Chapter 28: What She Carries
"I'm listening," I said, settling back into the lounge chair.
Seraphine didn't sit. She stood by the locked door, back straight, arms crossed—not in defense, but in restraint. Like she was holding something in.
"I wasn't born a noble," she began. "Not even close."
"Figured," I replied. "You're a little too emotionally intelligent to be one."
She gave me a look. "My family were commoners. My father, Emeren Vale, started out as a courier in the western provinces. My mother worked records for a shipping guild. We weren't remarkable. We were invisible."
"And now you're in a violet silk dress sipping mystery tea in a marble manor," I said. "Quite the glow-up."
"We climbed," she said. "Not through force. Not through money, at first. Through information."
I sat up a little straighter.
"My father was… sharp. Not just clever. He had a way of seeing systems—understanding how people connect, how letters get lost, how secrets travel. He built contacts, collected favors, recorded things. Eventually, the powerful started coming to him when they wanted dirt on someone else. And he gave it—carefully. Controlled."
"Dangerous hobby."
"It wasn't a hobby. It was how we survived. Other families climbed with swords. We climbed with silence. We became valuable to the kind of people who didn't like being questioned."
"So, blackmail?"
"No. Leverage."
"Right. Tomato, tomah-to."
She looked at me briefly. "At our height, we had the ear of five noble houses and two provincial governors. Not fully trusted, never quite accepted—but tolerated. Protected. That was enough."
I leaned back. "Let me guess. Then the storm hit."
Her jaw clenched slightly. "One night, my father didn't come home. When he did, he looked… hollow. Like something had peeled him open and left nothing but skin."
"What happened?"
"He locked himself in his study. For three days. Then he burned all his records, locked me in my room, and drank a vial of nightbane."
I blinked. "That's… a strong reaction to a midlife crisis."
She didn't flinch.
"I was thirteen."
The room went quiet for a few seconds.
"I broke the window to escape," she continued. "I found him—slumped on the desk. No letter. No message. Just the fire and ash. My mother was gone before I could ask her anything. She'd vanished. No one saw her leave. No body. No trail. Just disappeared."
"Did anyone investigate?"
"Yes. They called it a mental break. Said the pressure got to him. People made sympathetic faces and then moved on."
I stared. "That's it?"
"What else would they say? That a man who worked with secrets found one so dangerous it killed him?"
"Sounds like a better story."
She gave a humorless smile. "It wasn't a story. It was a warning. One I didn't understand until years later."
I drummed my fingers against the armrest. "So what does any of that have to do with this gala?"
She turned to the window. "One of the last names my father ever wrote down was Thornbridge."
"The hosts of this entire event."
She nodded. "They're not just party planners. They've got fingers in everything—transport, trade, security. And they don't like being watched."
"And you think whatever your father found, whatever he saw—it came from them?"
"I don't know. All I know is the moment he started digging into them, he broke. And my mother vanished. Now I'm here. The gala is a perfect opportunity. Everyone involved is in one place."
"Or one big trap."
She turned to me again. "I'm not here to make friends, Lysander. I'm here to survive. And survival means knowing what they're hiding. If I can find even a piece of what my father found, maybe I can protect myself. Maybe I can disappear before they finish what they started."
I looked at her for a long moment.
"Why tell me this?" I asked.
"Because I need help. Not servants. Not bodyguards. Someone who understands what it's like to walk quietly through a field of knives."
"And you think that's me?"
"I've watched you. You don't flinch. You don't get attached. You think before you act."
I raised an eyebrow. "You make me sound like a sociopath."
"No. Just someone who doesn't want to die for other people's mistakes."
That… was fair.
"So," I said, slowly, "let's say I help you. What's in it for me?"
"Money."
"Already got some."
"More money."
"Still not enough."
"A favor," she said. "The kind that matters."
I leaned back again. "See, now we're speaking my language."
She waited.
I thought about it. Briefly. Then nodded. "Fine. I'm in. But the moment this starts feeling like a death sentence—"
"Youll walk away."
"Glad we understand each other."
She finally sat down.
Then she said, almost quietly, "Thank you."
I waved her off. "Don't thank me yet. I'm still considering selling this story to a bard."
She smiled for the first time that night.
I didn't.
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