The next few days passed not in grand battles or violent clashes, but in the quietest, deadliest war of all: whispers and glances, rumors and half-truths passed from lip to ear like poisoned wine.
I had expected no less. Power, in these gilded halls, was never seized with swords. It was stolen in the dark, piece by invisible piece.
And I was very good at stealing.
It began with a servant girl — Maren.
She was young, no older than sixteen, her hands calloused from scrubbing stone floors until they bled. No one paid her attention. No one cared when she overheard the highborn lords trading insults behind their velvet masks.
Except me.
I found her in the kitchens, her sleeves damp, her face streaked with soot.
"You know things, don't you, Maren?" I said softly.
She flinched at the sound of my voice — the heir speaking to a lowly servant was unheard of — but her eyes, dark and sharp, narrowed as if she already understood this was not charity.
"I hear things, my lord," she whispered. "I see things. But no one listens to a rat."
I smiled. "I do."
Her lips parted, trembling. Hope. Fear. Both.
It was always the same. The forgotten craved purpose. And I would give it to them — not because I was kind, but because they were the most loyal once they tasted power.
"You will serve me now," I said. "And in return, I will raise you above the dogs that spit on you."
Maren fell to her knees and pressed her forehead to the cold stone. "Yes, my lord."
The second pawn was mine.
I spent hours each day weaving my little network tighter.
Luther, now my shadow, moved quietly among the discarded soldiers, speaking of a new purpose, of the young master who valued the broken.
Maren fed me the gossip from the servants' quarters — which noble's marriage was crumbling, who owed debts to dangerous lenders, which baron secretly despised the Marquis' iron rule.
Piece by piece, the map formed in my mind. A web of cracks in the shining marble façade of our noble world.
All I had to do was press hard enough, and it would shatter.
But not yet.
No, I had learned patience in my past life — learned it through pain, humiliation, and betrayal.
Strike too soon, and I would be crushed.
Wait until the rot was deep enough, and the entire edifice would collapse with a single push.
One afternoon, as I walked through the rose gardens — a place carefully maintained to appear beautiful while hiding the thorns beneath — I encountered Evelyne again.
She stood by the fountain, her silver hair catching the pale sunlight like strands of moonlight. In her hands, she cradled a single wilted rose, its petals blackened at the edges.
Symbolic, no doubt.
She did not look up as I approached.
"Lady Evelyne," I said smoothly. "We meet again."
Her crimson eyes flickered toward me, unreadable. "Leonhart."
No honorific. No pretense.
Interesting.
I gestured to the dying rose. "A strange choice. Most prefer the vibrant ones."
She turned the flower slowly between her fingers. "Vibrant things wither the fastest. It's the ones already dead that endure. They no longer fear the sun or the frost."
My lips twitched. "A morbid philosophy for a noble lady."
Her gaze sharpened. "And yet fitting for us, isn't it? Two relics discarded by fate. Two names that should have been forgotten."
For a heartbeat, the air between us grew heavy.
Did she know?
No. Not yet. But she sensed it — that we were both no longer the helpless pawns we once were.
"I find it poetic," I said lightly. "Villains and fallen nobles gathering among withered roses. Perhaps we should make this our court."
Evelyne's lips curved into a smile — cold, elegant, dangerous. "Perhaps we should."
Then she turned and walked away, her steps light as a ghost's, leaving me standing amidst the thorns.
That night, I stood once again on my balcony, watching as the lamps in Evelyne's tower flickered long past midnight.
She was plotting. That much was certain now.
But whether she would become my greatest ally… or my deadliest rival, I could not yet say.
Either way, I would be ready.
The next morning, Varick delivered another summons from the Marquis.
"A dinner," the old steward intoned, "with the Duke of Elbrecht. A rare opportunity. The Marquis expects you to attend and conduct yourself with dignity."
I nodded, hiding my smile.
A dinner with high nobles meant more than food — it meant maneuvering, subtle slights, hidden barbs behind smiles.
It meant more pieces on the board.
Perfect.
In the days leading up to the dinner, I worked in silence, laying the groundwork.
Luther secured discreet weapons among the estate's forgotten storerooms. Not blades — that would be too obvious — but poisons, blackmail letters, forged debts.
Maren whispered to me the guest list. A count with a bastard son he kept secret. A baron whose wife was rumored to be barren — a dangerous weakness in a world where heirs were everything.
All vulnerabilities I could exploit. Later.
For now, I simply memorized every name, every flaw.
Because when the time came, I would turn their own secrets into chains around their throats.
The pacing slowed in these days, but I welcomed it.
Slow was good.
Slow let me dig deeper, unnoticed.
Slow let the weeds grow until they choked the flowers.
And while I played the obedient son, nodding at Father's lectures, smiling at the servants, offering polite words to Evelyne in passing, my real army grew in the shadows.
One servant. One crippled knight. One bitter maid at a time.
It was not grand yet.
But I was patient.
Villains, after all, are not born in a day.
They are forged — slowly, painfully — until only steel remains.
And I intended to be the sharpest blade this empire had ever bled upon.