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Chapter 8 - The Price of Silence 3

The next morning broke gray and wet. Rain hadn't stopped since the night before, and the stone courtyards glistened like dull mirrors under the clouds. The air was heavy, the kind that seeped into bones and made every step feel slower.

Caesar rose before the bell, as he always did. In the dim light, he dressed quickly, pulling on his plain shirt and trousers. The damp had already settled into the fabric overnight, making it cling uncomfortably.

Down in the servants' wing, the smell of baking bread drifted from the kitchens. The clatter of early-morning preparations echoed faintly—pots shifting, knives thudding against cutting boards. He passed Berla on the narrow stairwell, her arms full of folded table linens.

"You're up early," she said.

"Didn't sleep much."

She gave him a quick once-over, as though trying to read him, then kept moving. "Kitchen's short-handed. If you're looking to keep busy, they'll take you."

But Caesar had other plans for the first hour of the morning.

He slipped into the salon—Lord Alaric's private reception room—under the pretense of dusting. The space was warmer than the rest of the house, lit by tall windows draped with sheer curtains that muted the gray light outside. The carpet was thick underfoot, its deep crimson hue hiding stains from only ancestors know how many years past.

He'd tended to this room before, but today he wasn't here just to polish the brass or straighten the books on the low table. He moved slowly, giving himself time to study the space with a more calculating eye.

Every item told a story: the delicate porcelain figurines on the mantel, the heavy ledger with gilded pages half-hidden beneath correspondence, the faint trace of expensive incense lingering in the air. It wasn't only a place where Alaric entertained; it was where information passed quietly between hands.

His fingers brushed a folded scrap of paper beneath the edge of the ledger. For a heartbeat, temptation stirred—but before he could look closer, the faint creak of the door hinges made him step back.

Ethan entered, still in human form, dressed immaculately in his black butler's suit. He moved with the precision of someone who had never been caught off-guard in his life.

"Dusting," Ethan remarked, his tone neutral. "Or snooping?"

Caesar kept his voice level. "Dusting."

The crow's sharp eyes lingered on him a moment longer before shifting to the desk. "Best to stick with what you're paid for. The walls here have memories longer than you think."

The rest of the morning blurred into routine—fetching warm water for the upper rooms, helping lay the breakfast tables, carrying sealed letters to the courier post at the outer gate. Caesar moved through it all with a measured calm, but he was more watchful now.

He noticed small things: the way two of the junior footmen from House Dreadvine lingered near the gates, their voices dropping when they saw him; how Berla gave them a look sharp enough to cut before ushering him inside; how Marith's usual dry humor was absent when they crossed paths in the laundry hall.

Something was shifting in the air. He could feel it.

By midday, the rain had eased to a mist. The servants' courtyard was slick with water, the flagstones dark. That was where it happened.

Caesar had been carrying a bucket of water from the pump when a shadow fell across him. Three figures blocked the narrow exit—Dreadvine livery again, green-black with a crest shaped like curling thorns.

The leader, a broad-shouldered demon with curling horns, stepped closer. His eyes glinted like polished amber. "You look well for someone who took a beating yesterday," he said.

Caesar didn't answer.

The second one shoved him in the chest. The bucket sloshed, spilling cold water over his boots.

"Maybe you didn't learn your lesson," the horned one continued.

The first blow came without warning—a fist to the ribs that knocked the breath from him. Then another, across his jaw, sending the taste of copper flooding his mouth. His knees buckled, but he didn't go down.

One of them caught his collar, holding him upright so the next punch landed clean. The courtyard seemed too quiet, the only sound the distant drip of water from the eaves.

A door banged open somewhere above. "Enough!"

It was Marith, leaning over the balcony rail. Her voice cut through the air like a knife. The three Dreadvine servants hesitated, just long enough for Caesar to wrench himself free.

He staggered back, clutching his side, forcing his expression into something almost bored. "Done?" he asked, though his voice came out hoarse.

They sneered and moved off, muttering something about unfinished business.

Later, as he dabbed at the split in his lip with a damp cloth, Caesar found himself sitting alone in a quiet corner of the kitchen. The place smelled of baking bread again, warm and safe compared to the cold outside.

Marith slid into the seat across from him. She didn't say are you all right. She simply handed him a small cloth bag. Inside was a strip of dried meat and a small roll.

"Eat," she said.

He did, slowly, the ache in his ribs sharp with every breath.

"You can't win against them right now," Marith said. "But you can make them think you're not worth the trouble—until you are."

Her words were simple, but they carried the same quiet weight as Berla's advice the night before.

Caesar only nodded.

That evening, Ethan found him again—this time in the hallway outside the library.

"The letter you're so curious about," Ethan said without preamble, "has already claimed one life."

Caesar froze. "Whose?"

Ethan's expression didn't change. "Someone who asked one question too many. I'd hate to see history repeat itself."

And with that, the crow-turned-butler stepped past him, disappearing into the shadowed doorway.

The weight of the warning pressed against Caesar's chest long after Ethan was gone.

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