...
The patter of horses could be heard as some men in black cloaks approached the rather desolate dark green mansion.
At the entrance, two lines of servants were formed in order to welcome the Lord back home. A home that didn't feel like one.
The leading man at the front of the formation stopped his horse right in front of the entrance. He, too wore a dark cloak.
He dismounted in the courtyard without a word, boots hitting the cobblestones with military precision. His huntsman cloak hung damp with travel dust and ash — the scent of fire and blood clung faintly to the hem. A mission concluded, but not cleanly. Loose ends frayed his thoughts like thread unraveling beneath a glove.
He handed the reins to a stablehand and ascended the steps, sharp-eyed guards and servants bowing as he passed. Inside, the marble floors gleamed under candlelight — polished to perfection, but colder than any welcome.
He didn't remove his gloves. Not yet.
"Welcome home, my Lord," came a voice behind him.
The Lord of Valtemore didn't turn. His shoulders remained still, spine taut. "I wasn't expected."
The older man stepped forward — graying, slender, with the air of someone who'd once held power but now served it. His name was Brenwick, but he had long earned the right to be called something more.
Father, in everything but blood.
"Still, I made preparations. Your room is ready. And… there are things we must discuss."
There was something unusual in Brenwick's voice — hesitation, guilt, maybe. The Lord turned slowly, fixing him with a gaze like winter rain.
"Then speak."
Brenwick's eyes flicked away. That told him enough.
Later, in the study, the Lord removed his cloak and tossed it onto the chair. The fire crackled quietly behind him. He poured a glass of water — not wine. He never drank while thinking. And he was thinking too much now.
Especially about the girl.
She'd been nothing — a shadow on the road, a minor inconvenience in the market. Just another face tucked under a hood. But then… she'd looked up.
And she'd stared.
Not with lust, not with fear, not even with awe — but curiosity.
And her gaze… had lingered.
Furthermore, She'd seen the ring. The Queen of Hearts ruby, unmistakable. Not something worn by merchants. Certainly not in a market like that.
But only a few commoners knew what it looked like. Ad those commoners were either servants or relatives of servants.
Then, perhaps, was she....a servant of one of the nobles?
"Sir," Brenwick interrupted his thoughts gently.
The Lord didn't move. "What is it?"
"You're troubled."
"I'm thinking."
"About the mission? Or… about something else? O perhaps someone"
The Lord narrowed his eyes. He downed the whole glass of water as he said, "What did you hear, Brenwick?"
The butler simply frowned as he said, "I heard from Finnegan that master met a certain 'her' in the market?"
His eyes narrowed. "Her?"
Brenwick's lips curved faintly. "The girl in the market. You paused. That's rare."
A long silence. Then—
"She looked too closely."
Brenwick smiled, "Would master care to elaborate more?"
"She saw the ring. Her expression.... She recognized it. She either thought I was a thief or a noble. I think the latter, considering how she stared at the cloak" His eyes subconsciously moved to the cloak, his memories flashing to the moment the girl bumped into him and ger little expressions.
"Master is right, She likely mistook you for a noble," Brenwick agreed.
"I am a noble."
"You know what I mean."
Another silence. The Lord walked to the window, looking out at the storm clouds brewing far beyond the estate.
"She saw the ring, Brenwick."
Brenwick stilled.
"She noticed it," the Lord continued. "Didn't ask. Didn't gasp. But she saw it. And she remembered. Or rather recognized it"
"Should I… investigate?"
The Lord shook his head once. "No. She said nothing. I would've said she was probably a servant or a relative of one. But… she wasn't from the border villages. Her accent was old nobility. Her posture, despite the cloak… was trained."
"Whoever she is," Brenwick said carefully, "she may just be another desperate soul with sharp eyes."
"Or," the Lord murmured, "she's more than she appears."
"She's quite interesting, isn't she?"
The fire cracked. Rain began to tap against the windows.
Brenwick stepped forward then, the weight of years behind him. "There's more," he said. "Something I must tell you… about the household."
The Lord turned, sharp gaze piercing. "Speak."
And that's when it began — the unraveling.
The first thread: Brenwick.
The man he trusted most.
And the lie he'd just uncovered.
But he said nothing yet.
He only sat down, calm as ice. Eyes unreadable. Voice smooth as steel.
"Then tell me everything… and don't leave a word behind."
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