Day One of Three.
I woke up at dawn having barely slept, my mind still racing with contingencies and failure scenarios. Tom had crashed on the study floor sometime around three AM, snoring softly amid our conspiracy boards. The Duke, as far as I knew, hadn't slept at all.
By the time I made it downstairs, the manor was already in controlled chaos. Cassian had assembled his most trusted staff—a distressingly small group of about seven people in a household of forty.
"We're certain the others are compromised?" I asked, accepting a cup of tea from one of the trusted servants.
"We're certain of nothing," Cassian replied. "But Mrs. Blackwood has been tracking unusual behavior for weeks. These seven have shown no signs of outside influence, no unexplained absences, no suspicious conversations." He gestured to the assembled group. "They're also the ones who'd die first if a plague actually broke out, which gives them motivation to help us."
Grim logic, but effective.
"Alright," I said, addressing the group. "Here's the situation. We believe someone is trying to trigger multiple catastrophes simultaneously. One of those catastrophes is a plague outbreak. Clara's illness might be the first case, or it might be a test, or it might be completely unrelated. We don't know."
"What we do know," Cassian continued, "is that we need to appear vulnerable. Overwhelmed. Like the plague is spreading and we can't control it."
Mrs. Blackwood frowned. "You want us to fake a plague outbreak? Your Grace, with respect, that seems—"
"Insane. Yes. It is." He met her eyes. "But if we don't, whoever's orchestrating this will find another way to trigger their disaster. This way, we control the narrative. We control the response. And we catch them when they make their move."
"What do you need from us?" one of the guards asked.
I pulled out the plan Tom and I had sketched out at four AM while running on spite and anxiety. "We need rumors. Carefully controlled rumors. Clara's condition is worsening. She's showing signs of an unknown contagion. Two other servants are now exhibiting symptoms—"
"But they're not actually sick," Tom interjected, having apparently woken up and followed me down. "They're faking it. Believably."
"We also need to 'accidentally' let slip that the Duke is concerned," I continued. "That he's consulting with physicians. That quarantine measures aren't working. We need whoever's watching us to believe we're losing control."
"And when they come to verify?" Mrs. Blackwood asked.
"That's when we catch them," Cassian said. "The supposedly sick servants are actually guards in disguise. The quarantine area is monitored at all times. Anyone who tries to enter or investigate will be detained."
One of the servants—an older woman named Martha—spoke up. "Your Grace, what about the girl? Clara? If she's actually sick—"
"She's being treated by the physician. Real treatment, real care. If this is genuine illness, we'll cure her. If it's poison, we'll identify and counteract it." Cassian's voice softened slightly. "I won't sacrifice my people, Martha. Not for a trap, not for anything."
She nodded, reassured.
"We have three days," I said. "By my calculation, whoever sent that letter expects major movement by day three. We need to look desperate by day two, so they'll make their move thinking we're too distracted to notice."
"And what are you going to be doing during all this?" Mrs. Blackwood asked me directly.
"Hunting for patterns. Our orchestrator has been operating for at least six months. They've had to leave traces—communications, movements, payments. I'm going to find them."
"In two days."
"In two days," I confirmed.
She looked skeptical but didn't argue.
We spent the next hour choreographing the performance. Who would spread which rumors. How to make the "quarantine" look genuine but penetrable. Where to position the guards to maximize coverage while appearing undermanned.
It was like planning a product launch, except instead of software we were deploying tactical disinformation, and instead of customers we were trapping a potential mass murderer.
Just another Tuesday.
By mid-morning, the rumors were spreading. I overheard two servants whispering in the hallway about Clara's "terrible fever" and how "three more had fallen ill." Mrs. Blackwood had loudly ordered extra linens for the quarantine area, making sure half the household heard.
The Duke made a show of sending urgent messages to physicians in the capital, his messenger practically galloping away in dramatic fashion.
Tom positioned himself in the kitchen, where household gossip flowed like wine, and started carefully seeding fears about "mysterious illness" and "nobody knows how it spreads."
Meanwhile, I was in the study, surrounded by six months of correspondence, visitor logs, and financial records, trying to find a ghost.
The problem with hunting someone who knew they were playing a game was that they'd planned for investigation. Every lead I followed was either a dead end or pointed to someone we already knew was involved—Edwin, Meridian, the conspirators.
But they had to have a handler. Someone coordinating them. Someone with overview of all the moving pieces.
I created a timeline on the wall using string and pins, feeling like a detective in a crime drama. Every major event from the past six months. Every payment. Every meeting. Every death.
Edwin's arrival: six months ago. First suspicious payment: five months, three weeks. Lady Meridian's first visit: five months, two weeks. Baron Helmore's gathering: three weeks ago. Wickham's poisoning: three weeks ago. Edwin's death: approximately two days ago. Helmore's death: yesterday. Clara's illness: yesterday.
There was a pattern there. I could feel it. But I was too close, too tired, too—
"You've been staring at that wall for an hour without blinking," Tom said from the doorway. "That's not healthy."
"I'm missing something. Something obvious."
"Then stop looking at it." He set down a plate of food I didn't remember asking for. "Eat. Rest. Let your brain work on it in the background."
"We don't have time—"
"You don't have time to make mistakes either. Eat."
I ate mechanically, my eyes still on the timeline. Tom was right—I needed to step back. See the bigger picture.
"Tell me about the academy," I said suddenly.
"The what?"
"The Royal Academy. Where the capture targets are. Where the heroine is. What do you know about it?"
Tom sat down, thinking. "Prestigious. For nobles and exceptional commoners. About two hundred students at any given time. They study magic theory, combat, politics, etiquette—the usual upper-class nonsense."
"Who runs it?"
"Headmaster Aldrich. Old guy. Been there forever. Very strict, very traditional."
"And when did this year's class start?"
"About... four months ago? Why?"
Four months. Two months after Edwin was planted in the Duke's household.
"Who decides which students get accepted?"
"There's an admissions council. Five members. They review applications, conduct interviews, make selections."
"And who's on this council?"
Tom's expression shifted. "Oh. Oh, that's interesting. One of them is Count Rothford. Or was, before his arrest."
Count Rothford. The man with forbidden magic texts. The man whose handkerchief was planted at the first poisoning. The man currently in prison.
"Tom, I need you to find out who replaced Rothford on the admissions council."
"Why?"
"Because if someone wanted to place specific students at the academy—say, a heroine who arrived a year early—they'd need someone on the inside. Someone with authority to approve unusual admissions."
Tom's eyes widened. "You think they planted students there? Like Edwin was planted here?"
"I think," I said slowly, "that this has been a much longer game than we realized. And the academy might be ground zero for more than just the plague route."
He left to gather information. I turned back to my timeline, seeing it differently now.
This wasn't about destroying the Duke's household. That was just the opening move. This was about positioning pieces across the entire kingdom—in the palace, in the academy, in noble households—for a coordinated collapse.
A knock at the door. Cassian entered, looking grim.
"Clara's condition has worsened," he said. "The physician says it's not poison. It's an actual fever, possibly infectious. He's recommending full quarantine protocols."
"So it's real. Someone actually infected her with something."
"So it appears. Which means our fake plague is about to become a real one if we're not careful." He moved to the window. "The physician wants to bleed her. I told him absolutely not—I've read enough medical texts to know that's barbaric and useless—but he's insisting it's standard treatment."
"Don't let him," I said immediately. "Keep her hydrated, keep her cool, let the fever run its course. If it's a bacterial infection, bleeding her will just make it worse."
He looked at me strangely. "How do you know that?"
"My world had better medicine. Trust me on this."
"I do." He sighed. "We've had three servants request to leave the household today. They're terrified of the illness. I let them go—can't have people who'll break under pressure—but it's thinning our resources."
"That might be intentional. If whoever's watching sees people fleeing, it reinforces the narrative that the plague is real and spreading."
"Unless they actually flee to the city and spread panic there, which creates a real crisis."
Good point.
"We need to contain this faster than I thought," I said. "If real plague panic starts, we lose control of the narrative entirely."
"Agreed. Which is why I'm accelerating the timeline. We're going to leak information that I'm personally visiting the quarantine area tonight. That I'm so concerned I'm risking exposure."
"That's bait. You're making yourself bait."
"Yes. And you're going to be there too, watching from concealment. If someone comes to investigate—to verify that the Duke is truly distracted and vulnerable—we grab them."
"And if they don't come?"
"Then tomorrow we escalate. Make it look worse. Force their hand." His expression was cold. "But they'll come. They're too invested in this to ignore an opportunity to confirm their plague route is proceeding."
Night fell. The manor was eerily quiet, most servants having retired early, either from genuine fear or because they'd been told to clear the hallways for our operation.
The quarantine area was in the east wing—three rooms that had been sealed off, with only one entrance. Clara was in the first room, genuinely sick but improving slightly thanks to proper hydration and rest. The second room held two guards pretending to be ill servants. The third room was empty, designated for "new cases."
I was hidden in a storage closet with a view of the hallway, wearing dark clothes and trying not to think about how ridiculous this was. Tom was positioned at the other end of the hall, similarly concealed. Four more guards were stationed at strategic points throughout the wing, invisible but ready.
Cassian made his entrance around midnight, carrying a lantern and looking appropriately concerned. He entered the quarantine area, spent about ten minutes inside (presumably checking on Clara and speaking with the disguised guards), then emerged looking troubled.
Perfect performance.
He left, his footsteps echoing down the hall.
We waited.
An hour passed. Nothing.
Two hours. Still nothing.
I was starting to think they weren't coming when I heard it—the softest sound of a window opening two rooms down.
Someone was entering through the window.
I signaled to Tom—two fingers, then pointed. He nodded.
A figure moved through the shadows, heading toward the quarantine area. They moved with confidence, not like a common thief. Like someone who knew exactly where they were going.
They reached the quarantine door. Pulled out a key—they had a key—and opened it.
That was our signal.
Tom and I moved simultaneously, blocking both ends of the hall. The guards emerged from their positions. The figure froze, realizing they were surrounded.
"Nobody move," I said, trying to sound authoritative.
The figure turned. In the dim light, I couldn't make out their face, but their silhouette was familiar somehow.
"Well," a woman's voice said, amused rather than frightened. "This is embarrassing."
She pulled back her hood.
I stopped breathing.
It was the heroine. Rosalie Winters. The protagonist of the otome game.
She smiled at me—that same recognition I'd seen at the ball—and said:
"Hello, Arjun. We really need to talk. About the game. About the apocalypse. And about why you're trying to ruin my perfect speedrun."
End of Chapter 10