Marin moved like a shadow through the manor halls of Lord Verden, her hands expertly gripping a tray of cooled tea to pass as a lowborn kitchen girl. The outer rooms were quiet, too quiet. No stewards barking orders. No noble voices echoing through the wooden corridors.
She turned the corner.
Ahead, two guards leaned against a doorway, laughing over dice. Marin bent her head, brushing by with the ease of someone often ignored. Servants were invisible, after all.
In her apron pocket, the stolen copy of Verden's trade dealings burned like a hot coal. She had only a short window before his seal was rotated. Rowan had taught her well, "The seal is everything. Words mean little without the mark."
The door to the lord's personal study was ajar. She slipped in.
It was a room of arrogance. Velvet drapes. Oil portraits. A globe crusted in gold pins marking ports and battlefields. And at the center, his desk. Heavy oak. Locked.
