"What are you doing?"
The voice was low, quiet enough not to carry through the door, but sharp enough to make my blood run cold. I whipped around, my hand flying to the pouch at my waist, and came face-to-face with Evander.
He was leaning against the wall, wrapped in his dark cloak, his face half-hidden in shadow. Even in the moonlight, his crimson eyes were impossibly clear, and as unreadable as ever.
A crease formed between his brows, "You're not trying to run away, are you?" He asked.
Run away? That had never once crossed my mind... but it sounded almost tempting. Should I?
"I'm just getting a drink," I said, barely a whisper, flinching under his gaze. "You're mistaken."
Evander's gaze drifted past me to the kitchen door, then back to my face. He glanced at the worn cloak I'd pulled on, the frayed hem dragging on the floor, and one eyebrow lifted just a fraction.
"At midnight? Dressed like a street urchin?" He asked,
I frowned by his words. The irony, when he is in a cloak just as questionable as mine.
I stared at him, still wondering what brought him out at this hour, when a clatter cut through the silence. A pot lid hitting the ground, followed by panicked footsteps.
The suspicious maid.
"This is not the time to argue," I hissed, pointing to the kitchen. "There's someone in there, she's cooking."
His crimson eyes narrowed, and for a split second, something more than suspicion flashed in them. He pushed off the wall and moved to the doorway, his movements fluid and quiet. I bit my lip, my modern brain racing with all the medieval drama that I read about.
What if she's going to poison the grand duke? Or Evander? Then she will accuse our house... and we all be executed. Am I going to die again?
The door creaked open under his touch, and the smell hit us first not the usual scent of bread or stew, but something acrid, almost chemical. In the dim glow of a single candle, a figure in a maid's dress was shoving something into the large iron cauldron, her hands shaking. When she turned, her eyes went wide as saucers.
"Y-your lordship!" She stammered, dropping the small vial in her hand. "My lady..."
What?
I was right.
The maid tried to back away, her feet scuffing the stone floor, but Evander stepped into the kitchen, blocking her path. His hand rested loosely on the hilt of the sword at his belt.
Would he kill her in front of me?
The thought made my stomach twist into a knot. This guy was a murderer, a war veteran and, by all accounts, a ruthless villain. It's not that I really care what he will do with the suspicious maid, who was clearly up to no good... but I am not ready to witness her death.
I looked away, my heart hammering against my ribs, ready to block out the sound of whatever was about to come. But instead of the slide of a dagger leaving its sheath, I heard a sharp click the sound of metal scraping against leather.
I snapped my head back just in time to see the maid's hand shoot to her apron. Without a word, she pulled out a small, dull dagger the blade glinting faintly in the candlelight.
Evander didn't flinch. He just stood there, blocking her path, his hand still loosely resting on his own hilt. His crimson eyes were locked on hers, and in them, I saw not anger but something colder. Amusement.
He's a psychopath.
The maid's hands were shaking so hard the dagger trembled. "I-I won't let you take me," she whispered, her eyes darting between Evander and me. "They'll kill my mother if I don't finish what I started."
The acrid sting from the broken vial thickened the stale kitchen air, sharp enough to make my head spin and my eyes water. Evander took a slow, deliberate step forward, boots silent on the stone floor. The maid stumbled back, shoulders slamming against the cauldron with a dull thud.
The dagger in her hand wavered, tip dancing in the flickering candlelight. Then, in one swift, desperate jerk, she raised it pointing it straight at me.
I saw her fingers clench tighter, knuckles blanching white with the effort. She was going to throw it.
"Stay back," she hissed, voice raw and trembling. "Or I'll hurt her. My lady."
Frozen with shock, I stood rooted to the spot, my breath caught in my throat as the maid's desperate threat hung heavy in the air. Every inch of me screamed to react, but my limbs refused to move.
Without hesitation, Evander took a deliberate step closer to the maid. Calm and unflinching, he reached out with one bare hand and grasped the trembling dagger's blade, his fingers closing around the cold steel with an effortless grip.
A sharp intake of breath escaped the maid and my lips.
"Please," the maid choked out, sinking to her knees. Flour from her apron dusted the stone floor like snow. "I didn't have a choice, they said if I didn't put that stuff in the stew for tomorrow, they'd burn down my family's cottage. With them inside it."
Before she could cry out, Evander wrenched the dagger from her grasp and flung it across the room. The blade clattered against the stone floor, spinning out of reach. Without hesitation, he delivered a swift, precise strike to her stomach, and the maid crumpled unconscious.
"Did you kill her?" The words slipped from my lips unbidden, sharp and trembling.
Evander's eyes flickered toward me dark, unreadable. He knelt beside the maid's limp form, his expression calm and measured.
"No one dies from a single punch," he replied quietly, his voice steady and unwavering.
Before I could respond, a sudden noise at the doorway drew my attention figures cloaked in shadow appearing silently in the dim hallway. For a moment, my heart plummeted, fear clawing at my chest.
Intruders? Danger?
But as they stepped into the faint candlelight, relief washed over me. It was Samuel.
"Commander, what happened here?" he asked sharply, eyes flickering between Evander and the knocked-out maid. Then his gaze landed on me, confusion evident, "Milady...?"
I met his uncertain look, still shaken by the night's unfolding chaos, as the weight of unanswered questions pressed into the silent room.
Suddenly, my breath faltered, a heavy ache pounding in my head. Darkness closed in, swallowing everything. Before I lost myself, faint voices called for me, distant yet desperate.
***
Long past midnight, the dimly lit study felt heavy with unrest as Count Natalius Graham was roused abruptly by his assistant. Groggy and troubled, the count sat upright, struggling to grasp the gravity of the unexpected news unfolding under his own roof.
"You say the young Grand Duke is interrogating the maid at this hour?" he asked, his voice thick with concern. "And Norielle? Where is she now?"
The old butler, Marcus, bowed respectfully. "Yes, my lord. His Grace is currently interrogating the maid," he replied gravely. "Lady Norielle was safely escorted back to her chambers shortly afterward, she is being cared for by Zilda and a physician. Commander Ashford has assigned a knight from our household, alongside one from the young Grand Duke's order, to stand guard outside her door throughout the night. "
Count Graham ran a weary hand through his hair, knitting his brows tightly as he ruminated on the weight of the situation. Though he bore no responsibility for the night's disturbance, their repercussions hung heavy over his family and threatened to cloud his daughter's path ahead.
"This is far more than a mere scandal," he murmured, voice heavy with unease. "If that maid's actions are part of a deeper threat, it could imperil not only our household but the fragile alliance with Valois."
Drawing a slow, deliberate breath, Count Graham steeled himself against the encroaching darkness of the night's events.
"We must tread carefully. The future of my daughter and the peace between our houses depends on how we handle this. For now, contact Nox Mortem." Count Graham ordered.
Marcus nodded solemnly, "I will do so my lord." he replied before quietly exiting the room.
As the candle's flame flickered low, a heavy silence settled over the study. Count Graham turned towards the dark horizon outside the window, when suddenly, a sharp crash of thunder ripped through the night, disrupting the calm and silent night.
Meanwhile, in a smaller, darker chamber dimly lit by the faint glow of a lone lamp, a young man sat poised in a chair, legs crossed. His hand gripped a bloodied sword, and splatters of crimson stained his face, matching the intense red of his eyes.
"You still won't speak?" Evander's voice was cold, calm yet daring. "Who gave the orders? Was it really aimed at me and my father or was it meant for the count and his family?"
On the cold stone floor before him lay two lifeless bodies, their blood pooling beneath them in stark pools. Nearby, a bleeding maid knelt, one ear torn and blood dripping, her sobs echoing softly as pain racked her body.
The air hung thick with tension, the weight of unanswered questions pressing down more heavily than the oppressive stillness that followed.
Staring at the trembling maid, Evander thought. This one is also useless.
Not far from the grisly scene, two knights of Evander's order stood watchfully, their gazes fixed as Evander wiping his face and bloodied sword with a handkerchief after taking the maid's life.
No matter how often I witness him like this, I know I will never grow accustomed to it. Both of them thought the same, silently sharing the unspoken truth.
The door opened quietly, and Commander Ashford, a steadfast knight of House Graham, entered the dimly lit chamber. His expression was grave as his eyes swept over the lifeless bodies sprawled across the cold stone floor and settled on Evander, who calmly wiped the last streaks of blood from his blade.
"Your Grace," Ashford began, voice low but steady. "And the maid? What of her?"
Evander rose slowly, wiping the last streaks of blood from his blade. His crimson eyes locked onto Ashford's with icy resolve.
"She's dead," he replied coldly. "Tell Count Graham not to burden himself with this matter. I will handle the fallout, his focus must stay firmly on his daughter."
Norielle Graham the strange, elusive daughter of the count was unlikely to endure much longer. It was certain those poisoned rations were never meant for me nor my father. Evander thought.
Evander sheathed his sword with deliberate calm, his crimson eyes lingering momentarily on the fallen maid before turning away. With measured steps, he exited the chamber, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows that danced alongside him.
He moved swiftly through the quiet manor, anticipation tightening in his chest. Soon, he reached the grand doors of his father's chamber. With a steadying breath, Evander pushed them open and stepped inside.
Inside, his father awaited, a pipe held between steady fingers and a glass of alcohol balanced in the other. The Grand Duke Callahan's eyes met his son's, sharp and contemplative.
"I heard there was... an incident," his father said, voice calm but edged with gravity. "Have you taken care of it?"
Evander nodded, "The poison was no accident, and it wasn't aimed at us. The real danger lies with Count Graham's family, particularly his daughter." He said.
His father set down his pipe with a soft clink on the marble ashtray, his weathered hands still steady despite the weight of what he'd just heard.
"Your betrothed? And what is your plan?" he asked, voice careful but firm.
Outside, rain drummed steadily against the windows, echoing the tense atmosphere. Evander shifted his weight, leather boots softly squeaking as he crossed to the chair across from his father and took his seat.
"Nothing." he said quietly, the word hanging heavy in the charged silence between them.
A slow, stunned breath escaped the Grand Duke, his hand frozen mid-air, weighed down by the gravity of his son's response.
He bears my likeness, yet he is exactly like his mother, steadfast and unyielding, just as she was in the early days of our marriage. The Grand Duke reflected silently.
Evander's expression remained calm, "You should cease searching a spouse for me," He said, his voice steady and measured. "And instead, grant me the title that is rightfully mine."
"No," his father replied sharply, the tone edged with a hint of mockery. "Help Norielle Graham. Save her, and marry her. Only then will that title be yours."
A brief silence hung between them before the Grand Duke broke it with a pointed question.
"How did you discern that they were targeting Norielle, and not us or Count Graham?" Callahan pressed, his tone probing. "Did the malefactors speak before you took them down?"
Evander crossed his legs, loosening his posture as he settled more comfortably. "Not much. One only said they meant no harm to us. They mentioned having served here for twenty years." He said.
"Based on that alone, you assumed the threat was aimed at the young lady, not the count or his sons?" Callahan asked sharply, taking a slow sip from his glass. "Is that all?"
Evander remained silent, his gaze steady and unreadable, prompting a flicker of suspicion in the Grand Duke's eyes as he studied his son closely.
Finally, Evander sighed softly. "It was fairly straightforward. Both sons were often away. The count appeared healthy, but the daughter... she was clearly vulnerable." His tone remained nonchalant. "The maid confessed to only preparing the food, but the other person I confronted was the one responsible for delivery. According to Samuel's report, that maid was assigned by Norielle Graham's quarters, and had been serving her for almost fifteen years."
The Grand Duke nodded slowly, "Then you must act carefully, yet decisively. The fragile peace between our houses and your future depends on it." He said, his eyes reflecting both concern and determination.
Evander rose from his seat, "I will ensure Norielle's safety, and uncover the truth behind this plot, if that is what you want. Then, I'll be taking my leave father."
A heavy silence filled the room as thunder rumbled distant and low, echoing the storm gathering beyond the manor walls.With measured steps, Evander turned toward the door, ready to confront the shadows moving against them all.
Elsewhere, in a quiet chamber, a lady lay unconscious, her golden locks shimmering like spun sunlight. Above her, threr tiny golden orbs of light hovered gently.
"She's really back." one whispered joyfully.
"What should we do, she smells of sour berries?" another remarked, curiosity tinged in their voice.
"Thalior, heal her- quickly! Before a Shadeveil claims her and guides her to Aetheria," a third pleaded urgently.
[Shadeveil: the Grim Reaper of the fairy realm.
Aetheria: the ethereal sanctuary where fairy souls find peace.]
A curious voice hesitated, "But that would go against master Eiralyth's words…"
Before doubt could settle, a brilliant, radiant light flooded the chamber, casting a warm glow that pushed back the encroaching shadows. Outside, the storm rumbled softly, as all awaited the dawn of what was to come.