The night air was still warm, laced with the faintest scent of lavender. A scent he was slowly associating to his wife. The moons cast a soft, silvery light across the Whitman Manor gardens where Anthony stood near the rose-latticed arbor, his thoughts tangled in the echo of Bettina's laughter from earlier that day. Her voice, clear and unguarded, still played in his ears. He had not followed her when she disappeared down the path after their quiet conversation, though a part of him wanted to.
He remained rooted there, fingers idly grazing the edge of a stone pillar, trying to hold onto the peaceful stillness. And then—
Footsteps.
Fast. Purposeful. Breaking the serenity like glass underfoot.
"Your Lordship!" Steward Ferguson's voice cracked through the calm, laced with urgency and breathlessness.
The Earl turned, posture stiffening instantly. "Ferguson?"
The steward, flushed and sweating, halted just shy of the steps. "My Lord—there's been a fire. The southern warehouse—Sutherland Holdings. It's gone up like dry tinder. We received word from the night guard only moments ago. The flames were spotted by the harbor patrol."
For a heartbeat, the Earl didn't move. His mind recalibrated, shifting from emotion to calculation, from personal to professional. "Casualties?"
"None reported so far, sir. The building was mostly empty at this hour. The four knight guards were found sleeping on their posts, most likely hit by a spell. But the third-floor housed company books—years' worth of records, correspondence, financials…"
The Earl's eyes narrowed, cold steel settling into them.
"Have the fire brigades reached it?"
"They're en route. We've sent our own men ahead, but if the wind turns—"
"Enough." His voice was crisp now, command coiled tight behind his tone. He crossed the garden with swift strides. "Prepare horses. I want eyes on every entrance and a full account of who was on duty. Wake the head of security. No one goes in or out of that site without my order."
"Yes, my Lord." Ferguson bowed and hurried back toward the manor like a man chased by the wind.
The Earl paused only briefly at the steps, casting one last look over his shoulder—toward the garden path where Lady Whitman had disappeared moments ago.
He exhaled, almost regretful, and then the mask slipped fully back in place.
He descended the stairs and vanished into the night, a man reshaped once more by duty and the fire that awaited him—not just in the warehouse, but in the war now smoldering around them.
*****Bound by grief, by justice dire****
As Mary Jane stepped into the marble foyer of Whitman Manor, the heels of her slippers making soft clicks against the floor, she paused at the foot of the grand staircase. The moonlight, slanting in from the upper windows, caught a flicker of movement beyond the front doors—hoofbeats thundering across the drive.
She turned just as the Earl rode past the open archway, flanked by a half-dozen knights in armor darkened by urgency. His jaw was set, posture rigid, eyes locked ahead.
She blinked, unsettled.
"Ferguson," she called as the steward entered through the tall doors behind her, breath slightly labored from haste.
He stopped, bowing his head. "My lady."
"What's happened?" she asked, her voice low but firm, gaze lingering on the empty space the Earl had left behind.
Ferguson's expression darkened. "A fire, my lady. At one of the Sutherland Company's warehouses—the large one near the East Quay. The third floor... records, financials, and goods may be gone or burning. His lordship left immediately to contain the matter."
Lady Whitman's hand tightened briefly on the balustrade.
"Is anyone hurt?"
"Not that we know of yet. The fire crews are still fighting the blaze. He wanted no delay."
"Did anyone know how the fire started?"
Ferguson shook his head. "That warehouse is under investigation, my lady. It should have been locked down. By orders of his lordship himself."
"Will they be alright, do you think?" She couldn't hide the concern from her tone.
"I'm sure they will be, my lady. Let's have faith in his lordship."
She nodded once. But her thoughts churned. A part of her still wanted to believe the worst of him. That he must have been a man who have no care for his wife. He had zero interest in his wife that he did not even realize that his wife had been replaced by another woman's soul. And yet, he was clearly a loving father, albeit quite busy with work. She had seen him spend time with his son as much as he could even though he was managing one of the largest merchant companies in the empire. She also learned that the Earl owned several estates apart from this manor in the capital. Those needed tending to as well, right? His plate must have been full to overflowing.
Still… he hadn't hesitated in his duties. He hadn't even looked back.
"Thank you, Ferguson."
As he turned to follow, she stood alone beneath the high ceilings of the manor, moonlight at her back, her reflection cast in the polished marble at her feet.
*****Resist no more, for fate is wise*****
The arcane port shimmered blue beneath the weight of armored boots. In a flash of light and scorched air, the Earl of Whitman and his men materialized in the capital's southern district, their figures forming amid the high-pitched clang of alarm bells and the thick stench of burning timber.
The warehouse loomed ahead, its third floor a skeletal frame of flame and cinders. Red-orange light flickered against the night sky as fire brigades—mages and men alike—scrambled with water spells and enchanted buckets, working in tandem to contain the blaze.
"Form lines—split and flank the eastern wall!" the Earl barked, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Preserve the lower floors at all costs!"
Time passed, shouts can be heard, sounds of mages reciting incantations weaved through the throng amid falling bricks and timber, and eventually, the fire had been successfully doused.
He didn't hesitate. Drawing his cloak over his nose and mouth, he plunged through the smoke with three knights at his side, issuing orders to reinforce the stone barriers and douse structural beams glowing with ember-light.
Stepping carefully around the debris, the Earl led his small team upstairs taking note of their surroundings.
The fire was no accident—he could see it now. A single floor targeted. A fire set to climb downward, not up. It looked deliberate.
They reached what had once been the records chamber. The door was blasted open, lock torn apart—not melted by the fire, but forcibly removed.
"Here," one of the knights called, lifting a charred document with its corners blackened but its seal intact. "These were left behind. The crates closest to the walls are still untouched."
"Then they weren't here to destroy it all," the Earl muttered, scanning the debris. "They came for something specific—and made a show of fire to hide the theft."
His jaw tightened. What hadn't been reduced to ash had been torn through and tossed aside. Gaps in the rows of crates. Missing books and ledgers. Dislodged compartments in the wall paneling—ones not even Ferguson nor his secretaries remembered.
"Get everything salvageable onto the carts. I want every document, every lockbox, every ledger secured and taken to the manor," he ordered. "Nothing leaves this circle of command."
As dawn crept over the edge of the city, carts laden with soot-streaked crates and metal safes rolled up the Whitman estate drive. The Earl, grim and silent, followed last on horseback, his thoughts sharpening with every turn of the wheels.
Something had been taken—and someone knew where to find it... perhaps someone inside the company knew where to find it.
*****Two fates converge; one shall rise*****
The front drive of Whitman Manor was a churn of activity—horses tethered, men shouting orders, crates hauled one after another from soot-smudged wagons. Blackened corners, scorched hinges, and the lingering scent of smoke clung to the wood as footmen and knights ferried each load toward the manor's west wing.
The Grand Duke stepped down from his carriage, eyebrows lifting as he took in the sight of soot-covered boxes being rushed through the grand doors.
He adjusted the cuffs of his embroidered coat—today a deep forest green with gold threading at the seams—and strode up the stairs. At the top, Lady Whitman met him with a smile that faltered slightly at the sight behind him.
"I thought we were designing merriment this morning," he said mildly, nodding toward the controlled chaos. "Instead, it looks like you've acquired a coal mine."
Lady Whitman exhaled and gave a rueful smile. "Those were from the southern warehouse. It caught fire last night."
His expression sharpened. "What?"
"I only found out very late last night. Ferguson said it may have been arson—possibly a break-in staged as an accident. The Earl has already begun retrieving what they could."
The Grand Duke's brow furrowed. "The records warehouse? The one under the Sutherland Company?"
She nodded. "That warehouse was supposed to be under lockdown pending an investigation, though I don't know the full story."
That made him pause. "Whitman launched the investigation himself?"
"So it seems," she said, stepping aside so he could see the crates being brought through a rear corridor—each labeled with inked glyphs and wax seals still partially intact. "These are what survived. He had them all hauled back here for safekeeping."
The Grand Duke didn't speak at first. His eyes followed the boxes—some of which bore the crest of the Sutherland Company, others marked confidential in a cipher only senior board members would recognize.
"So rather than cover his tracks," he murmured, "he brought the evidence home?"
Lady Whitman tilted her head. "What do you mean, 'cover his tracks'?"
"Forgive me, I may have spoken out of turn."
"Ferguson told me that it was the Earl himself who ordered the investigation due to the discrepancies they found in their books. Said irregularities have been increasing and they intended to find out the root of the issue."
"I think… I may have misjudged his priorities." His tone was careful, but thoughtful. "This sort of damage control—it isn't the act of a man hiding skeletons. It's a man chasing them down."
They walked side by side toward the eastern drawing room, where sketches of toy boxes, ribbons, and logos lay scattered across a long table. The centerpiece design—a smiling jester perched atop a moon—sat half-finished in watercolors.
Lady Whitman picked up her quill again. "Ministry of Merriment," she said with a soft smile. "At least one thing in this house will make people laugh."
The Grand Duke watched her for a long moment before pulling up a chair beside her.
"Bettina. I believe you're going to make far more than that," he said. Then, almost idly, "Tell me more about this lockdown Ferguson mentioned. What exactly was your dear husband trying to find?"
Lady Whitman paused mid-sketch, the tip of her quill hovering above parchment. She looked at him, not evasive—just… surprised.
"I don't know exactly," she said honestly. "That's actually the first time Ferguson ever told me something that important. Honestly, it surprised me. No one ever used to tell me these things. Until this morning, Ferguson rarely said more than 'good day' in passing. Now suddenly I'm being informed about fires and stolen records."
Her voice didn't carry bitterness, only a quiet astonishment—as though she herself hadn't realized until just now how deeply she'd been kept in the margins.
His gaze softened slightly. "Sounds like someone is beginning to realize that you matter."
She set the quill down gently. "Perhaps he thought I'd be the last person to ask questions. Or perhaps something's changed. I don't know. But I intend to find out."
The Grand Duke leaned back slightly, teasingly, fingers tapping once on the tabletop. "And here I thought you were simply a decorative wife with a charming wit and an eye for pretty toys."
She gave a dry little laugh, but the lift of her chin was subtle and proud. "Even the prettiest toys have sharp edges, Edward. And I'm no longer content to be left sitting on the shelf."
He smiled at that—slowly, admiringly.
"Good," he said. "Because the game we're in now is far bigger than wooden blocks and smiling jesters."
The Grand Duke let the pause breathe before stepping forward, lifting one of the trial boxes. "I hope this one isn't charred," he said lightly, then gave her a sidelong grin. "Because I come bearing news. We've received our first batch of inquiries from buyers. Discreet requests. Merchants and three noble households have written to me privately, asking if the toy they saw at the tea party is available for purchase."
Her eyes lit with disbelief. "Already?"
He tapped the lid of the box. "That tea party caused ripples. Word is spreading quietly, and the curiosity is growing. I suggest we prepare."
She blinked, then slowly placed the paintbrush in her hand onto the table. "How many boxes have we completed?"
"Not enough," he said frankly. "Which brings us to the question: do we set up shop now—or wait until we can stock a proper number?"
Her fingers brushed the corner of the jester logo again, thinking. "If we take orders we can't fulfill, it will tarnish our credibility."
"True. But if we wait too long, others might imitate the idea."
That made her pause.
"We can accept a limited number of orders first," she said carefully. "Say, twenty. No more. We'll fulfill them within two weeks, and use that time to produce more. That way we keep the buzz without losing their trust. It's like limited edition items."
Limited edition? He gave a satisfied nod. "Sound strategy."
"We also need additional workers."
"Ah, yes. I did realize that," agreed Edward. "That's why I already took it upon myself to visit Master Wenton to request for additional journeymen or woodworkers that he could spare us."
"Wonderful."
Then, with a mischievous smile, he added, "And perhaps in the meantime, we could entertain a second toy. I heard someone's been sketching little wooden bricks that lock into place."
She narrowed her eyes at him, hiding a smile. "Who told you that?" She asked jokingly, pretending they hadn't already talked about it before.
"I have my sources," he said smugly. "A certain mage told me you've already tested one with Jason."
Lady Whitman gave in with a small, breathy laugh. "They're not ready. Just prototypes. But… he enjoyed them."
"Then they're ready enough to be considered," he said gently, placing the toy box on the table beside her. "You're building something remarkable, Bettina."
She blinked at the use of her new first name—spoken rarely, and only by him. It steadied her. Reminded her of the journey she was currently in.
"I just want to keep moving forward," she said.
"And I'll be here, at your side," he replied, serious now. "As a partner."
Together, they bent over the table once more—two conspirators of joy amidst the quiet storm of change.
*****By blood once lost, by vengeance sworn*****
The charred scent of smoke still clung to the timbers as the Earl stepped across the soot-smeared threshold of the southern warehouse's third floor. Sunlight filtered through broken windows, illuminating the skeletal remains of crates and scattered blackened pages. The acrid sting of ash lingered in the air. Knights and trusted aides moved with quiet urgency, clearing paths and organizing what could still be salvaged, many of which have already been sent to the Earl's manor in the capital.
"Third floor's where they hit hardest," Captain James Sommers, head of security and privateer fleet said grimly, adjusting his soot-streaked collar. "Same aisle you had sealed off last month."
Anthony nodded, eyes scanning the scorched wreckage. "They knew what they were after."
Captain Sommers lifted the lid of a partially burned trunk. Inside, only ash and curled metal hinges remained.
"Crate Twenty-One-B is gone entirely," Sommers muttered. "That held the coastal port ledgers—the ones you suspected had been altered."
"And the merchant contracts with Westgate," the Earl added, jaw tightening.
Lord Winston Harrow, Director of Domestic Trade and Manufacturing, moved to another desk, retrieving a metal box pulled from the rubble. Its latch was warped from heat, but he managed to pry it open. Inside were slips of parchment—charred around the edges, but legible.
"Shipment summaries," he said, holding one out. "Only from the last six months, but still something."
Anthony's fingers grazed the page, eyes narrowing. "At least one trail remains."
Near a collapsed shelving unit, a younger knight flagged them down. "My lord—over here."
They strode over quickly. Amid splintered wood and ash sat a small object, half-buried beneath a beam. Anthony knelt and gently brushed soot from it.
A golden ring with a signet seal, broken clean in half.
The ring's design was vaguely familiar—elegant, finely wrought, but the crest meant nothing to him. A stylized serpent coiled around a flame, encircled by three stars.
He turned it in his gloved fingers, brows furrowing. "This isn't ours."
"Not anyone I recognize either," Harrow said. "Might be foreign."
"Or extinct," the Earl murmured. "But why would they leave it behind?"
Director Harrow hesitated. "Maybe they dropped it in the rush. Or maybe… they wanted us to find it."
The Earl stood, holding the seal tightly.
"Log it," he said. "But no mention outside this team. Not yet."
Harrow nodded. "We'll keep it quiet."
They continued their grim survey, noting which crates were taken, which ledgers were destroyed, and which scraps might still hold secrets. Though the fire had scorched away years of careful record-keeping, it hadn't erased everything. There were trails left behind—fragments, patterns, names half-burned but not gone.
As the sun began to creep higher in the sky, the Earl looked out over the smoking ruins of his warehouse, the ruined records of his family's empire—and the first real evidence of something deeper, older, and far more dangerous.
"We weren't just dealing with corruption," he said under his breath. "This… this might be a message."
Captain Sommers stepped beside him, quiet. "Then let's send one in return."
*****By echoes of the past forlorn*****
At very edge of the Boleus empire, inside an abandoned church, a small group of men were hidden in the deepest recesses of the building. Smoke still clung to their cloaks as the last of the embers died behind them. The stone walls of the cellar were cool, but the air crackled with tension.
Thank goodness for the Mage Tower's invention of the teleportation pads at strategic locations in the empire. It allowed them to travel swiftly away from prying eyes while alternative means of travel allowed them to hide their trail.
"We were supposed to take only the ledgers," snarled Malric, a former comptroller of the Sutherland docks. "Quietly. Unnoticed. Now every official in the capital will be sniffing around!"
Across the table, the fallen prince calmly poured himself a goblet of wine. "Let them sniff."
"You torched the place!" Malric slammed the ledgers he held down on the table. "That wasn't part of our plan. You've made this a war."
"Good." The prince's voice was low, deliberate. "We are at war. You just haven't accepted it yet."
Another man, face half-covered by a merchant's scarf, leaned forward. "We could've taken the records and left everything else intact. The Earl would've assumed a clerical error, not arson. Now, we don't even know if we've got everything we went there for!"
"Doesn't matter. He would've dug deeper," the prince shrugged. "That man's blood runs cold. A smoldering ruin gives him too many questions and too few answers. It slows him down."
Malric scowled. "Or rallies his allies."
The prince's eyes narrowed, his tone turning steely. "He's already rallied. Don't be naive. You think the Crown Prince hasn't set his hounds loose? You think Lady Whitman's sudden cleverness is mere coincidence?" He stood slowly, letting the candlelight catch the lighter patch of skin on his finger where a ring once was. "This wasn't just a fire. It was a warning. To all of them."
There was silence.
Only the crackle of the hearth filled the room now — a hearth that bore no warmth.
---End of Chapter---
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