The morning air in Border Town was a cold, sharp blade that pierced the thin curtains of the Prince's bedroom. When Roland opened his eyes, the first thing he noticed was the silence — a specific, heavy silence that usually preceded a storm. Tyre, the maid who had been as constant as the sunrise, was absent. In her place, a much older woman with a face like crumpled parchment silently tended the fireplace, her movements slow and mechanical.
The absence rang like a shrill alarm in Roland's mind. As he crossed the threshold of his room, still adjusting the heavy wool of his tunic, he almost bumped into Chief Knight Carter Lannis. The Knight was already waiting for him in the corridor, standing as erect as a polished steel statue, wearing a more solemn expression than Roland had ever seen.
— "Your Highness, I bring unfortunate news before the sun has even fully crested the horizon," Carter announced, his voice deep and raspy. — "Your housekeeper, Tyre, was found lifeless in the courtyard last night."
— "What?" — Roland forced an expression of shock, his eyes wide, his heart giving a guilty jump, even though he was the one who had set the invisible dogs on her trail. — "How is that possible? She was perfectly fine yesterday."
— "The guards found her at the base of the tower. It seems she fell from the balcony of her private quarters," reported the Knight, his watchful eyes scanning Roland's face for any slip in the mask. — "We found no signs of a struggle inside the room, and my men assure me that no one breached the castle perimeter. Everything points to an accidental fall in the darkness. A tragic fatality."
Roland noticed the subtle, inquisitive gleam in Carter's eye. In the Kingdom of Graycastle, the Prince's "interest" in Tyre was public knowledge, gossip that had followed him from the capital. In an era where nights were long and amusements scarce, a love affair between a bored noble and his servants was considered commonplace.
But, as Cheng Yan, Roland felt nothing but a cold, empty weight. Since assuming this identity, he had not sought the carnal pleasures typical of his position. The other maids didn't attract him, and his mind was too exhausted by the looming threat of the Months of Demons and the complex logistics of his agricultural reforms. He hadn't yet allowed himself to indulge in the expected decadence of a Wimbledon, and this restraint was beginning to make him an enigma to his own men.
— "It is a regrettable loss," Roland declared, disguising his discomfort with a sad, rehearsed expression. He looked down at his boots, avoiding Carter's gaze. — "As for the arrangements... order the maid who attended me this morning to handle the funeral. She will assume the housekeeper's duties for now. I want the castle's routine reestablished immediately."
Carter nodded, giving a formal, discreet bow, and retreated down the corridor, the metallic clinking of his armor fading into the distance.
Roland didn't wait. He quickly headed to his office, the heavy mahogany doors creaking as he pushed them open. He didn't need to look to know she was there. Nightingale was already sitting at his desk, her silhouette a dark smudge against the gray morning light filtering through the window.
— "Did you manage to extract a name before the end?" — asked Roland, rounding the desk and retaking his seat.
— "Nothing. The girl was a fanatic, Roland. She took her own life the instant she realized I had cornered her," — Nightingale reported, her voice laced with a rare, sharp frustration. — "It was a lightning-fast act; she didn't hesitate for a second. I've seen experienced soldiers show more hesitation before a blade."
— "And you didn't lift a finger to stop her?" — Roland's voice carried a touch of an engineer's cold logic. — "I thought witches were faster than ordinary people."
— "I had her immobilized," said Nightingale, leaning forward into the light, her silvery-blonde hair catching the gleam. — "But I underestimated her determination. She carried a concentrated poison capsule hidden inside a hollow tooth. By the time I realized what she was doing, the convulsion had already begun. I had to fake the fall from the balcony to ensure the guards wouldn't go looking for 'ghosts' in the castle."
— "I thought I was dealing with an elite professional from the Association," Roland retorted, his irritation spilling over. — "Do you still expect to be rewarded for a performance that ended in a silent corpse?"
— "Now, don't be so harsh, Your Highness. Though her mouth has closed forever, it doesn't mean I returned from the shadows empty-handed." — With a slight, knowing smile, Nightingale slid a folded, damp piece of parchment across the desk. — "I retrieved this from a hidden lining in her mattress before the guards locked the room."
Roland unfolded the sheet with trembling fingers. The handwriting was elegant, almost delicate. The text was from someone who referred to Tyre as "older sister" and, at first glance, seemed to be nothing more than a casual exchange of family pleasantries. However, as Roland read the lines carefully, a pattern emerged — a deliberate repetition. The author mentioned the ocean in almost every paragraph — describing a deep fascination with the endless horizon, the smell of sea salt in the wind, and the habit of watching the sun dip into the waves from the sand. The letter ended with a nostalgic, almost desperate plea for Tyre's return.
Roland's mind raced across the geography of Graycastle, mapping the domains of his treacherous siblings.
— "Garcia," he whispered, the name tasting like copper. — "Princess Garcia Wimbledon. The Port of Clearwater."
— "It is the only logical conclusion," agreed Nightingale, narrowing her eyes. — "The sea is a distant myth to the inland domains of your other two siblings. I suspect your sister took Tyre's family hostage years ago, turning a simple maid into a long-term undercover asset. Given the absolute coldness with which she chose suicide over interrogation, this wasn't improvised. She must have undergone years of rigorous psychological conditioning before being sent to your side in the capital."
Roland let out a heavy, ragged sigh, leaning back in his chair until the wood creaked. This was the definitive proof he had feared. The Royal Decree for the succession to the throne wouldn't be a game of merit or industrial progress; it would be a war of shadows, poison, and blood.
— "And what about the others?" asked Roland, his voice low. — "Arthur and William. Did you manage to find anything in their quarters while they were at the training ground?"
— "Unfortunately not, Your Highness. They carry their 'strange' belongings with them at all times, and their conversation is... baffling. They speak in a dialect I cannot decipher, full of terms like 'NPCs' and 'save states'. And speaking of our guests..." Nightingale paused, tilting her head toward the door. — "It seems we have company. I had better withdraw from the light."
Amidst a monochromatic mist, Nightingale vanished before Roland's eyes, leaving behind only a faint scent of ozone. An instant later, a firm, familiar knock echoed on the heavy office door.
— "Roland! It's me, William. Everything alright, man?"
Roland massaged his temples, a dull ache beginning to throb behind his eyes. — "Enter, William. And, for the love of the ancestors, learn to use a title once in a while."
The door swung open, and William strode in with his usual swagger. He looked full of energy, his black t-shirt damp with sweat from his morning workout.
— "Morning, boss. Two things on the agenda for today," — said William, pulling up a chair and sitting on it backward, ignoring all rules of royal protocol. — "First, I want to select a few more 'key characters' — I mean, capable subjects — for the First Army. If we want to hold that wall against the demonic tide, I need a vanguard that won't tremble at every growl from a hybrid. And second... Art told me we have a new witch around. I'm pretty sure she's in this room right now. Would you mind if I had a quick chat with her?"
Roland froze. He looked at William, and then at the empty, shadowy corner where Nightingale had been seconds before. William's informality was a constant friction, a bizarre reflection of a culture Cheng Yan knew from his past life, but hearing it in that medieval setting felt like a dangerous glitch in Graycastle's reality.
— "You're never going to learn the concept of 'Prince', are you?" Roland let out a dry, exhausted laugh. He gestured toward the maps and the unfinished blueprints of a steam engine scattered across the desk.
— "As for the recruits, Iron Axe is already under your command. If you think we need more specialized men to hold the line, you have my permission to recruit them. But make sure their loyalty is absolute, William. We discovered this morning that treason can be served alongside morning tea."
Roland hesitated for a second, his gaze lingering in the shadows. He knew Nightingale was still there, a silent sentinel watching the exchange.
— "As for this 'new witch'... you and Arthur seem to possess an intuition that puts even my Chief Knight to shame," commented Roland, his voice taking on a suspicious, inquiring tone. — "How can you be so sure she is here? My guards haven't seen so much as a shadow out of place."
William let out a short, confident laugh, leaning back against the stone wall with a posture that exuded what Arthur always called his "insufferable protagonist syndrome."
— "Let's just say the 'system' doesn't let us down, Roland. It's hard to miss the signs if you know what to look for," — William lied with a brazen, practiced ease. He knew the truth was much simpler: he had already read the book three times. He turned his head slightly toward the empty space near the window and spoke in a louder, more incisive tone.
— "You can stop holding your breath, Nightingale. The 'hiding in plain sight' trick is great, but we're all on the same side here. Or should I call you by the name on your birth certificate... Veronica?"
The silence that followed was absolute. The fire in the fireplace seemed to stop crackling. Roland's jaw dropped as he looked at William and then into the empty air. For the first time, he saw a ripple in the Mist World that wasn't caused by a breeze.
The "scholar" hadn't just identified a witch; he had just dropped a tactical nuclear bomb on her identity.