Chapter 25
You know what's worse than waking up early?
Waking up early and being stuck in a mansion full of hysterical nobles, locked inside with a corpse and zero caffeine.
It started simple enough: one dead noblewoman, a fancy pen through the skull, and a lockdown that made everyone think they were the star of some tragic murder play. Six hours later, it looked like a masquerade ball had been invaded by a paranoia cult.
Let me walk you through it.
Hour One:
Guards tried to organize a perimeter. That went well for about five minutes. Then some duke started yelling about his diplomatic immunity and threatened to call the king. Which is adorable, because we were in the middle of nowhere, and the fastest messenger bird would take two days to reach the capital. But sure. Tell the king your manicure got delayed.
Meanwhile, Lady Ventra from House Lioren had a full-blown breakdown over someone else using her "reserved seating alcove." I watched her slap a servant for bringing her the wrong tea and then burst into tears because her slippers were "emotionally inappropriate" for a murder scene.
Emotionally inappropriate. For a murder.
Hour Two:
People started forming cliques. Not alliances—cliques. Based on who they trusted, who they hated, and who they thought would be next. There were group huddles in every hallway like we were at some kind of elitist summer camp with a body count.
Someone barricaded themselves in the music room.
Someone else tried to escape through a dumbwaiter.
The guards dragged out a mage who swore he could teleport out if given five uninterrupted minutes and a bathtub full of lavender. He was tackled mid-chant.
I sat in the corner of the ballroom, legs propped on a footstool, chewing on dried meat from my travel rations. No one offered snacks. Can you believe that?
Hour Three:
Accusations flew like drunk pigeons.
The Countess of Arven accused the Marquess of Eldmoor because they had "suspicious eyebrows."
The Marquess of Eldmoor accused the Countess of Arven back because she'd brought three suitcases to a two-night event. "Obviously she planned to stay."
Some young heir tried to organize a trial-by-combat to prove his innocence. Shirtless. He slipped on a rug and broke his nose.
I might have laughed. Hard to say. I was napping at that point.
Hour Four:
The hosts, bless their overly polite souls, tried calming the masses with free wine and a violin solo.
The violinist was booed off the balcony.
Someone fainted. Again.
A lesser noble from the outskirts started handing out prayers to the Goddess of Silent Death. Real comforting stuff, like "Her blade comes when least expected." I saw a maid quietly walk away and never come back.
Meanwhile, I sat in a sunlit corridor watching dust motes swirl like they were having a more productive day than any of us.
The corpse? Still there. Covered. But present.
Nobody wanted to be the first to suggest moving her.
Seraphine, of course, moved like it was a board game. Cold, smooth, strategic. She didn't cry. Didn't whisper. Just observed.
I admired that.
Did I help? No. I leaned against a pillar and whistled a tune I didn't know the name of.
Hour Five:
That's when the nobles tried forming a council. Because nothing says "productive response to trauma" like bureaucracy.
They called it the Temporary Crisis Oversight Committee.
It lasted seven minutes before devolving into shouting over who should have the final vote.
Someone tossed a fruit tart at a duke. He retaliated with a very sharp fork.
No injuries. Just pride.
Servants began refusing to enter the main hall. One tried to leave out a window. He was caught halfway through, legs dangling like a marionette in a windstorm.
I spent most of this hour sitting on a banister.
Someone asked me if I had any theories.
I said, "Yes. You're all very loud."
They didn't ask again.
Hour Six:
The temperature shifted. Not literally, but something in the room changed. The nobles were no longer loud. They were quieter now. Suspicion had aged into exhaustion. Whispered alliances broke. Even the most dramatic among them realized the screaming hadn't fixed anything.
Somewhere in that silence, a name finally came up.
Lady Ilennia had enemies. Obvious ones. Apparently, she ran a private information exchange behind her embroidery shop. Spies. Secrets. Blackmail, maybe.
The most vocal protestor? Viscount Doren Halridge.
He was red-faced, sweaty, and nervous. Claimed it was the lack of ventilation. I'd seen more composed people in bar fights.
Someone suggested the Viscount should be searched. Someone else suggested they all should.
Guards agreed.
Everyone panicked.
Back to square one.
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It was well past sunset now. The moon rose high, casting its silver glow over the estate.
I stood on the upper balcony, hands in my coat pockets, watching the stars blink like they were trying not to get involved.
Below, the chaos simmered. Not solved. Just... on low boil.
Behind me, I heard the door open.
Footsteps.
Seraphine turned to greet the visitor.
"Viscount Halridge," she said smoothly.
"Lady Vale," he replied, breathless. "Might I have a word?"
She nodded once.
I didn't move.
I didn't care.
I stared out over the dark landscape, wind tugging at my cloak, brushing cool fingers through my hair.
No thoughts. No worries.
Just quiet.
And a sigh.
Because in the end, all I could think was:
"So much for a peaceful life."
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