The study was steeped in gray morning light. Dawn had only just broken outside the window, dispelling the night mist over the hills of Erlenholm, but Carl had been sitting at his desk for at least an hour. Before him lay a stack of papers—stewards' reports, estimates, lists—and atop them all, set apart, a short dispatch written in Aina's firm, cramped hand.
They had returned the previous evening. Carl had met the group at the servants' entrance, cast one glance at Lyra—filthy, gaunt, but alive—at Corvin, supported by two men, at Aina, gliding silently behind like a shadow. He gave a brief order: everyone rest. Talk in the morning.
Now morning had come.
Carl read the dispatch for the third time. Succinct. Dry. Deadly in its precision.
Aina wrote sparingly: the Razors' routes, the leaders' names, assembly points, the source of funding. The last item—in the smallest script, as if she feared even committing it to paper aloud.
Baron Digal Waldeck.
Carl leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. Waldeck. Raised to the title for his service in the war—a common knight who rose in the world by bringing the head of a rebel commander and evidence of treason. Ambitious. Cruel. Smart enough not to go looking for trouble, and foolish enough to consider himself invincible.
In the past life, Waldeck had surfaced two years from now. A petty troublemaker, a shadow moneylender, buying up the debts of bankrupt nobles. Back then, Carl hadn't cared—his own people had remained loyal, and others went bankrupt without his involvement.
Now Waldeck was hiring the Razors. Hunting a fugitive mage. Playing his own game.
A pawn. Clever, predatory, but a pawn. And behind every pawn, someone always stands.
Carl opened his eyes and shifted his gaze to Aina.
She stood by the door—in the strict dress of a maid, with an impeccably straight back, hands clasped before her. She had just entered, just reported verbally what she had already committed to paper. And now she waited.
Her face was a mask. No trace of fatigue, though Carl knew: last night she had hardly slept, settling the guests, checking the posts, making sure all was quiet. Only at the back of her gray eyes did patient watchfulness smolder.
Carl set aside the dispatch.
"Good work," his voice broke the silence evenly, without excess emotion. "The reward will be generous."
"It is only my duty, my lord."
He frowned. Not because her answer was wrong—but because she answered as she always did. Coldly. Distantly. As if between them still stood that chasm he had crossed twelve years ago, when he pulled her from an Imperial torture chamber.
"Save the formalities," he said calmly, without pressure. "How many times have I said this?"
Aina said nothing. Only lowered her head a little more—a gesture of deference that always set Carl's teeth slightly on edge.
He sighed. Arguing was useless. The time she had spent in that torture chamber had burned out of her the capacity for simple human warmth, leaving only discipline and cold devotion.
"Very well, we'll leave it."
A pause hung in the air, thick and viscous. Carl looked at her, saw the shadows under her eyes that no amount of bearing could hide, and understood: she hadn't slept for nearly two days. First the mission, then the road, then the night-time arrangements for the guests. Without rest. Without complaint. As always.
"Your assessment of Lyra?"
Aina raised her head. For a moment, something alive flickered in her eyes—surprise? Interest?—but the mask quickly returned.
She reflected briefly. Just long enough to put her thoughts into words.
"Good potential." Her voice was dry, businesslike. "Strong-willed, resilient. Not stupid. Has character."
Carl waited in silence. He knew more would come.
"But she's traumatized inside," Aina tilted her head slightly, as if listening to her own words. "A risk factor."
He nodded. Slowly. Deeply. The assessment was precise to the smallest detail—he had seen the girl himself, seen the hunted look, the habit of expecting a blow ingrained in her bones. But to hear so much praise from Aina... that was rare.
Aina rarely praised anyone at all. She evaluated. Classified. Delivered verdicts—short as dagger strikes. But this much...
"You may go and rest," Carl said. "You've earned it."
Aina bowed—impeccably, honed by years of service in a house where etiquette was valued above money.
"Thank you, my lord."
She turned and left, closing the door silently behind her.
Carl was alone.
Silence closed in around him, dense and viscous. He stared at the closed door, thinking not of Waldeck, not of the Razors, not of future plans. He thought of her. Of how ten years ago he had pulled from a cellar a girl who had been tortured so long that she forgot how to smile. Of how in all her years of service in his house, she had never once asked for anything for herself. No warm clothes in winter. No extra day off. No kind word—she didn't even know how to respond to one.
Carl ran his hand over his face, dispelling the fatigue. Then he turned his gaze back to the dispatch. To the name of Baron Waldeck, written in small script.
A pawn. They are all pawns. But pawns, if not removed from the board in time, can reach the last rank and become queens.
The thought stung coldly. Who stood behind Waldeck? The same one who had stood behind him last time? Or someone new, whose name had yet to be discovered?
Carl dismissed the thought. Too many assumptions. First—facts. First—he must speak with Corvin, find out what he knew. Then—decide what to do with the girl Aina had called "a risk factor."
His gaze drifted to the lavender, and he imagined Eleonor's figure in the orangery.
Morning light flooded the estate's orangery, seeping through the glass roof and scattering in golden patches over green leaves, over the damp earth in pots, over the neat wooden paths between the beds.
Eleonor moved unhurriedly through her small domain.
Unlike the orangeries of other aristocrats—those filled with exotic flowers from across the sea, intended to impress guests—here everything was different. Chamomile, oregano, echinacea, mint, sage, St. John's wort, thyme. No finicky orchids, no poisonous bright blooms. Even her leisure time she preferred to spend usefully.
The plants were tended by gardeners—two capable men who knew their work—but Eleonor kept a hand on the pulse. She checked the watering herself, decided herself when it was time to harvest and what to leave for another week or two. The gardeners worked; she managed. That was how it worked best.
But most of all, she loved lavender.
An entire row of bushes along the southern wall—fluffy, silver-green, with delicate purple inflorescences. Eleonor ran her palm over their tops, plucking a few sprigs, brought them to her face, inhaled the scent she had known since childhood.
She knew everything about lavender. It relieves anxiety, calms the nerves, drives away insomnia. Helps with headaches and neurasthenia—when the world shrinks to the size of your own pain and it seems it will never get easier. Last year, when her illness had been especially bad, she slept with a sprig of lavender under her pillow. And, she believed, it helped. Or perhaps she simply wanted to believe it helped.
Useful. Beautiful. Fragrant.
And Carl likes it, she added to herself with a quiet smile. He says it smells like home.
She was about to move on to the mint beds when she caught a movement from the corner of her eye.
Behind a large rosemary bush, crouched so low that only a red-haired crown was visible, someone very familiar was frozen.
Eleonor stopped, watching.
Amalia.
The red head turned slowly, tracking its target. And the target—a black-and-white cat, old, lazy, and worldly-wise—lay on the sun-warmed wooden decking two steps from the bush. He squinted, presenting his furry side to the sun, and didn't even twitch an ear, though he knew perfectly well he was being watched. He knew—and despised the very idea of haste.
Eleonor covered her mouth with her hand to keep from laughing.
Cats were important in the estate—they protected the storerooms, the barns, and of course the orangery from rodents. They were always looked after, fed, treated when sick. And Amalia, for as long as she could remember, adored them. She reached out to every one, trying to pet them, cuddle them, offer them something tasty.
And the cats, as if by agreement, couldn't stand her.
It was a sad irony that the household had chuckled over for years. Some cats hissed and ran at the mere sight of the girl. Others—like this one, a black-and-white rogue named Rascal—simply pretended she didn't exist. Amalia had tried everything: hand-feeding, bringing toys, speaking gently, attempting to sneak up on them.
Nothing worked.
And now—another attempt.
Amalia waited for a moment when Rascal seemed to have dozed off completely, and then thrust her hand sharply out from behind the bush.
The cat didn't even open his eyes. He simply rolled onto his other side just enough for her fingers to grasp air, and continued lying there as if nothing had happened.
"What is wrong with you!" an indignant whisper carried across the beds.
Amalia burst out of hiding, stood over the cat, hands on her hips. Her red hair was disheveled, a streak of dirt on her cheek, her dress slightly stained.
"You're doing it on purpose!" she accused the cat.
Rascal opened one eye, yellow, insolent, looked at her with an expression of deepest contempt, and closed it again.
"I hate you," Amalia declared, but there was no anger in her voice—only hurt and childish indignation, making her lips pout like a little duck's.
Eleonor couldn't help it—she laughed softly, emerging from behind the herb shelf.
"Darling, I think I've been telling you for about five years: you don't catch cats. You approach them with respect."
Amalia started, turned. Saw her mother—and the hurt expression on her face shifted to a mix of embarrassment and hope.
"Mother!" She ran over, burying her face in the hem of Eleonor's dress. "Why don't they love me? I'm nice! I brought Rascal a sausage yesterday—he didn't even turn his nose!"
"Sausage," Eleonor stroked her daughter's red hair, getting tangled in the unruly strands. "Have you considered that Rascal is old, lazy, and actually catches mice—he doesn't nibble sausages?"
"But he's a cat! All cats love sausages!"
"All cats love being left alone," Eleonor observed philosophically.
Amalia sniffled but didn't pull away from the embrace. She stood there a moment, soaking in her mother's warmth, then lifted her head. In her amber eyes—just like her father's—curiosity danced.
"Mother, is it true someone arrived last night? I heard voices when I was already in bed. And Frederick was running back and forth so strangely..."
Eleonor paused for an instant. Carefully.
"It's true. Your father's guests."
"Who are they?"
"One is a young man, a scholar. He'll be helping your father with... some matters." Eleonor chose her words carefully, like gathering delicate flowers. "And the second is a girl. About your age."
Amalia's eyes lit up.
"A girl? Here? Who is she? Where's she from? Will she be staying long? Can we—"
"Amalia," Eleonor gently stopped the flood, smiling. "One question at a time. I don't know that much. Her name is Lyra. She's an orphan, and your father..." she hesitated for a moment, "your father wants to help her. Perhaps she'll stay with us."
"Stay?!" Amalia jumped in place, nearly knocking over a pot of mint. "I'm going to have a sister?!"
"Not a sister," Eleonor corrected gently. "Simply a guest for now. But you're right, she'll be living here. In the house."
Amalia froze, processing the news. On her face, delight, disbelief, and delight again chased each other.
"Can I meet her?" she burst out. "Right now? What if she's lonely? What if she's scared? What does she like? Can—"
"Amalia."
Eleonor's voice was quiet, but it held that soft firmness that stopped her daughter better than any shout.
"She arrived late at night. Tired from the journey. She's sleeping now." Eleonor took her daughter's face in her hands, looked into her amber eyes. "You don't want to wake someone who's only had a few hours of sleep, do you?"
Amalia shook her head—too quickly to be convincing, but Eleonor pretended to believe her.
"Good. After breakfast, if your father permits, you'll meet. But first—quiet. Agreed?"
"Agreed!" Amalia pecked her mother on the cheek and dashed toward the door leading into the house.
"Amalia!" Eleonor called.
Her daughter froze on the threshold, turning back.
"Change your dress. And wash your face. There's dirt on your cheek."
Amalia wiped her hand across her face, smearing the dirt even more, smiled a completely happy smile, and disappeared into the house.
Eleonor watched her go, and the smile slowly faded from her face.
She was left alone among the herbs and morning light, and the silence of the orangery closed around her, warm and familiar. But inside, beneath her ribs, something cold stirred.
Carl.
She had thought about him more in the last few days than in all the years of their marriage. Not because she loved him less—on the contrary. Simply because he had changed. Not outwardly, not in small ways, but in something deep, elusive, that you can only feel in your skin when you've lived with someone for more than a decade.
Before, he had been calm. Sometimes too calm—a cold, detached confidence that both irritated and soothed. Solid as a rock. Reliable as an old oak.
Now, there was a... feverishness in him? No, that wasn't it. More like obsession. As if he knew something no one else knew, and that knowledge drove him forward, never letting him stop, look back, catch his breath.
And then this girl. Lyra. An orphan from the rooftops of Ebros, whom he had brought into their home, into their family, with the intention of adopting her, though he had never even seen her before.
Eleonor trusted her husband. She always had. But now, for the first time in many years, she caught herself thinking: is he telling me everything?
The thought was unpleasant, prickly as a burr caught in the hem of her dress. Eleonor froze, listening to herself.
The sun rose higher, gilding the tops of the bushes. Somewhere in the house, a door banged—Amalia had reached her room. Rascal had finally deigned to roll onto his other side and now squinted at the light with an air of absolute superiority over the world.
Eleonor took a deep breath. Once, twice. The scent of lavender—the very thing that relieved anxiety and drove away dark thoughts—filled her lungs.
He is my husband. He is the father of my daughter. He doesn't stay silent without reason—so there is a reason. My part is to be by his side. To trust. To wait.
She exhaled, and the cold beneath her ribs receded, dissolved into the morning warmth.
Eleonor adjusted the gathered lavender sprigs, turned, and slowly walked toward the house, thinking now of something else. Of how this meeting would go. A girl from the rooftops of Ebros and her daughter, raised in warmth and care.
Two different worlds. Could they understand each other?
She didn't know the answer. But she knew one thing: if Carl had decided this path was right, she would be by his side. As always.