clink of porcelain punctuating the silence. Then she moved to sit beside him on the bed, their shoulders nearly brushing.
For a moment, the chamber grew still, silence stretching like an invisible thread between them. Vivan finally broke it, his smile laced with mischief.
"So, where's the war?"
Elara chuckled, but the sound carried a fragile edge. Her laughter didn't reach her eyes, where worry glimmered clear as daylight.
She hesitated, a heartbeat of conflict, before her lips parted.
"Ghostwalker… people whisper about what you did to the assassin in the dungeon."
Vivan raised a brow, a smirk tugging at his lips.
"Oh? And what exactly are they saying? That I'm a monster?"
Elara's silence was answer enough. Then, in a low voice, she spoke.
"…But robbing a man of his loyalty like that…"
Vivan leaned closer, resting an arm along her shoulder. His voice dropped to a whisper at her ear, steady and unshaken.
"What people don't understand, they fear. That's natural. But tougher times demand drastic measures, princess."
Her eyes shimmered, a tear threatening to slip free. In that fragile moment, admiration burned within her gaze- so sharp, it was almost overwhelming.
Vivan's expression softened.
"Your father understands that. And for that, I am deeply grateful."
Elara's hand shot out, clutching his. Her words trembled but carried the weight of steel.
"Promise me! Promise you'll never betray the trust of our people."
Vivan exhaled slowly, then rested his palm gently atop her head. His tone, though calm, carried quiet conviction.
"Do not worry. My priorities will always lie in the betterment of the people."
Vivan dressed swiftly, every movement precise, then turned and offered his elbow with a faint bow.
Elara hesitated only a heartbeat before accepting, her hand slipping into the crook of his arm.
"Where are we going?" she asked, her voice caught between curiosity and caution.
Vivan's smile carried both warmth and purpose.
"To your father."
The words lingered like a tolling bell, and together they stepped into the grand corridor.
Their footsteps echoed along polished stone, the sound doubling in rhythm- his steady, hers lighter- yet carrying the same destination.
The golden banners of Novarim swayed gently above them as they walked toward King Arathen's court, where decisions heavier than steel awaited.
The court room stretched wide and solemn, its crimson carpet unfurling from the great doors to the golden throne. Along its length, the stationed guards lowered their heads in unison.
"Long live the Princess!" their voices thundered.
Elara's steps quickened, her hand brushing the silk folds of her gown as she approached her father.
King Arathen, seated tall upon the throne, welcomed her with the warmth only a father could give.
"What is my little bird up to this fine morning?" he asked, his smile softening the edges of his stern face.
Elara giggled, her blush betraying her.
"Just wanted to talk to him." Her gaze flickered toward Vivan, lingering too long.
Vivan bowed deeply before the king.
"Your Majesty," he began, his voice steady, "I bring a report."
Arathen's brow furrowed.
"A report?"
"Yes." Vivan's tone cut through the hall like steel. "There is a mole inside the royal castle."
The words hit the court like a thunderclap.
Elara's hand slipped from his arm, her eyes wide in disbelief. Arathen half-rose from his throne, fury flashing across his face, but his faith in Vivan's reputation restrained him.
Around them, every guard's grip tightened on their hilts, leather creaking under white-knuckled fists.
"What makes you say this, Ghostwalker?" Arathen demanded, his voice heavy, yet measured.
Vivan did not falter.
"Our mole, our own spy, was murdered last night. He died trying to deliver intel on the Serpent."
The air inside the throne room thickened, every breath drawn with difficulty, as though the walls themselves recoiled from the revelation.
Arathen's eyes narrowed, the warmth of moments ago replaced by a hard, calculating edge.
"The assassin you captured… the one you sent back to the serpent's den?"
Vivan's expression did not waver.
"Yes. I witnessed it with my own eyes. A dagger slid clean through his chest- from behind."
His words echoed against the vaulted chamber, cold and merciless. He paused, his gaze sweeping across the guards, as though daring one to flinch.
"The killer was a man with a brown beard. I saw earrings glint in the candlelight- engraved with the emblem of Novarim."
The words landed like stone dropped into still water. Shock rippled through the court. The guards exchanged sharp glances, some stiffening, others shifting uneasily in their armor.
Elara pressed a hand to her lips, her voice barely a whisper.
"Someone within the royal ranks…"
Arathen's fingers tightened around the arm of his throne, his jaw clenched. His voice, though low, carried the weight of thunder.
"If that is true, Ghostwalker… then treachery walks my halls!"
Vivan inclined his head.
"Unfortunately, yes, Your Majesty. I had intended to speak with Minister Hollowart personally, but it seems he is absent today."
Arathen studied him closely.
"Ah. Veldrick has gone to Almadus to conduct his own investigation. He sent word by eagle at dawn- he believes what he finds there may help us solve the murder of Clevon's head."
Vivan's eyes narrowed, sinking into thought.
Is he trying to wipe his hands clean of the mess… or hide something deeper?
Before his mind could follow the thread further, Arathen's voice cut through the silence.
"Ghostwalker, if you are doubting Veldrick, hear me well. He is the most trustworthy man I know. I handpicked him myself. So…"
Gasps rippled through the chamber as Vivan did the unthinkable. He raised a finger, silencing the king mid-sentence.
"Not a word here," Vivan commanded, his voice carrying like a blade unsheathed.
"I need clearance, sealed by your hand, to look into every piece of information concerning Clevon's family."
Arathen's jaw tightened. The weight of a thousand eyes pressed on him- his guards tense, his daughter wide-eyed, the court holding its breath.
For a moment, the air was thick with the clash of wills. Then, slowly, the king exhaled and swallowed his pride.
"…That can be arranged." His voice was quieter now, measured.
"Also, with the Day of the Full Moon approaching, I will convene a full council meeting this evening for Novarim's grand festival. All four ministers will be present. You may speak with Veldrick then."
Vivan's stance softened. He gave a short nod, turning toward the doors.
"I'll be there."
The guards glared after him, their knuckles tight on their sword hilts, but none dared move.
Elara, however, watched in awe- the image of a man who had silenced her father, the king himself, burned into her memory.
The hurried clatter of hooves drew to a halt before the iron gates of Clevon Estate.
From the carriage, Vivan stepped down swiftly, a scroll clutched in his hand- its wax seal glinting with the royal crest of Novarim.
The sun had climbed high into the noonday sky, and a warm breeze swept over the city, carrying with it the hum of distant bells.
Two guards at the gate straightened and bowed deeply.
"Welcome, Lord Ghostwalker!"
Without breaking stride, Vivan passed between them and entered the grounds. His boots struck the stone path with steady rhythm, though his heart carried a quieter unrest.
At the door, the head butler appeared, his posture immaculate, his tone measured with respect.
"May I ask the reason for your visit, sire?"
Vivan's gaze drifted past him, sweeping the familiar halls.
The last time he had walked these corridors, Hollowart and Sebastian had been at his side, guiding his steps, filling the silence with talk of history and politics. Today, he stood alone.
And for the first time, a faint unease pressed against his chest.
"I wish to speak with the new heir of the estate," Vivan said, his voice flat, leaving no room for refusal.
The butler bowed deeply, hesitation softening his posture.
"Lord Thomas Clevon is still recovering from his wounds, sire, resting in his chambers. I shall arrange a meeting… but I beg you, do not be too harsh. The young lord has endured much."
For a moment, Vivan studied the man, then placed a steady hand on his shoulder.
"I understand. After we pulled him from the jaws of death, his recovery was already a mountain to climb. And then—on the very night of his rescue—his father's life was taken."
His tone softened, though the steel in his eyes did not waver.
"Don't worry. I'm human too."
The butler requested that Vivan wait in the drawing chamber. A maid entered quietly, offering him tea.
As the porcelain cup filled, Vivan glanced up at her.
"Has anything unusual happened here in the estate these past days?" he asked, his tone polite but edged with curiosity.
The maid hesitated, her hand trembling just slightly as she held the teapot. Doubt flickered in her eyes, as if torn between silence and confession.
At last, she leaned closer, her whisper barely audible.
"The day Lord Thomas awoke… his first word was a name. He shouted it."
Vivan's brows drew together.
"Whose name?"
Her gaze darted toward the door, then back. Her voice dropped even lower, carrying a weight of dread.
"Our cursed mother of Clevon."
The words chilled the air between them. Vivan parted his lips to press further, but the moment was cut short.
Heavy footsteps struck the floorboards. A voice, gentle yet firm as steel, sliced through the silence.
"Mind your duty."
The butler appeared, his expression unreadable as he bowed.
"Lord Ghostwalker. Sir Thomas will see you now. Please, follow me."
The bedroom door opened with a low creak. Vivan stepped inside.
By the bed, young Lord Thomas Clevon set aside a bowl of steaming soup. Despite the pallor of convalescence, his eyes carried the spark of composure.
"What an honor to see my rescuer," Thomas said, inclining his head. "Tell me, how may I be of assistance?"
…To be Continued