The confrontation took place in the estate's main study the morning after their latest discovery. The windows were opened to the temperate air, the light filtering through the fine drapes muted but warm. The room was a stately chamber, shelves full of leather-bound ledgers and a decanter of brandy untouched on a sideboard. Lord Marcus sat in the high-backed chair behind the carved desk, hands clasped.
Anthony entered first, Bettina beside him, while Jane stood discreetly outside the door, her posture alert.
It was Anthony who began. "Father, we need to speak with you. And we ask that you do not dismiss this before hearing everything."
Lord Marcus gave a thin smile. "That sounds ominous. Has something gone wrong at the capital again? Or is this about your wife's new reforms?"
"No," Bettina answered softly, yet firmly. "This is about what happened years ago. To the Sutherland family. To my parents."
A pause. Lord Marcus did not visibly react, but the silence was charged.
Anthony pulled out several items and placed them on the desk: a miniature portrait of Bettina's parents, the marked blueprint of the old Whitman warehouse, and the rest of their collected evidences.
"I believe you recognize these," Anthony said, voice even.
Lord Marcus stared at the items. His expression didn't waver, but something flickered in his eyes—perhaps acknowledgment.
Bettina broke the silence. "My father wrote this letter the day he died. He warned someone was after him. This blueprint was hidden in my old chamber back at Sutherland's estate. And this portrait—your handwriting is on the back."
Still, Lord Marcus said nothing, cane resting against the polished armrest, with an impassive expression etched into his weathered features.
When no response was forthcoming, Anthony continued. "Here, Father. We found letters. From Director Pembroke who you corresponded with. I do want to let you know he has already been apprehended along with is corrupt cohorts within the company. And this one—a letter marked only with a 'V'. They somehow reference the arson at the Sutherland warehouse as a 'resolved situation'. They speak of debts. Of silence."
"Arson? That's just business language," Lord Marcus replied, lifting a brow. "Hard decisions are often dressed in cold words. You both are too young to understand the stakes back then."
"We also found a hidden ledger," Bettina said. She reached for the black-bound book, opened to the flagged pages, and laid it on the table between them. "Secret financial records. Large payments to unknown parties. Businesses that didn't exist. Dates that match the time my parents died. Notes in your handwriting."
Lord Marcus's jaw tightened, looking thunderous at his son. "You break into our family's estate and call it investigation?"
"This estate may bear our name, but it is not above justice," Anthony replied. His voice held steel. "You may have done what you thought was best for our survival, but you did it by turning our family into murderers and thieves."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Lord Marcus remained closed off.
"Here," Bettina pointed at each of the papers spread out on the desk. "Your handwriting was clearly identifiable behind my family's portrait, that confirmation letter from whoever that "V" is, Mage Henry's validation that the partial magical sigil we found in the old Sutherland Warehouse was a combustible sigil, and the location of that same combustible sigil matching the location marked off on the blueprint we found. It all fits, doesn't it, my lord?"
Lord Marcus still didn't respond, and although he didn't exactly look at the papers that Bettina pointed at, she could see in his clenched expression that he recognized those that she described.
"Father, why did you do it?" Anthony spoke in a very pained voice. His feelings for his father leaking through his determination to remain calm throughout this ordeal. "The Sutherlands have been nothing but kind to us. Unless we're a family of hardened bandits or criminals, I do not know whatever motive could have led to our family committing such a heinous crime. I truly do not understand why. Why do it?"
"I did what I had to!" Lord Marcus finally snapped. "The Whitmans were drowning. The Sutherlands had wealth, influence. But they were too puritanical. As if committing just one action against the law would condemn them to hellfire and damnation. They clung to the company's reins like it was theirs alone. I simply redirected the tide."
"Redirected?" Bettina's voice cracked. "You set a fire that killed my parents. My only family. You destroyed everything I had!"
He met her eyes now, no longer defensive but grim. "You were a child. You don't know the desperation of watching your house crumble. My grandfather and my own father did everything they could to squander the entire family fortune and I was left with nothing but crumbling ruins and a noble name without a penny to hold it up."
"No, I didn't see my house crumble," agreed Bettina as evenly as she could. "It was completely and utterly destroyed by you and your people in one night."
Her response was like a whiplash that struck the former earl's closed expression and cracked it a little more.
"Father, it is the Sutherlands themselves who gave you a chance. Even though we were an impoverished noble family, they took us in and allowed you to work for them. I was also working back then, trying to help out our family as best as I could. They've given us even more by allowing you to invest your earnings to the company and eventually allowed you to gain higher positions and climb higher in their ranks," Anthony remembered these because he was there all along. Though, how his father was able to keep the shady part of his ventures were beyond him. He was partly to blame for not being more vigilant. "And that was how you repaid their generosity and kindness?"
"I was headed for the debtors' gallows, Anthony!" Lord Marcus crashed his hand on the table. It seemed he did not want to hear the things they were saying. "I didn't want to do it, but I did what I had to in order to ensure that our family survives. I had to make a harsh choice between you, Jason, and my business partners. I chose my family."
"And what about me?" she whispered, standing. "What about me and my family? What if, in my desperation to reclaim my parents' legacy and avenge their deaths, I killed your son—Anthony—to take back what was mine? What would Jason do without a father? What would you do then? Will you search for a way to live forever and protect Jason from me?"
The question hung in the air like a blade.
Lord Marcus's composure cracked, just a little bit more. "You dare compare—"
"Yes, I dare!" Bettina's voice broke, trembling with restrained fury. "Because that's what you did to me."
He looked at her, but there was something else in his eyes now. Doubt. Regret, perhaps, buried beneath years of self-justification.
Then he said, almost lowly, "Was that why you poisoned my grandson? Jason? I read the news reports. There were whispers."
Bettina's hand moved slowly, purposefully, into her pockets. From it, she pulled an old leather-bound diary—owned from the days before her, Mary Jane's, transmigration. She flipped through worn pages until she found the right one. She stood and handed it to him.
"This was written by Agnes. My maid. My childhood friend. The one who committed suicide after Jason fell ill. That's not my handwriting, Lord Marcus. Read it."
He hesitated, but then opened the page. The writing was neat but unfamiliar, shakier than Bettina's own, written by someone who only learned the basics of reading and writing. A quiet apology bled across the tear-stained page.:
-----000-----
Dear Milady,
I'm sorry. I don't know how else to say it. I ain't good with words like you are. I only ever learned the basics from my ma before she died. So I hope you can read this.
You was always kind to me. Always. That's why this hurts more than I thought it would.
I put the sleeping herbs in your drink that day. I needed you to stay asleep. I needed you not to see what I did. And I didn't want you to be blamed for it neither. I didn't do it to hurt you. I swear it on the graves of my family. I just couldn't let you stop me.
It was me. I gave the boy—Master Jason—that bedtime milk with crushed almonds and nuts. It had just enough of the crushed seeds to make him sick. I knew of his allergy. That's why I chose it.
He lived. I didn't mean for him to die. Just suffer. Just enough for them Whitmans to know what it felt like.
My ma, my da, my little brother—all died in that warehouse fire. Burned to ash. Your ma and pa too. All gone. And no one got punished. No one even asked why. Lord Marcus just got richer. Got everything.
I carried that fire in my chest every day. I comforted you in our grief. I bowed. I served. But the hate never went away.
You were innocent. But even though you were a Whitman too, you will always be a Sutherland to me. I never forgot the difference. But Master Jason was innocent too. I see that now. And I'm sorry. I truly am.
I don't expect forgiveness. I don't deserve it. I just want you to know the truth. My soul will pass through the Veil soon and I hope I will finally see them all. Be strong, milady, and keep fighting for the truth.
Agnes
-----000-----
When Lord Marcus looked up, his face had paled. The cane in his hand trembled.
"All this... because of that one act. The fire. The selfish lie of your supposed needs."
Anthony stepped forward. "You created a legacy not of strength, but of ruin. Bettina and I—we're trying to end this cycle. To make something better, for Jason. For the future."
There was a long pause. Lord Marcus looked at them both—his son and the woman he once wanted out of their family. His mouth opened, then closed. Then, in a voice low and raw:
"I never meant for it to go so far. I was blind. I thought... it would stop with me. That I could contain it."
Tears welled in Bettina's eyes, but she blinked them away. "It didn't. It never does. That's why you must answer for it. And that's why we're going to fix what you broke."
The old man nodded slowly, slumping in his chair. For the first time in years, the former Earl of Whitman looked smaller, not powerful—but human.
The silence between them was no longer filled with anger, but something deeper. Admission of guilt. Request for forgiveness. Understanding. And grief.
They had confronted the past. What remained now was to decide the future.
*****Two fates converge; one shall rise*****
It may be snowing beyond the arcane barriers, but it was a crisp autumnal temperature that greeted them as the wheels of the Whitman carriage rolled through the southern gates of the Imperial Capital. The late winter sun cast a pale gold glow over the city rooftops, deceptively gentle given the weight in the hearts of those inside the carriage. Lord Marcus sat in silence across from his son, the once indomitable patriarch now diminished in presence, his hands clasped tightly over a cane he no longer truly needed. Anthony and Bettina sat beside each other, their posture upright, expressions unreadable.
Bettina stared out the window, watching the familiar avenues of the capital pass by. They were back, not in triumph, but in purpose. The evidence they carried—sealed documents, diaries, the incriminating ledger—rested between her and Anthony in a reinforced leather satchel. There was no going back.
"He will not receive us casually," Anthony murmured, breaking the silence. "We'll need to request an audience directly. The Crown Prince is not one for ceremony when the stakes are high."
"We should head to the east wing of the palace," Bettina said. "That's where the Grand Duke mentioned the Crown Prince prefers to meet during private consultations."
The palace guards, upon seeing the Whitman crest and the urgency etched across Lord Anthony's face, led them swiftly into the east wing. The air inside was cool, perfumed faintly with cedarwood and the sharp tang of ink. It was a space of governance, not grandeur.
Within a high-ceilinged chamber, the Crown Prince awaited them, seated not on a throne but at a long table, scrolls and correspondence spread out before him. His expression was calm but not unkind. To his left stood the Grand Duke, hands folded behind his back, watching them all with measured scrutiny.
"Earl Whitman. Countess," the Crown Prince greeted. His gaze shifted to the older man behind them. "And Lord Marcus. This is a surprise."
"Your Highness," Anthony said, bowing deeply. Bettina followed suit. "We come not only as nobles, but as citizens seeking justice. We request an official private tribunal."
The Crown Prince raised an eyebrow. "For what reason?"
Bettina stepped forward and placed the satchel onto the table. "Contained here is proof of long-buried crimes. Arson. Fraud. Conspiracy against the empire's trade. Crimes that led to the deaths of innocent people—including my parents."
The Grand Duke leaned forward and gently opened the satchel, revealing the careful stacks of papers. His fingers hovered over the dark leather-bound ledger.
Anthony spoke, his voice steady. "We believe these crimes tie into the network supporting the criminals we are all currently searching for. Lord Marcus, former head of the Whitman family, has agreed to confess before the tribunal. But we wish to minimize public scandal."
There was a beat of silence.
"This is no small accusation," the Crown Prince said at last. His tone was unreadable. "And the accused sits here willingly?"
"Yes," said Lord Marcus. His voice was rough, but his gaze met the prince's without flinching. "I will answer for what I've done."
The Crown Prince considered them all, then slowly nodded. "Very well. I will convene a private tribunal within three days. Only trusted nobles and investigators will attend. The Emperor will be informed of the full procedure and outcome."
The Grand Duke closed the satchel again with a quiet snap. "You've done the empire a great service. Now let us ensure justice is done."
Bettina exhaled slowly, tension bleeding from her shoulders.
It had begun.
*****By blood once lost, by vengeance sworn*****
The grand private chamber within the imperial judiciary wing had been sealed for the hearing. Rich velvet drapes muffled the cold sunlight outside, and golden sconces cast flickering light on the paneled walls. Despite its opulence, the room felt somber. Three judges appointed by the Crown Prince sat at the tribunal dais—among them was the Grand Duke, representing the emperor's interests in private matters. The Crown Prince himself was seated in a reserved chair at the side, his arms crossed, his gaze unreadable. A few members of the House of Lords were in attendance to sit as witnesses of the proceedings, all of whom were sworn to secrecy.
At the center, a table stretched with documents, evidence boxes, and magical containment seals, awaited the Whitmans.
Anthony, in a dark high-collared coat, stood tall beside Bettina, who wore a modest noblewoman's dress in empire-cut imperial blue. Her calm expression didn't betray the storm of memories beneath. Jason sat quietly behind his father, his hands clutching Nanny Jones', eyes moving from the Crown Prince to the man beside them—Lord Marcus Whitman.
The old earl had dressed in his formal noble attire, though stripped of any ornate sigils or insignia. His face was lined not only with age, but with the weight of what was to come.
A herald struck his staff on the floor. "Begin presentation of evidence in the case of the Whitman House, regarding allegations of arson, murder, corruption, and conspiracy."
Anthony gave a polite nod to the judges and began. "Your Honors, and Your Highness," he said, turning slightly to execute a perfect military salute to the Crown Prince, "we stand before you not only to deliver proof of grievous crimes committed years ago, but to ensure that justice is not denied merely due to rank, blood, or time passed."
He gestured toward the table, where their carefully cataloged evidence was displayed.
They began with the black ledger—a bound, dusty volume retrieved from the southern estate's abandoned storehouse. "This account book," Bettina said, her voice clear, "details monetary exchanges and off-ledger payments tied to Sutherland Trading's old warehouse operations. Several pages were written in the same hand as the director who was apprehended two weeks ago—Pembroke."
The judges leaned forward as the pages were passed to the court scribe and, with a short incantation, magnified a copy of each page on the wall for their review through a projection sigil.
Next came the letter from Director Pembroke and the accompanying short note signed only "V."
Bettina read the letter aloud. "Delay was unavoidable. The Sutherland situation is now permanently resolved. Their only progeny was left alone. She's young—she'll forget. I've handled the investigation and paperwork. You owe me for this."
The tribunal murmured quietly. The implication was clear: someone with official authority had covered up the arson, aided by a high-ranking imperial employee or official.
Mage Henry, who had been summoned to give a statement, stepped forward to provide the approximate age of the parchments used as well as when the ink was used on them, essentially giving them a determination of the age or date of when these organic matters were used. It further provided heavier proof that the given evidences were not recently fabricated.
Following this, Bettina stepped forward and handed over a folded, worn page—her old diary, preserved by magic.
"This was my old diary. However, this one entry," she said, "was written by my former maid, Agnes. She drugged me the night Jason was poisoned." The page was displayed beside her own handwriting for comparison.
The judges read it silently. One of them muttered, "Unmistakable difference in stroke and grammar from the rest of the pages."
A soft gasp echoed from a few officials. The grief in Agnes' confession was raw, even with its imperfect grammar.
"Mama," Jason whispered, stunned, embracing Nanny Jones' more tightly. Young as he was, he didn't fully understand was going on. But everyone's reaction to the diary, especially the loud gasp that Nanny Jones suddenly made, it resonated with him.
The blueprint came next—the one found within the Whitman Manor. A faded magical sigil matched the one still burned faintly into the stones of the warehouse ruins. Mage Henry stepped forward once more and confirmed it as a fire-starting enchantment once used in military demolition units.
"We believe this was planted by someone with military experience and access to magic casters loyal to Lord Marcus," Henry said.
Next came the photo of Bettina's parents with a message scrawled by Lord Marcus on the back. "Remove obstruction."
The tribunal chamber grew eerily quiet.
The Crown Prince, who had remained silent until now, finally stood.
"Lord Marcus Whitman," he said, "you are called to answer these charges before you. Do you admit to your involvement in the Sutherland warehouse fire and the death of Mister and Mrs. Sutherland as well as the other workers who perished with them?"
All eyes turned to Marcus. For a long moment, he didn't speak. He looked not at the prince or the judges, but at Jason.
"My grandson," he said quietly, "was almost killed as a result of my actions. I never imagined the long shadow I cast would twist into something so monstrous."
He turned to Bettina. "I did order the fire. I ordered it because the Sutherlands threatened to pull me out of the company—to ruin the foundation we had rebuilt after the wars. Your parents were kind people, but I thought... I thought kindness would kill my family faster than flames."
Gasps followed the confession.
"I also took bribes from those who stood to gain from the Sutherlands' fall," Marcus said. "I knew what I was doing. And I have no excuse. My choices may have saved our fortunes, but they shattered lives."
Anthony stood still, but Bettina looked away. There were no tears, just quiet relief. Bettina and her entire family were about to receive the justice they deserved.
The judges whispered among themselves, each writing on a single piece of parchment. Everyone waited with bated breath. After a few more minutes, the Grand Duke stood. "In accordance with imperial law and the approval of His Majesty, the great Emperor Emmanuel Mortix de Boleus III, this tribunal finds you, Lord Marcus Whitman, guilty of conspiracy to commit murder, arson, corruption, and abuse of noble privilege."
He continued solemnly:
"You are hereby stripped of your title, along with all executive authority and business holdings. As a commoner, you are not allowed to receive any of the comforts nor services that the Whitman Earldom provides. You are to work for your own meals and means of living.
"A court-appointed executor shall ensure and oversee monetary restitution for the victims from your personal treasury. They are to be transferred to the families affected by the warehouse fire.
"A public declaration of guilt will be announced to the public within the week.
"You are sentenced to permanent house arrest within the Whitman family seat as one of their household staff. You will never again enter the imperial capital."
The old man bowed his head. "I would accept even a death sentence."
The tribunal ended in silence, save for the tapping of the scribe's pen.
As the family stood, Jason turned to his grandfather with conflicted eyes. "Grandpa, are you no longer allowed to go to the capital? What about Father and Mother and me?"
Marcus only said, "It is solely my fault. I have made so many mistakes that you should never learn from. But I hope you'll help your father and mother now—with true honor."