Veyn survived his first night under suspicion, but the tension didn't vanish.
Over the next four days, he played the long game, working hard enough to stay useful, quiet enough to avoid notice, and clever enough to keep digging.
Every corridor, every locked door became a piece of a larger puzzle. The manor was a treasure trove, and Veyn was determined to strip it clean, piece by piece, without ever setting off an alarm.
Each morning began with the same ritual, wake before the bell, dress in silence, and slip into the manor's veins while the rest of the staff still stirred in their beds.
The kitchens and laundry rooms became cover for his early scouts. Veyn learned which stair creaked, which latch stuck, and which keys were left lazily hanging from hooks by overworked housekeepers.
He began mapping out routes in his head, escape paths, hiding spots, and blind spots in the patrol patterns of the estate guards. At one point, he slipped into the upstairs linen room and discovered a narrow servant's stair that led all the way to a locked attic above the west wing.
Late that night, Veyn faked a stomach illness to get kitchen duty, then slipped away through the back door and crawled through a narrow drainage tunnel that let out near the old hunting gallery. Inside, he pried up a section of floor beneath a bear rug and uncovered a locked chest, sealed and dusty.
Throughout these days, his interactions with Gideon Brackett were minimal but telling. Gideon wasn't dumb, he knew something was off about "Halden Crowe," but he hadn't exposed him. Their bunkroom exchanges were short and tense with mutual distrust.
By the end of the fifth day, Veyn had narrowed his focus. He had three high value targets now, the Veltrin painting, the Brellin shipwreck artifacts, and the chest beneath the gallery.
But theft alone wasn't enough. He needed a way out. A night when everyone would be distracted. A gathering, a storm, a celebration, anything. The plan was forming. Now all he needed was the perfect moment.
Veyn knew the window was closing.
On the sixth morning, as dawn scraped light across Aldergrave Manor's windows, he stood in the scullery scrubbing dishes, listening to the buzz of excitement ripple through the household. The words drifted through the kitchen staff, cake, musicians, imported wine, guest lists. Something big was coming.
"The young master turns eighteen," murmured a maid. "Lady Aldergrave's been planning it for months."
Eighteen.
Veyn filed it away instantly. A noble's coming of age celebration meant excess. It meant servants running frantic, doors left ajar, schedules in disarray. It meant distraction.
It meant opportunity.
He spent the rest of that day not working, but watching. He noted the arrival of crates of fine liquors from Elowen, crystal from Southwick, a gilded cage containing a night singing chimerbird.
The ballroom was being transformed again, this time not for diplomacy but for luxury. Red velvet drapes were replaced with richer, deeper hues, chandeliers were fitted with crystals that shimmered in the open lighting.
Lady Aldergrave oversaw everything with a strict grace. Callum, for his part, wore his usual mask of obedience. He met Veyn's eyes briefly that afternoon while speaking to a guest who seemed to have arrived early and was wearing a light blue robe. The boy hadn't said a word to him since their conversation near the linen room.
By the evening of the sixth day, Veyn had solidified his plan.
The party would be held in the ballroom. Guests would flood the central area and east wing. Servants would be stationed by the minute, scrambling to refill trays and mop spilled wine. And for a full hour, from nine to ten, the gallery wing, hunting hall, and west corridors would be pretty much empty.
The painting would go first. The Veltrin. Small enough to wrap in cloth and conceal. The Brellin relics were riskier, but the chest wasn't locked, just buried beneath forgotten linens. The final piece, the locked chest in the hunting gallery, would take finesse.
The night of the party arrived like a crescendo.
The manor bloomed with warmth and candlelight, gold and crimson. Nobles in silks arrived in steps and laughter. Music rang from the ballroom like a pulse. The scent of roasted meats and fruits traveled through every hall.
Veyn moved with the current, a shadow among servers. He saw Callum standing before the ballroom doors in a deep green waistcoat, shoulders stiff, a false smile plastered across his face.
Eighteen.
They raised a glass to him like they were baptizing a prince. But Veyn could see the weight in his shoulders.
He didn't watch the toast. He slipped away at 9:03.