When Desperation Fights Back
The carriage rolled to a stop as evening settled over the estate.
I stepped down carefully, mindful of my burned hand. The skin was still tender where the tea had splashed, faintly blistered along the edge of my thumb.
The manor doors opened before I reached them. Father stood in the entrance hall, still in his study clothes—sleeves rolled to his elbows, ink staining his fingers.
"Everything went well?" he asked.
"Yes, Father."
"Did anyone—" His eyes dropped.
I jerked my hand behind my back.
Too late.
His expression shifted. "Show me."
I hesitated, then slowly brought my hand forward.
The burn looked worse under the entrance hall lamps—red, blistered at the edges.
I should have hidden it from the start. I forgot.
Father's jaw tightened. He stepped closer, taking my wrist gently and turning it toward the light.
"What happened."
Not a question. A demand.
"An accident," I said. "At the tea party."
"An accident."
"Yes."
He studied the burn for a long moment. Then looked up at my face.
"This needs treatment."
"I know."
He looked toward the hallway. "I'll have Hana bring the—"
"Father."
He stopped. Turned back.
I met his eyes.
He searched my face. Looking for something—an explanation, a reason to wait.
Whatever he saw there made him go quiet.
"This is nothing compared to what's coming next."
Father went still.
Not calm—not restrained.
The stillness before a strike.
His eyes locked on mine.
Something shifted in his jaw.
For a breath, he said nothing.
Then he exhaled.
"Alright." He glanced toward the open doorway, where a servant hovered near the stairs. "This isn't the place to talk." His gaze returned to my hand. "My study. After we treat that."
I nodded.
He gestured toward the hall, already turning.
We walked in silence.
***
The study was warm when we entered, lamplight spilling across the desk.
Lloyd and Gerson were already there—Lloyd standing near the window, Gerson by the bookshelf. They must have been summoned while I was being treated.
Father gestured to the chair beside his desk. I sat. He remained standing, arms crossed.
"Tell me what happened," he said.
I kept it brief. The tea party. How they'd turned the dungeon issue into a weapon. How Duke Castor's offer of military support was being framed as generous assistance we were too proud to accept.
The room went still when I finished.
Silence stretched.
"This isn't new," Lloyd said finally.
"No," I agreed. "But we can't neglect it any longer."
Lloyd's jaw tightened. "Lady Eledy, we've already discussed this. We can't handle the dungeons until we meet the King's troop quota."
"Even with the asset liquidation," Gerson added quietly, "we still can't afford mercenaries. High-ranked crews charge five to ten thousand gold per dungeon. For five clearings—"
"Yes we can," I said. "Because I have a plan."
Three pairs of eyes turned to me.
Father's gaze sharpened. "Tell me what's on your mind."
I met his eyes. "What if we do it ourselves?"
Lloyd shifted his stance. "That's risky, my lady. We can't use new training troops for dungeon clearing."
"We have our elites."
"We can't pull them," Gerson said carefully. "They're gathering intelligence at the borders, handling recruitment coordination, managing patrols. It's too risky to redirect them."
"But it's the risk we must take."
Father's expression didn't change. "Why?"
I straightened slightly in my chair. "Our social standing is already worsening. No new business proposals. No backing from other houses. The final possibility left to us is establishing a trade route."
Gerson's eyes widened slightly. "That means..."
"Yes," I said. "We take it into our own hands."
Lloyd crossed his arms. "Even if we clear the dungeons, we'd need to maintain safe routes. That requires at least fifty more soldiers we don't have."
"Then we rotate the soldiers in training," I said. "It would be practical experience for them. And the dungeon drops would give us some financial standing—we wouldn't need to squeeze every coin from the estate. After the safe routes are established—"
Father's voice cut in, finishing the thought. "We can tax them."
A pause.
"That's a good plan, Lady Eledy," Gerson said slowly. "But the crown would question it."
"They won't," I said. "We didn't use tax money from our people to hire mercenaries. We handled it ourselves with our own forces. There's nothing to question."
"But we'd still need to pay tax on the toll revenue to the crown, wouldn't we?" Lloyd asked.
Father's expression shifted—calculation replacing concern. "But that's not a problem. This way we clear our names, generate tax revenue for the crown, and reestablish merchant and trade routes." He looked at Lloyd, then Gerson. "It's not something we can ignore."
Lloyd straightened. "Even if we pull the elites, clearing five dungeons takes time. If Duke Castor makes his offer public before we finish—"
"Then we move fast," I said. "Three days to prepare. One month to clear the dungeons and establish the routes."
Gerson stepped forward slightly. "Who leads the operation? The elites haven't worked together on a campaign like this since the war."
"I'll lead them myself," Father said.
Lloyd turned sharply. "My lord, you don't need to—"
"I won't send them into danger alone."
The room went quiet.
Something passed between Father and Lloyd—the kind of understanding that came from years of fighting side by side.
Lloyd nodded once. "Understood, my lord."
"With you and the elites gone," Lloyd continued, "the estate will be vulnerable. If Duke Castor moves against us while we're spread thin—"
"He won't," I said. "Not publicly. Not while we're solving the very problem he offered to fix. Any move against us now would expose his intentions."
Gerson's expression remained neutral, but his fingers tapped once against the spine of a nearby ledger. "High-ranked dungeons. Even with elite troops, there's risk of casualties. If we lose men—"
"If we don't do this," I said quietly, "we lose everything anyway."
Silence.
Father's jaw shifted. He understood.
"The merchants," Gerson said. "They'd need to agree to the toll system. What if they refuse?"
"They're already avoiding our routes," I said. "Safe passage with a reasonable toll is better than no passage at all. They'll cooperate."
Lloyd glanced at Father, then back to me. "Dungeon drops are valuable, but they're not guaranteed. What if they don't cover the recruitment costs?"
"Then we've still cleared the dungeons and established the infrastructure," Father said. "We deal with funding as we go."
"But my lord," Lloyd said carefully, "if we fail to meet the King's quota because our elites are tied up in dungeon operations—"
"We won't fail," I said. "The quota is troops *and* funding. Dungeon drops fund recruitment. Safe routes generate toll income. We meet the quota—just differently than originally planned."
Gerson's eyes sharpened. "And if the drops aren't enough? If we can't recruit in time?"
Father turned toward the window. The lamplight caught the edge of his profile—the same expression I'd seen in portraits from the war years.
"Then we show the crown we're solving infrastructure problems that benefit the entire region," he said. "We're generating tax revenue. Securing trade routes. Clearing our territory of monster threats." He turned back. "Even if we fall slightly short on troop numbers, we've established taxable infrastructure. The crown benefits either way."
The room was still.
Then Father placed both hands flat on the desk. The gesture was final.
"It's settled," he said.
Lloyd straightened immediately. "Three days to prepare. I'll organize the teams and coordinate supply routes."
"I'll begin merchant negotiations," Gerson said. "Framework for toll rates and route access agreements."
Father looked at me. "You continue training with Knight Ledia while we're gone."
"Yes, Father."
He held my gaze for a moment. Then nodded once.
"Dismissed."
Lloyd and Gerson filed out, already discussing logistics in low voices.
The door closed.
Father and I sat in the quiet study, Eleanor's portrait watching from the wall.
"Three days," he said quietly.
"Yes."
He studied my face. "You walked into their trap today. Came back with a solution."
I didn't respond.
He turned back to the window. "They think we're cornered. Desperate."
"We are," I said.
"Yes." A pause. "But desperate doesn't mean defeated."
His reflection in the glass looked like someone else. Someone younger. The war hero who'd led impossible campaigns and won.
"Three days," he repeated. "Then we show them what desperation looks like when it fights back."
***
I left the study as the lamps were being lit throughout the manor.
My hand still throbbed faintly where the burn had blistered. The hallway stretched before me, shadows dancing along the walls from the flickering light.
But something had shifted.
Father wasn't drowning anymore.
Neither was I.
We were fighting back.
Finally.
A smile crept across my face without my knowledge—sudden enough that it surprised me.
Because...
One of these five dungeons holds something the Church overlooked years ago.
In the original story, Sara and Prince Louise's party found it during their second year—a relic. A connection to the Church that could shift everything.
If Father's troops find it first...
Everything is in place.