The kitchen was a storm of voices, pots clanging, knives thudding against chopping blocks. Steam curled in the air, carrying the scent of onions, boiled cabbage, and woodsmoke. Serenya kept her head down, sleeves rolled, her knife moving with precise, steady strokes through a pile of carrots.
"Cap'n's gone again," muttered one of the scullery maids, her vowels thick and rolling with the Blackfen lilt.
"Aye," another said, scrubbing at a pot with her wiry arms. "Back t'barracks, jus' like naught happened. Man'll work hisself into the grave, so he will."
A bark of laughter. "He'll be buried with his sword afore he's buried with a fever."
The talk continued, low and quick, while Serenya's blade kept moving. But her mind snagged on the words. Gone again. Back to the barracks.
That meant the manor was quiet. Empty.
And vulnerable.
She waited until the clamor rose high enough that no one noticed her absence. Then she set down the knife and slipped out, footsteps soft on the flagstones as she made her way up the servants' stair. The halls above were hushed, lit only by narrow slats of daylight cutting through high windows.
Her pulse hammered as she approached his chambers. The door gave easily, unlocked. A mistake Darian would never normally make. But fever left cracks in even the strongest armor.
The room smelled faintly of smoke and leather. His cloak lay draped over the back of a chair, boots lined neatly beneath. Nothing careless, nothing revealing. She moved like a shadow, careful, eyes sweeping over every surface until her gaze landed on the desk.
The drawers.
She slid one open. Papers. Maps. Quills worn to their ends. Another drawer—more of the same. But in the third, tucked beneath a folded ledger, she found it.
The letter.
Her breath caught. She knew the script, elegant and restrained. Elysar. The sister's hand. The words from before stirred in her chest, sharp and impossible to ignore: Not everyone has a family.
Why lie? Or had he spoken truth twisted by bitterness, grief, something she could not yet name?
Serenya's fingers brushed the paper, the weight of it tugging at her thoughts, but she shoved the drawer closed before she lingered too long. She could not risk being caught here. Not—
The door creaked.
Serenya spun, heart slamming, only to see Brisa standing there, cheeks pink, curls bouncing as she huffed.
"There y'are!" Brisa said, lowering her voice, though her grin was wide. "I been lookin' all o'er. What you doin' sneakin' round the master's rooms?"
Serenya smoothed her apron, forcing calm into her face. "Nothing. Just… delivering. He wasn't in."
Brisa gave her a sidelong look but seemed far too wrapped up in her own excitement to pry. She looped her arm through Serenya's and tugged her down the hall. "Well, no matter. We're goin' out. To the cooper's. I told ye. He'll be there."
Serenya blinked. "He?"
Brisa's grin turned wicked. "Ye know. Him. The cooper's boy. Eyes blue as the summer sky, hands strong enough t'mend a barrel one-handed. Saints, Rhyn, ye'll see. He's somethin'."
Brisa chattered the whole way down the hill into the town, her words tumbling over one another, full of blushes and sighs. Serenya let herself be pulled along, her mind still back in the quiet room, the letter in the drawer, the lie—or truth—woven in Darian's voice.
-----------
The cooper's shop smelled of resin and oak shavings. Brisa made a beeline for a cracked ale-barrel, pretending to inspect the hoops. Serenya hung back near the door.
Then she saw him.
The boy Brisa spoke of. Sandy-haired, sleeves rolled, hands steady as he worked a stave into place. His gaze lifted at the sound of their entrance. He smiled at Brisa, polite, practiced.
But when his eyes landed on Serenya—
The smile died. His pale blue eyes widened, sharp recognition flashing like flint on steel.
Serenya froze. Her pulse stumbled. She did not know him. She was certain she did not. Yet the look in his eyes said he knew her.
Brisa prattled on, oblivious, until at last she tugged Serenya's sleeve. "Come on, then. Done here."
As Serenya moved to leave, the boy shifted behind the counter. His hand brushed hers in passing—deliberate, quick. A folded slip of parchment pressed into her palm.
No words. Just the faintest lift of his brow.
Outside, Brisa was still humming, replaying every detail of his smile. Serenya trailed beside her, the note burning against her skin.
She waited until the street bent away from the shop and the crowd swallowed them whole before she dared unfold it.
The writing was sharp, efficient:
The time limit is rescinded. You may search at your own pace. Be cautious. The walls of Blackfen Keep are not as silent as they seem.
Her heart lurched. Relief flared for an instant, but it was drowned by something heavier, darker. This wasn't mercy. It was message.
The boy knew her.
He had recognized her.
He was one of them.
The underground.
-----------
The manor was hushed when evening fell, the servants' chatter long since faded into quiet corners. Serenya had returned from the town restless, her mind still caught between the note burning in her pocket and the memory of pale eyes widening in recognition. Every sound in the halls seemed louder than it should have been, every glance from another servant longer than necessary.
When the knock came, sharp and curt, she nearly leapt out of her skin.
"The captain asks for ye," muttered a boy with the kitchen lilt, and then he was gone.
Her heart pounded as she climbed the familiar stair. The corridors were dim, sconces guttering low. Darian's bedroom stood open, spilling pale moonlight into the hall.
He was waiting for her.
Out on the stone balcony, the captain stood with his back to her, the night air tugging faintly at his dark hair. The moon bathed him in silver, sharpening the angles of his face, making the hollows of his cheeks seem deeper. He was upright, strong as ever in his bearing—but there was a heaviness in his stance, a stiffness that betrayed the remnants of illness.
Serenya drew a quiet breath and stepped forward. "Sir," she said softly, almost afraid to break the stillness.
Darian turned slightly, enough for his gray eyes to find her. They lingered a moment, unreadable, before he spoke. "You're late."
"I came as soon as I was called."
He gave a faint huff, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh, and turned his gaze back out toward the night. For a time, there was only the quiet rustle of leaves in the courtyard below, the call of a night-bird carried on the breeze.
Finally, he asked, "How was your day?"
Serenya's throat was dry. The words of the cooper's boy still scratched at her mind, but she kept her face calm. "It was… fine, sir. As any other."
He nodded once, as though that answer sufficed. Silence stretched again, taut as a drawn bowstring. She shifted, then dared, "And yours?"
This time he looked at her fully. The gray of his eyes was pale in the moonlight, sharper for the shadows beneath them. He did not speak at once, and in that silence her pulse thudded loud in her ears.
At last, he said, "It was as it always is. A day spent among vipers."
She stilled. His gaze lingered, steady, before sliding away to the darkened horizon. "The Council waits for me to falter. They smile to my face, but their knives are sharp. And the people…" He gave a quiet, humorless laugh. "They hate me. Or fear me. Most days, I can't tell which is worse."
Serenya felt her fingers curl in her skirts.
"There are whispers," Darian continued, his voice low but even, "of those who would see me undone. Men who work in shadows. An organization that festers beneath our feet, waiting to strike when I am weakest."
Her blood ran cold. She froze, afraid even to breathe. Did he know? Could he see it in her eyes—that she was one of the ears that listened in those shadows, one of the hands sent to sift through his life?
Her voice caught in her throat, but he went on, seemingly unaware of her panic.
"There was once a nobleman," Darian said, quieter now, as if speaking to himself as much as to her. "A fool, perhaps. He sought to right the corruption in this land. To call the Council to account. He believed men could be better than what they are."
His eyes narrowed, the lines of his face drawn taut with memory. "The Council made certain no one would believe him. They destroyed his name, his family, his honor. When they were done, all that remained was ruin—and a warning to the rest of us."
The night pressed close around them. Serenya's heart raced a thousand miles. She could not move, dared not ask what role he himself had played in that downfall, dared not breathe the questions burning at the back of her tongue. She only stood still but her chest tightened with the thought that this may be it—that it was her father he was talking about.