Neria did not move for several moments after Madam Elin and the young girl separated in the garden.
The late afternoon light filtered through the tall hedges, casting long shadows over the stone path, and although the estate appeared peaceful on the surface, something beneath that calm felt carefully arranged, like furniture positioned to conceal a crack in the wall.
She folded her arms and stared in the direction the girl had disappeared.
"That," she muttered under her breath, "was not normal housekeeper behavior."
She floated toward the corridor where the girl had gone, replaying the scene in her mind, the way Elin's fingers had lingered too long, the way the girl's voice had trembled when she asked whether "he" would find out, and most of all the way Elin's composure had slipped for just a heartbeat before snapping back into place.
Before she could drift further down the hall, she hesitated.
"No," she said quietly to herself, suddenly realizing something far more immediate and distracting. "First things first. I am hungry."
The sensation had returned, not sharp enough to alarm her, but persistent enough to irritate her, like an itch that refused to be scratched.
It made no sense, and yet the craving had a familiar shape in her mind.
She imagined warm bread torn apart by hand, steam rising gently, butter melting across its surface, or perhaps something sweeter, something that tasted like the life she had once known.
"I refuse to believe ghosts cannot snack," she declared softly, already drifting toward the kitchen wing.
The mansion's kitchens were far livelier than the rest of the house, filled with the clatter of utensils and the low hum of servants working in practiced coordination, and as she slipped through the wall she was greeted by the rich aroma of baked goods and simmering stew.
Two kitchen maids stood near the preparation table, whispering while one of them kneaded dough.
"I heard the council ran long today," the first said in a hushed voice. "Something about unrest in the north."
"The north is always restless," the other replied dismissively. "They enjoy dramatics more than harvest."
Neria drifted closer to a cooling rack of pastries and leaned down instinctively, inhaling deeply as though scent alone might satisfy her.
"I would give anything," she murmured, reaching out experimentally toward a small sugared bun.
Her fingers passed through it for a while shocking her , of course, but the attempt was not entirely fruitless, because for the briefest second she thought she felt warmth, or perhaps she only imagined it.
Behind her, one of the maids shivered suddenly and rubbed her arms.
"Did you feel that?" she asked nervously.
"Feel what?"
"A draft."
Neria stiffened and quickly floated upward toward the rafters, deciding that lingering was not wise, and although she could not eat, the act of sneaking into the kitchen and attempting something forbidden soothed her frustration slightly.
Still, curiosity pulled her back toward the matter of the girl.
She slipped out of the kitchen and made her way toward the servants' quarters, where narrower corridors replaced the grand marble halls and the walls bore the faint marks of daily life rather than polished ornamentation.
The west corridor that Elin had mentioned lay ahead, dimmer than the rest of the house, and as Neria drifted along the floor she noticed faint traces of disturbed dust near the baseboards, as though someone had passed recently but carefully.
She followed the trail to a small side door tucked near a linen closet, but when she slipped through it she found only an empty storage chamber filled with folded sheets and unused furniture covered in white cloth.
"No hidden girl," she sighed, floating in slow circles around the room. "No secret escape route. Just dust and abandoned chairs."
She lingered a moment longer, scanning the corners in case she had missed something, but the space remained stubbornly ordinary.
Eventually she gave up and drifted back into the main corridor, frustration tugging at her thoughts.
"That was too dramatic to be nothing," she muttered, "and I am not the kind of person who ignores suspicious garden conversations."
As she turned a corner, she nearly collided with Kara, one of the younger maids who often worked under Elin's supervision.
Kara moved quickly, glancing behind her twice before slipping through a narrow side passage Neria had never noticed before.
Neria paused mid-air and narrowed her eyes.
"And where," she whispered, "are you rushing off to?"
She followed without hesitation, curious now in a way that overrode even her hunger.
The passage led deeper into a quieter section of the estate, away from the main living quarters, where fewer lamps were lit and the walls bore fewer decorations, as though this part of the mansion existed primarily for storage or forgotten purposes.
Kara stopped before a small wooden door and knocked twice in a peculiar rhythm before pushing it open just enough to slip inside.
Neria wasted no time drifting through the door after her.
The room beyond was modest and sparsely furnished, containing only a narrow bed, a small wooden table, and a single chair, and seated on the edge of the bed was a little boy who could not have been more than six or seven years old.
His dark hair fell unevenly over his forehead, and his clothes, though clean, were too plain for someone living in a lord's estate.
Kara knelt before him with a bowl in her hands.
"You must eat slowly," she said gently, lifting a spoon toward his mouth. "If you make yourself sick again, i will be worried."
The boy frowned stubbornly. "I do not like the broth."
"You did not like it yesterday either," Kara replied with patient firmness, "and yet you finished it because you are brave."
Neria drifted closer, her confusion growing by the second.
"Who is this?" she whispered, circling the boy as he reluctantly opened his mouth to accept the spoonful.
The boy glanced toward the door nervously.
"Will he come today?"
Kara's expression softened. "No, he is occupied with court matters, and you must not fear him because he does not know you are here."
Neria's eyes widened.
"Another 'he,'" she murmured under her breath.
The boy lowered his voice. "But if he finds me...."
"He will not," Kara interrupted firmly, brushing his hair back from his face. "You are safe, and you must remember that this is only temporary."
The boy nodded slowly, though his hands tightened around the edge of the blanket.
Neria's thoughts raced as she drifted back toward the wall, considering the implications of what she had just witnessed.
First the girl in the garden, hidden and fearful, and now a little boy tucked away in a forgotten room, fed in secrecy and reassured in whispers.
This estate was not merely a residence; it was a vault.
And someone was storing secrets inside it.
After Kara finished feeding the boy, she set the bowl aside and rose, straightening her apron before stepping toward the door.
"Stay quiet," she instructed softly. "I will return before the lamps are lit."
When she slipped out, Neria followed her once more, watching as Kara moved carefully back toward the main corridor and resumed her duties as though nothing unusual had occurred.
Neria hovered alone in the dim passage for a long moment, her mind buzzing with unanswered questions.
"If Madam Elin is hiding one frightened girl and Kara is hiding a child who fears being discovered," she murmured thoughtfully, "then this house is far more complicated than it pretends to be."
The hunger inside her flared again, but this time it felt tangled with something else—an urgency not for food but for truth.
Ravon
In his private study, stood before a wide oak desk illuminated by the steady glow of a single lamp, the rest of the room cloaked in shadow.
He removed his gloves with deliberate care and set them aside before retrieving a sheet of parchment embossed with the crest of Eldoria.
The quill moved smoothly in his hand as he began to write, his expression unreadable.
"To His Grace, Duke Armand of the Northern Provinces," he inscribed with precise strokes, "the Crown extends its invitation to attend court within the fortnight, that matters of mutual concern may be addressed in person and without delay."
He paused briefly, considering his next words, then continued with language that balanced courtesy and authority in equal measure, crafting each sentence to convey both civility and warning.
When he finished, he sanded the ink lightly and read the letter once more in silence.
Then, without hesitation, he held the parchment over the open flame of the fireplace.
The edges blackened and curled inward as fire consumed the carefully written invitation, turning it to ash before it ever left the room.
Ravon watched until the last ember faded, his eyes reflecting the dying glow.
Only then did he turn away from the hearth, already calculating the next move in a game few realized had begun.