The dining hall of the Ashborn estate was designed to seat thirty. Tonight, only five sat at the long, dark oak table huddled near the fireplace. Winter was arriving sooner than expected.

  The silence was heavier than the ironwood doors. The only sounds were the scrape of silverware and the crackle of wood in the chimney.

  Arthur sat quietly, dissecting his meat like a surgeon.

  He was hunting for hints—any information that might surface during dinner. In his position, information was the only currency that mattered.

  The food was modest: roasted root vegetables, mutton, and freshly baked bread—the best the Ashborn family could muster for the Lunalar Viscountess. Compared to what Sylvia’s household likely ate, Arthur knew this looked like peasant fare.

  Across from him sat Elara. She poked at her vegetables as if they might bite her fingers. Her eyes flicked to her mother, then back to the plate, silently pleading: Do I have to eat this?

  Viscountess Sylvia didn’t touch the food. She held a glass of Ashborn vintage—sour by reputation—and swirled it, her sharp eyes scanning the room, missing nothing.

  “The road,” Sylvia said suddenly, her voice slicing through the silence.

  Roderick looked up, wiping his mouth. “Pardon?”

  “The road leading to the estate,” Sylvia clarified, setting her glass down with a sharp clink. “It is unpaved for the last three miles. My carriage nearly lost a wheel in a pothole the size of a shield. And the bridge over the Ironwalls River? It creaked, Roderick. It actually creaked.”

  Roderick sighed, a sound that seemed to drain ten years from him. “We are struggling, Sylvia. Repairs are scheduled for spring.”

  “And your guards?” Sylvia pressed, leaning forward. Candlelight danced in her eyes, turning them into cold sapphires—a sharp contrast to Cecilia’s warm amber gaze. “I counted six men at the gate. Six. Two wore chainmail with more rust than steel. Is that how you protect my sister and her son?”

  “Sylvia, please,” Cecilia whispered, reaching for her husband’s hand. “We are doing our best.”

  “Your best nearly got your child killed a week ago,” Sylvia snapped, glaring at Roderick.

  The room froze. Air seemed to vanish. Elara dropped her fork; it clattered against porcelain.

  Arthur didn’t flinch. He kept cutting his meat, though his mind raced. She’s not just being a snob. She’s genuinely terrified—and furious about the lack of security.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “The poison was… an unfortunate incident,” Roderick said, his voice low and dangerous. “We have doubled the kitchen staff. We test every meal.”

  “Kitchen staff?” Sylvia let out a humorless laugh. “You think a maid brewed a grade four Neurotoxin? You think a bandit bought Nightshade that grows only in the—”

  “Viscountess Sylvia, enough!” Roderick cut in, sharp and commanding. “We will continue this talk in the study room.”

  Sylvia rose instantly, her silk dress moving like armor. “Finish your dinner, Elara. The maid will lead you to our quarters afterward.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Elara murmured, not looking up.

  Sylvia marched out, leaving a suffocating silence in her wake.

  Arthur watched her go, chewing a turnip. A grade four Neurotoxin? The plot just thickened. I need to know what they’re talking about.

  Roderick and Cecilia rose as well. “Oliver, return to your room once you finish,” Cecilia said, patting his head.

  “Rest assured, Mother, I will!” Arthur replied, flashing a bright, innocent smile.

  They left for the study, leaving only Elara and Arthur. He quickly finished his plate and excused himself. “Good night, Cousin. And Layla, no need to accompany me. You can rest.”

  Layla looked surprised but nodded. “As you wish, Young Master.”

  “You too,” Elara mumbled, dismissive.

  Arthur didn’t mind. He wasn’t here to socialize; he was here to survive. He turned the corner and began his slow, rhythmic hobble toward the stairs.

  Thump. Step. Thump. Step.

  At the first landing, safely out of Elara’s sight, his posture changed. The grimace vanished. He lifted the cane to silence his steps and slipped into the servant’s corridor behind the study.

  Inside, the heavy oak doors slammed shut, muffling voices but not silencing them.

  Thank goodness for old architecture, Arthur thought. Thick walls, yes—but ventilation grates carry sound.

  He knelt, ignoring the pain in his leg, and pressed his ear to the iron grate. Voices drifted through the shaft.

  “It was Midnight Shade, Roderick!”

  Sylvia’s voice was stripped of formality, shaking with rage. “Do not lie to yourself. The apothecary I brought confirmed it from residue on the boy’s bedsheets.”

  “Midnight Shade…” Roderick’s voice was hollow. “That is a restricted alchemical compound. grade four. Not even natural Nightshade.”

  “The mother plant is grown exclusively in the Royal Conservatories. It doesn’t exist in the wild. No bandit bought this. No rival merchant brewed it.”

  Silence. Then the violent shatter of glass against stone.

  “Someone in the capital signed off on your son’s death,” Sylvia hissed. “Someone high up. And they will not leave the job unfinished.”

  Arthur felt ice settle in his stomach. Cold sweat broke across his forehead. This wasn’t a local feud. This wasn’t a simple assassination attempt. His life was on the line against an enemy with royal backing.

  He leaned back against the wall, staring into the dark.

  “I’m so screwed,” he whispered bitterly.

  (To be continued …)

  Thank you for reading!!