Ves-Dinas new quarters, Ard Kavil's Residence.
Numerous knights stand around the tavern.
In front of the tavern, a rare sight greets the eye: a large, ornately decorated carriage drawn by eight horses. The black carriage, adorned with golden wheel spokes, door, and footboard, bears the House Kavil's crest—a depiction of high walls and thick gates.
Around the unlit mana stone lamps of the carriage, several heavily armored knights clad in dark steel stand guard on horseback, vigilantly watching their surroundings.
Inside the tavern, the hall is illuminated by mana stone lamps adorned with intricate goldwork, which seem out of place in the rustic atmosphere. At one end of a wide table, Ard Kavil sits, avoiding the gaze of the person opposite him, his eyes tracing the old black stains on the table's surface.
The interior is so brightly lit that stains, typically unnoticed, catch Ard's attention. He observes shapes in them: a bird with folded wings perched on a tree, a dog curled up sleeping in cold weather, and some fruit he once tasted but whose name escapes him. As he studies them, he searches for the right words to say.
"Why did you have to borrow such a dark and dusty place…?"
A middle-aged man with a double chin and plump cheeks, moderately overweight, surveys the tavern with a grimace. Clad in a long tunic depicting a dragon with spread wings, holding an overly decorated hat and gloves, his hair slicked with exotic flower-scented oil, he seems utterly displeased to be in a place he deems too dirty and filthy. He lets out a sigh, his face creasing with deep wrinkles.
"Still, Brother Hadin… this isn't bad for Ves-Dinas…"
"Hmm?"
Hadin leans forward, tilting his ear toward Ard with a look of blatant displeasure.
"No, I'm sorry, brother. Please forgive me for making you stay in such a shabby place."
Ard speaks meekly, unable to lift his head, moistening his dry lips with saliva.
"Ahem! Well, expecting the standards of Karobdiff or Drasnarr might be asking too much, hmm? Come to think of it, it's been a while since I last visited Karobdiff. How's Father? Is he well?"
"Yes, brother. He's in good health. He's always worried about you, working so tirelessly for the Esteta Kingdom in the royal court, and he often tells me stories about you."
"Heh heh. Your flattery's getting pretty sharp. Polish it a bit more, and you might just snag a spot in the royal court yourself."
Hadin's lips curl into a smirk, his mood softening despite the dusty air of the tavern that had soured it moments ago.
"But… what brings you to Ves-Dinas, brother?"
"Officially, I came from the distant capital, riding a carriage to cheer on and encourage my little brother, who's representing the family in the Grand Tournament…"
Hadin trails off, his eyes scanning the tavern for eavesdroppers before beckoning Ard closer with a flick of his finger.
Ard scrambles to his feet, pulls out the empty chair beside Hadin, sits, and leans in eagerly.
"Actually… I brought Tallman to Ves-Dinas."
"What!? Tallman? Then, Vanas…?"
"Hmm. Not quite. Perhaps someone even more important."
"Why would someone like that come to Ves-Dinas…?"
"That's enough. That's all I'll say for now."
Hadin pulls his hand away from his mouth, straightens up, and leans back in his chair.
"Ahem. Anyway, since you're competing in the tournament for the family, I can expect a victory, right, Ard?"
"Don't worry. I'll absolutely live up to Father's and your expectations."
Ard forces an awkward smile, his mouth twitching nervously.
A dark space filled with chilly air. The sound of footsteps echoes, reverberating as if in a cave.
Heavy, labored breathing fills the silence.
A man kneels on the cold stone floor, his hands and feet bound, a blindfold over his eyes. Though he cannot see, he senses the contrast between the dark expanse around him and a faintly lit area, discernible through the blindfold by the interplay of light and shadow.
"Who's there! I know someone's out there!"
No answer follows. His own voice bounces back, revealing the enclosed nature of the space.
The man racks his memory, piecing together what happened before he found himself bound and blindfolded here.
He recalls heading to his bedroom earlier than usual, preparing for the jousting match the next day. His opponent, he'd heard, was from the House Kavil.
Climbing the stairs, his mind had wrestled with whether to take it easy or go all out to make a name for himself. Then, as he stepped into his bedroom, a blindingly bright magic circle glowed beneath his feet—that was his last memory.
"Answer me! Why did you bring me here! Who are you!"
Footsteps echo in the room, and he turns toward the sound, shouting desperately.
The crunch of small pebbles underfoot grows nearer, the steps steady and unrelenting, until they stop right before him.
"Milanda, remove the blindfold."
"Yes."
Two voices cut through the silence. As the thick cloth is lifted from his eyes, bright light floods in, and he squints to make out the figure standing against the glow from the ceiling.
"Yilda Vanas… Why have you dragged me to a place like this?"
The man's voice trembles with fury, his jaw clenched tight.
"I think you know better than anyone. Think hard. How much do I already know… Baron Pelta?"
Yilda Vanas speaks in a cold, emotionless tone that pierces through to Baron Pelta.
"What are you talking about! You keep spouting nonsense. Explain yourself properly!"
Pelta's strained voice rises to a shout as he twists his head, trying to discern where he's been taken.
The room is wide, surrounded by black walls, empty save for a single mana stone lamp glowing faintly in the center.
"It's pointless, Baron Pelta. This place was made for handling people like you. No sound will escape. So, could you lower your voice a bit? You're hurting my ears."
Yilda's expression remains impassive, devoid of any feeling, as she gazes down at Pelta on the floor—a look one might give a roadside pebble, dust on a shelf, or a water stain on glass, devoid of thought or care.
"Haaah. What do you want? How about untying my hands first? This is damn uncomfortable."
Pelta sighs heavily, his eyes darting between Yilda and Milanda at her side.
"Well~ What I want… How about a confession straight from your own mouth?"
"I've no idea what you're on about. What crime have I committed? Tell me! Then we can talk."
"Hmm. Clever. Trying to stall with words… Fine, I'll spell it out."
A sneer flickers across Yilda's face as she steps slowly toward Pelta.
"First, the gold you took from Clent—you'll claim it was a token of friendship, won't you? Did you know it came from Drasnarr?"
"That… That's—"
"Let's skip that. It's no shock your name's on Clent's list. Now, about two maids in the castle, Pran and Krisha…"
"…What about them!"
A fleeting hesitation. His lips fumble for words, his eyes flicker—Yilda catches every telltale sign.
Her suspicion confirmed, one corner of her mouth quirks up in satisfaction.
"I hear you received a poison from someone—tasteless, odorless, invisible in food or drink. And who gave it to you… they spilled it easily enough."
"…"
Pelta's brow furrows deeply. Regret gnaws at him for meeting those maids in person to build trust. His mind races, fragments of sentences colliding as he searches for a way out.
"That's, I mean, it's a mis… misunderstanding! Aaaargh!"
The moment Pelta stammers his excuse, Yilda moves with a speed unthinkable for her slender frame. Her hand extends silently toward Milanda, a dagger now in her grip. In a flash, she crouches and drives the blade's trajectory downward.
The double-edged dagger sinks deep into Pelta's thigh.
Blood splashes onto Yilda's hand, staining it dark red.
"Yes… Baron Pelta. Your name, exactly."
"Ughhh."
Yilda rises from her crouch, her contemptuous gaze fixed on him. As she circles him, blood drips from the dagger's tip, leaving a crimson trail in her wake.
"That's not all. Passing Ves-Dinas's tidings to Drasnarr's spies, scheming to sway other nobles, bribing the gate guards… Plenty of reasons for that dagger to find you, Baron Pelta."
"It's a lie! It wasn't me! Believe me!"
Pelta clutches his blood-soaked thigh with bound hands, his pale face pleading up at Yilda.
"You think that'll work now?"
"Gasp…"
The cold steel of the blade presses against his neck, slick with blood, stealing his breath. A chilling tingle creeps up his shoulder and neck, prickling his ears with every word from Yilda, transmitted through the dagger at his throat.