***
The Duke's words, "I will deal with her myself," were a death sentence.
They were a death sentence, but Thorne, the Head Butler, didn't hear it that way. The man visibly relaxed, an oily sheen of relief passing over his pale, panicked face. He thought he'd been saved. He thought the Duke meant, "I will handle this execution, thank you for your service."
My blood turned to sludge. The System, for once, was blessedly silent, as if it, too, was holding its breath. The red [FATAL ERROR!] windows had faded, leaving me alone in the vast, torch-lit hall, facing the void.
Zander Voronoff's obsidian eyes were still locked on mine. There was no pity in them. No anger. Just a cold, final assessment of quality, as if I were a piece of... furniture. A broken chair, he was deciding how to dispose of.
"My Lord, yes, of course, thank you," Thorne was babbling, bowing and scraping. "Shall I have the guards bind her? We can take her to the—"
"Be silent," Zander said, his voice flat. He had not looked away from me.
Thorne's mouth snapped shut.
The Duke took another step. He was now close enough that I could feel the cold radiating from him. He was a winter night in human form. He was dressed in a severe, perfectly-tailored black wool coat, not a speck of dust on it. I, in contrast, was a bundle of rags, soot, and terror, clutching a rusty iron pole. The contrast was so stark it was almost funny.
I would have laughed if I weren't about to have my atoms frozen solid.
His gaze finally left my face and flicked down to the iron pole in my hands. "You will drop that."
It was not a request.
My fingers, numb and clumsy, went lax. The heavy iron pole I had used to break down the door, the one that had felt like my only lifeline, clattered to the stone floor with a loud, ringing CLANG! that echoed through the entire, silent hall.
I was now completely, utterly defenseless.
[Item: 'Improvised Lever' - REMOVED] [Status: Defenseless]
"Thank you, System," I breathed, my voice a pathetic hiss.
Zander's eyes flicked back to mine. "You," he said, "will take me to the East Tower."
I blinked. My mind, which had been bracing for the ice-magic execution, stalled. "...What?"
Thorne, emboldened, stepped forward. "My Lord, there is no need! I can describe the scene—"
"Thorne," Zander said, his voice laced with the first hint of annoyance. "Did I give you an order?"
"N-no, Your Grace..."
"Then you will be silent. And you," he said, his gaze pinning me again, "will lead."
My heart did a painful, stumbling beat. He wasn't executing me here. He... he was... what? Was he an auditor? He wanted to go see the "crime scene" first?
A tiny, insane sliver of hope, a 0.0001% chance, was born in my chest. He wasn't just taking Thorne's word for it. He wanted to see.
If he saw... if he saw the room, the food, the fire... maybe...
"Yes, Your Grace," I whispered, my voice hoarse. I dipped my head in what I hoped was a subservient nod.
"Thorne. You will come with us," the Duke commanded.
"My Lord?" Thorne's voice was a squeak of pure horror. "To... to the tower?"
"You are the Head Butler. You are responsible for the staff," Zander said, his voice flat. "This 'disturbance' happened on your watch. You will be a witness."
Thorne looked like he was going to be sick.
"Now," Zander said.
I turned, my legs feeling like wet sand, and began the long walk back.
It was the walk of the damned.
I led the way, a barefoot, soot-covered wraith. The Duke, Zander Voronoff, walked ten paces behind me. I couldn't see him, but I felt him. I felt his presence like a physical weight, a drop in temperature. His footsteps were measured, silent, and perfect, a stark contrast to my stumbling, bare-footed slapping on the cold stone.
And behind him was Thorne, who was practically skittering with anxiety, muttering under his breath about "insane," "vermin," "dismissal," and "flogging."
We were a truly pathetic parade.
The long, freezing, mausoleum-like corridors of the estate seemed to stretch on for eternity. With every step, my mind raced.
What do I do? What do I say?...
The System was silent. It had no answer. It was [RECALCULATING...]. This was a [FATAL ERROR], a path the original novel had never, ever touched. The script was a mess, I'm a goner. I was truly, terrifyingly on my own.
Z-Zander wasn't supposed to be here. He was supposed to be in the capital for three more days. He was supposed to arrive, find a dead-eyed, hateful, mute child, and an abusive governess.
What was he going to find instead?
A fire. A fire I had lit. I was an arsonist—stole food. I was a thief. A child who was still probably too terrified to speak, who clutched bread I had stolen, in a room I had broken into...
Oh God...
My "victories" from the previous scenarios—the 'Intimidation' in the kitchen, the 'Resourceful' trait... from his perspective, they were just a list of my crimes.
I hadn't saved myself. I had just built a more elaborate execution platform.
I stumbled, my bare foot hitting a crack in the stone, and I nearly went down.
"Keep walking," the Duke's voice commanded from behind me, as cold and sharp as a shard of glass.
I kept walking, my face burning with shame, my heart cold with dread.
We reached the East Tower. The air, already cold, became truly, unnaturally frigid. This part of the castle was dead.
"It's... It's just up here, Your Grace," Thorne stammered, his teeth chattering. He was pointing up the dark, spiral staircase I had stumbled down in a panic. "As you can see, a fully... unsuitable... part of the estate."
Zander ignored him. He just looked at me. "Lead."
I climbed the stairs, one agonizing, slow step at a time. My bare feet, already blue, were now completely numb on the ice-cold stone.
At the top of the stairs, the long, dark hallway stretched out before us. And at the end... the faint, flickering glow of orange light from under the nursery door.
And the smell. The faint, beautiful, incriminating smell of woodsmoke.
Thorne saw it, and a sound of pure despair escaped him. He sprinted ahead of me, fumbling in his pocket for a ring of keys.
"I-it's locked! You see!" he cried, his voice triumphant. "The... the girl broke out! She... she... My Lord, she broke the lock on the supply closet! She must have broken this one, too!"
He reached the door, key in hand... and then just stared, his hand frozen in the air.
The door was not broken. It was just... shut.
I had pulled it shut when I left Kaelen, but I hadn't locked it.
Zander glided past me, his long black coat whispering over the stone. He came to a stop in front of the door, his tall form completely blocking the hallway. Thorne cringed, pressing himself flat against the wall as if to make room.
The Duke didn't use a key. He didn't knock.
He just put one black-gloved hand on the iron handle, turned it, and pushed the door open.
...Creeeeeeaaaak...
The door swung inward, revealing the scene inside.
My heart stopped.
The Duke stood in the doorway, a tall, black silhouette against the single, small, crackling fire in the hearth.
The room was exactly as I had left it.
And yet, it was nothing like he must have expected.
The first thing that hit us was the warmth. It wasn't a roaring blaze, but a small, contained fire. It was not the fire of an "arsonist." It was the fire of someone trying to survive.
The second thing was Kaelen.
He was not in the far, dark corner.
He had... he had moved.
He had dragged the thin, ratty blanket from the cot and had made a small, pathetic nest for himself on the floor, as close to the fire as he dared, about three feet away.
He was huddled under it, a small, silver-haired lump.
When the door opened, he flinched, a violent, full-body jerk, and he let out a tiny, terrified sound, like a baby animal. He looked over, his magenta eyes huge and luminous in the firelight.
He saw me.
Then he saw the giant, terrifying shadow of the man standing next to me.
Kaelen's face, already pale, turned ashen. He froze.
Zander Voronoff did not move. He just stood in the doorway, his obsidian eyes taking in everything.
He saw the tiny, prison-cell room. He saw the barred window. He saw the single, bare-bones cot. He saw the small, crackling fire in the hearth. He saw the child, huddled by the fire. And he saw what the child was clutching to his chest, like a holy relic.
Kaelen was clutching the half-eaten loaf of stolen bread.
His small, dirty face was stained with soot... and with crumbs. He had been eating.
The Duke's gaze moved from Kaelen... to the other side of the room. To the dark corner. To the overturned wooden bowl. To the splattered, gray, congealed, dusty, spoiled gruel that was still on the floor from hours ago.
Zander just... stared. He stared at the old, spoiled gruel. Then he stared at the new, fresh bread in Kaelen's hand.
His face was a mask of ice, unreadable. I couldn't tell what he was thinking. I couldn't know if I was saved or if I was dead.
The silence was absolute.
Thorne, who had been hiding behind the Duke, finally peeked into the room. He saw the scene. And he panicked.
This was not the scene of a mad governess abusing a child. This... this looked... wrong. It looked... almost... domestic.
"My Lord, you see!" Thorne burst into the room, his voice high and frantic. "The... the girl! She... she forced him! She stole the food... she... she... she's a thief! She's... she's... she'll be punished, My Lord! I'll see to it!"
He was trying to save the narrative, to paint me as the villain.
But Zander Voronoff hadn't looked at me. He hadn't even looked at Thorne.
His gaze was fixed, with a terrifying, cold, surgical precision, on the patch of old, spoiled gruel in the corner.
He finally spoke. His voice was not a rumble. It was not a blade. It was the quiet, deadly sound of a glacier cracking, of an avalanche just beginning to move.
He pointed one black-gloved finger at the overturned bowl.
"Thorne," he said, his voice impossibly, lethally quiet.
"What... is that?"
(End of Chapter 5)
(Author's Note)
Oh, the silence. The delicious silence. ☕
Thorne really thought he was leading the Duke to a crime scene, but he just walked him straight into the evidence of his own neglect. Zander, pointing at that moldy gruel, is like a nuclear bomb going off in a library.
I hope Thorne brought a change of pants.
See you next #TickyTockTuesday for the fallout!
👉 SCENARIO POLL! (Tap the paragraph to vote):
"What... is that?" The Duke has found the old gruel. Thorne is TRAPPED! What is his desperate next move?
A) Blame Elara harder. (The "She's a Liar!" route)
B) Blame the kitchen staff. (The "It's the Cook's Fault!" route)
C) Blame Kaelen. (The "He's a Monster!" route)
D) Grovel and beg for mercy. (The "Total Panic" route)
E) He's done. He's just... toast. (The "Thorne-sicle" route)