When I turned to scan the room, my stomach churned again.
It felt as though the study had begun to decompose. The massive desk was buried under a layer of dust so thick you could write in it with your finger. Cobwebs draped from the bookshelves. The windows were so caked with grime and bird droppings on the outside that the daylight filtered through in a murky, yellow smudge.
The old fireplace was stuffed full—a heap of ash mixed with scraps of various papers. Apparently, in his drunken delusions, Victor had tried to burn something.
Disgusting.
Fastidiously brushing the dust off the armchair, I sat down, trying not to think about how many generations of insects I was currently disturbing. Sheets of paper and empty inkwells lay in a chaotic mess on the desk. And, of course, a couple more empty bottles.
I pulled the nearest stack of papers toward me. The heading on the top sheet caught my eye: "Overdue."
I began to read. At first, I skimmed, then I slowed down, absorbing every word. With each line, my jaw clenched tighter.
The situation wasn't just bad; it was catastrophic. The original Victor hadn't just been drinking; he was a cash cow being picked clean to the bone.
"Debt to the bank... eighteen months overdue. Mortgage on the southern vineyards... sold from six months ago?"
I looted the desk drawers, tossing out trash. I found the master ledger. It was filled with sloppy handwriting. The expenses for "warehouse maintenance" were ten times higher than the cost of repairing the entire estate's roof.
In reality, I was certain the gold had ended up in the pockets of those who had slipped papers to the drunken Lord for his signature while he couldn't see past his own nose.
I closed my eyes and pressed my fingers to my temples. I had so little time. According to the plot, in just a few months, the Hellsworth lands were supposed to face their first attack, and Victor's death would serve as the signal for the start of the war.
I heard a cautious knock at the door.
"My Lord... I've brought the ink... and paper, as you ordered."
The servant's trembling voice came from behind the door.
I walked to the door and yanked it open. The servant recoiled, clutching the tray to his chest.
"Put it on the desk. And find the steward for me. Mister... what's his name? Morton?"
"M-Mr. Ludwick, my Lord. He's at the stables now, inspecting the new horses that were... ahem... purchased yesterday."
New horses?
"Tell Ludwick I'm waiting for him in my study. If he isn't here in five minutes, I'll have him whipped right in those stables he loves so much. And bring me a candle."
The servant bolted from the room.
I returned to the desk and sat, steepled my fingers. I needed money. And I knew exactly who had it. My "loyal" servants had been hoarding it for years, robbing me blind.
Fragments of the novel flashed through my mind. Ludwick. In the original story, this slippery character was one of the first to defect to the enemy when the estate began to be torn apart.
I looked down at the papers again. Stable expenses for the past month had tripled. "New horses." What a blatant, stupid lie. In an estate where the roof threatened to collapse on his sleeping children's heads, this traitor was buying elite steeds? More likely, he was simply siphoning off money, scribbling numbers on paper.
The door creaked while I continued to study a promissory note.
A man entered the room. Tall, stout, wearing a fine suit that cost more than the annual wages of the rest of the staff. Ludwick tried to look confident, but I could hear his ragged breathing. Apparently, the run from the stables hadn't been easy for him.
"My Lord, you summoned me?"
His sycophantic voice carried a trace of mockery toward the hopeless alcoholic.
"Forgive my appearance; the estate's affairs cannot wait. The horses we acquired for your outings..."
"Sit, Ludwick."
He hesitated, eyeing the dusty armchair opposite the desk.
"I'll stand, my Lord. It's... not exactly tidy in here."
"I said: sit. I don't give a damn about the cleanliness of your trousers."
He sat. Cautiously, on the very edge.
"Tell me about the horses. How much did we pay for them?"
"Three hundred crowns, my Lord. Purebred northern steeds. It was a bargain, considering—"
"Three hundred crowns. While the mortgage on the vineyards is overdue, and the treasury tax hasn't been paid since last quarter. Do you think I'm an idiot, Ludwick? Or did you just decide I was too busy with the bottle to notice you moving gold from my chest into your pocket?"
The steward turned pale, but quickly regained his composure.
"My Lord, you must have misinterpreted the records. The vineyards were a loss; I was merely trying to save the remnants of our capital..."
"Silence. I've reviewed the ledger. 'Warehouse maintenance'? Ten times the estimate? Are you feeding the rats delicacies, or are you just hoping I'll drop dead before I notice the shortage?"
I leaned forward, invading his personal space. The scent of dust and old paper between us mingled with the smell of his cold sweat.
"Listen to me carefully. You have until sunset to return all 'mistakenly' diverted funds. The three hundred crowns for the horses—which I'm certain aren't in the stables—and everything you managed to 'save' on the roof repairs."
"But, my Lord... that money doesn't exist! It's impossible..."
I pulled a blank sheet from the stack and dipped the pen into the fresh ink.
"If the money isn't here by sunset, Ludwick, the order I sign won't be for your dismissal. I will sign an indictment for high treason and embezzlement of property. You haven't forgotten that part of these lands formally belongs to the King, have you? You won't just be whipped. You'll be hanged at the gates of this estate. And believe me, the children will watch with great pleasure."
Ludwick's eyes widened. He swallowed hard, staring at the tip of the pen hovering over the paper.
"Leave."
When the door slammed behind him, I felt nausea rising in my throat. There was no turning back. If I didn't collect the money now, in a month I'd have no guards, no food, and no head on my shoulders.
This traitor truly believed he could feed me fairy tales about "bargains" while the house was literally crumbling.
I looked at the papers again. Three hundred crowns. A massive sum for an estate that was barely breathing. With that money, I could not only fix the roof but also pay the guards who, according to the reports, hadn't seen a coin in six months.
In the novel, Ludwick didn't just steal. He was the one who opened the gates to the enemy unit when Evelyn led the rebellion. He sold his Lord's life for a bag of gold and a promise of immunity.
The irony: I knew his future better than he did.
Finding a clean sheet, I began to jot down a list of names. Those who stole. Those who betrayed. Those who simply looked the other way.
Beyond Ludwick, the list included people the author barely mentioned at the start—minor figures, rats. They would have been forgotten if not for the final chapter of The Fall of House Hellsworth, where Kyle, by then a ruthless exile, personally tracked down each one and slaughtered their families to the last soul.
The blacksmith who swapped quality steel for scrap; the overseer who sold grain reserves to the neighbors; the head stableman who "lost" the best stallions.
I froze, staring at the list. Right now, they felt safe, relying on their Lord's bottomless drinking.
There was another knock at the door. This time, more confident.
"You've been locked in here for two hours. The servants are whispering that you've gone mad from a lack of wine."
It was Kyle. My eldest son. My future executioner, the one who would be the first to drive a sword into my chest in the library if I didn't change a thing.
"Come in."
The door opened. Kyle stood on the threshold, surveying the scene. His gaze fell on the stack of promissory notes I'd arranged by importance—also perfectly aligned.
"You're... working on the accounts?"
There was so much disbelief in his voice, it was as if I'd suddenly started speaking the language of elves.
"Someone has to do it while you practice your hatred for me."
I looked up at him.
"Sit. I have an assignment for you."
Kyle frowned, taking a step into the room. He was still looking for a catch, expecting me to hurl an inkwell at him any second.
My eyes caught the edge of a stack of papers that protruded a fraction of an inch further than the rest. Irritation flared instantly, manifesting as an itch in my fingers. I cut my sentence short, reached out, and with a careful motion, squared the stack until the edges of the sheets formed a perfect vertical line. Only then did the itch subside.
"Your men at the eastern post. They're a herd of lazy sheep propping up walls with their rusty iron. If even one lame bandit approaches the gates tomorrow, he'll slaughter half the estate while your 'soldiers' finish their ale."
"They haven't been paid in six months. You drank away their loyalty yourself. What are you even talking about?"
"If I catch them sleeping on duty again, I'll personally order their ears removed so they can hear the enemy better."
I pulled a paper from the drawer and quickly scribbled a list.
"Here is your task. Take this list. Conduct a full audit of the armory and personnel. Every sword, every shield, every arrow must be accounted for."
I held out the sheet. Kyle took it with two fingers, as if it were a venomous snake.
"Are you serious? You want me to purge the few who are still willing to stay here?"
He looked at the list with obvious doubt.
"I want an army, not a collection of ragtags. And if you aren't capable of making them obey, then you're just as useless a piece of meat as they are."
I fell silent, feeling my throat go dry.
"You have until tomorrow morning. If I step into the courtyard and see so much as one rusty buckle on a guard's belt, you'll have yourself to blame. And clean yourself up. Your cloak is wrinkled. It's disgusting."
I turned back to my papers, adjusting the inkwell so it stood strictly parallel to the edge of the desk.
"You are dismissed. And close the door behind you."
When he left, I looked at the list of traitors' names again. Ludwick was just the tip of the iceberg. But before I dealt with the rest, I needed Kyle to turn this rabble into something resembling a guard.