Winding through the narrow halls of Aldergrave Estate, Veyn walked with the casual tone of someone who definitely belonged there. He tossed a glance over his shoulder, once, then twice, making sure the corridor behind him remained empty.
He spotted a wooden door slightly ajar, tucked between two lanterns that hadn't been lit in a week, judging by the cobwebs. Slipping inside, he found himself in a cramped storage room smelling of long dead mice. It was stacked with bundles of split wood, crates and one old chest covered in moth eaten velvet.
Veyn shrugged, unceremoniously tossed his scuffed suitcase, containing exactly nothing, into the shadows. It hit a crate of firewood with a dull thud.
"Well, that's me moved in," he muttered, shutting the door behind him.
He continued on, boots whispering across cold stone. A faint flicker of light caught his eye, a modest fireplace built into the wall of an intersecting hallway. Its flames danced with weary effort. The warmth it offered was just enough to cut through the ever present chill of Frostpoint's high northern air.
Veyn pulled the forged letter from his pocket. He held it up to the firelight, admiring the fake signature one last time. Gideon Brackett, scrawled with theatrical authority in blotchy ink.
"Thanks for the help, bath guy," he said, smirking.
With a flick of his wrist, he fed the letter to the flames. The fire took it greedily, curling the paper inward as it turned to ash. It let out a soft hiss.
Moving on, Veyn soon reached the main sleeping quarters. The air shifted here, warmer, filled with the heavy scent of washed linens, and faint traces of oil soap. A faint chill still clung to the stone walls, but the bodies that passed through here daily had given the room a kind of worn in warmth.
Faded red tapestries hung along the stone walls, each bearing the Aldergrave family crest. Nothing flashy, just old symbols of power, law, and legacy. Veyn made his way to the back corner.
Top bunk, back right. He remembered the instructions.
The lower bunk was pristinely made. Sheets pulled tight enough to bounce a coin, folded towel resting dead center like an offering. Whoever slept there clearly didn't believe in clutter or comfort.
Veyn, meanwhile, hoisted himself up and dropped onto the thin mattress, letting his legs dangle. No belongings to unpack. Not even a coat to hang. The suitcase he'd brought in had been hollow.
Veyn had barely let the thin mattress sag under his weight before a sharp voice cut through the quiet dormitory like a blade through cloth.
"You. New boy. Top bunk."
He blinked over the edge of the bed. A woman stood there, arms folded. Her posture sagged with exhaustion, like she'd been born tired and never had the chance to catch up.
'Mrs. Keene.'
Veyn swung his legs over and slid down with mock respect. "Reporting, ma'am."
She sighed so hard it sounded like a deflating balloon. "Don't ma'am me. I'm not your governess. I'm the underhousekeeper, and I'm three cracked dishes away from locking myself in the scullery and drinking the floor polish." She thrust a bundle of clothing into his arms. "Uniform. Three shirts. Two vests. One pair of house shoes. Laundry's Thursday, but no one reminds you. You forget, deal with it."
"Charming," Veyn murmured.
Mrs. Keene arched a brow. "You smart mouth me once and I might just like you. Smart mouth me twice and I'll scrub the floor with your teeth."
'Duly noted.'
He followed her out into the servant corridors, buttoning the fresh uniform over his shirt as he went. The fabric was stiff, but it fit. More or less.
"You'll be shadowing Amos. Tall, broad, smells like vegetables. Broke his arm last week falling off a stool trying to fix a curtain rod."
"Sounds like a blast."
"You're not here for fun, Crowe."
He gave a neutral grunt, slipping into step beside her. The corridors turned wider as they moved, the walls shifting from exposed stone to dark, gleaming wood.
"Right." she said, gesturing sharply, "Here's the layout. North Wing is family quarters. Off limits unless summoned. East Wing is kitchens, pantries, and scullery. West Wing is studies, library, drawing rooms. Central is the ballroom, parlor, front reception, all that nonsense. That's where you'll see the guests tomorrow."
She walked with military precision, glancing at doors, noting dust, adjusting the tilt of frames and candleholders as she passed.
Veyn kept pace, eyes flicking everywhere.
"This manor eats time," she muttered. "You'll wake up early and still feel late. Follow the bell schedule. Watch the steward. Don't speak unless spoken to. Don't touch anything with a crest on it unless it's falling, burning, or being stabbed."
She stopped abruptly and gestured at a door. "Linen closet. Clean clothes on the left. Bloodstained rags, usually from the scullery fights, on the right."
He peered inside. It was immaculate.
"Don't even breathe wrong in there," she warned.
As they made their way past a grand staircase, solid mahogany, polished railings, Veyn caught sight of a room filled with tall windows and velvet drapes, the drawing room.
One of the housemaids was setting down some tea. Nearby, a young man no older than eighteen lounged in an oversized chair, flipping through a book with exaggerated slowness. Blonde, neatly dressed, and wearing a waistcoat that screamed 'I've never washed my own socks.'
"Don't stare," Mrs. Keene snapped.
Too late. The boy looked up. Their eyes met.
To Veyn's surprise, the boy's mouth curved not into a soft, genuine smile.
"Oh. Hello," the boy said, setting his book down. "Are you new?"
Veyn hesitated. "Just arrived."
The boy stood, offering his hand. "I'm Callum. My sisters say I talk too much."
Veyn blinked. "Crowe. Halden Crowe."
Callum's handshake was firm, warm. No rings. No affectation.
"Nice to meet you, Mr. Crowe. I hope the manor doesn't eat you alive. Though, between us, the East Wing stair creaks on the third step. If you're ever sneaking biscuits at night, skip it."
Veyn opened his mouth. Closed it. "Right. Thanks."
"Callum!" a woman's voice snapped from the corridor beyond.
Callum winced. "That's my cue. Good luck, Mr. Crowe." He flashed another smile and vanished.
Veyn stood still a moment longer, processing.
'Polite. Helpful. Friendly, even. What in the noble hell was wrong with that kid?'
"Don't get any ideas," Mrs. Keene said, already walking. "He's the youngest. Got just enough freedom to be insufferably kind. He'll grow out of it."
"Tragic," Veyn muttered.
They passed the kitchens, chaos incarnate, filled with shouting, clanging, and the smell of meat and burning flour. Then the staff hallway, a quieter place with coat hooks and muddy boots and mismatched umbrellas.
"You'll eat with the juniors. Over there." She pointed to a long table flanked by narrow benches. "Don't sit in Nora's spot. She bites."
"Understood."
Finally, she stopped outside a heavy door marked with iron rivets.
"Storage. You've got five minutes to drop off your things and find Amos. He'll be prepping the west parlor." Before she turned to leave, she gave him one last look. Tired, but curious. And with that, she disappeared down the hallway.