Eiden reached out, his fingers brushing over the fabric, but he didn't lift it yet. His eyes meeting Gareth's.
"This is a bold gesture of trust.." Eiden said smoothly. "You understand the weight of this choice."
"I do..." Gareth replied, offering a thin smile. "But between the king's drowning ship and your rising tide, I know which vessel to board."
Eiden stood, lifting the ledgers with a quiet grace, as though Gareth had just handed him the crown itself.
"Wise as always, Gareth."
As Eiden left the parlor, ledgers in hand, the unspoken agreement echoed in the room.
Today, Gareth had placed his bet. And Eiden intended to make it a winning one.
The carriage wheels barely whispered over the cobblestones as Eiden leaned back against the velvet cushions, the ledgers resting on his lap. His fingers tapped rhythmically on the cover, not in impatience, but in calculation.
One piece moved. Now for the next.
By the time they reached Duke Hazem's estate, the sun had risen high, casting its oppressive glare over the sprawling gardens that fronted Hazem's infamous manor.
Still as gaudy as ever.
Pillars lined with unnecessary gold filigree, fountains spewing water as though trying to drown out the stench of his corruption.
Eiden descended from the carriage, his expression a mask of polite indifference.
The butler bowed deeply. "Duke Hazem is in the sunroom, awaiting your company, my Lord."
"Of course he is." Eiden's smile was immaculate.
—
Hazem's sunroom was suffocating. Too much glass. Too much light. As if he thought transparency in architecture would distract from his murky dealings.
"Duke Hazem." Eiden greeted with a courteous nod, stepping into the golden glow of the room. The Duke, a broad-shouldered man with an ever-widening gut, was lounging in a chair, swirling a goblet of wine far too early in the day.
"Lord Castemire! To what do I owe this pleasure?" Hazem's grin didn't reach his eyes.
"Pleasure?" Eiden chuckled, taking the offered seat across from him. "I suppose you could call it that."
Hazem shifted slightly, unease flickering at the edges of his bravado.
"I merely wanted to discuss the Northern trade contracts. I've heard whispers that certain nobles have been pressuring you to redirect shipments."
Hazem's goblet paused mid-air. His lips twitched into a smile too slow, too forced. "Rumors, Lord Castemire. You know how this court gossips."
"I do." Eiden's tone remained light, but the air in the room thickened. "Which is why I came to you directly. You're a practical man, Hazem. You understand the value of maintaining… balanced partnerships."
Hazem's throat bobbed. "Of course. Sir."
Eiden leaned in, resting his elbow casually on the armrest, yet his gaze sharpened. "Then I trust the Northern trade lines will remain untouched. We wouldn't want to upset the equilibrium."
For a fleeting second, Hazem's mask cracked. A bead of sweat traced his temple.
"I—naturally. The North is your territory, my Lord. I have no intention of disrupting it."
Eiden's smile returned, slow and deliberate. "Good. I knew I could count on you."
The Duke's lips parted, perhaps to offer a weak defense, but Eiden was already standing, smoothing the folds of his coat.
"Oh, and Duke Hazem..." Eiden paused at the doorway, his silhouette framed by the oppressive sunlight, "do enjoy the wine while it lasts. I imagine imports might become… difficult, should any shipments take an unfortunate detour."
Hazem's goblet nearly slipped from his grip.
Eiden didn't look back. He bid him goodbye and left the estate.
—
As the carriage doors closed behind him, Eiden exhaled slowly, the smile slipping from his face as easily as a mask being set aside.
The noose around Hazem's neck was tightening. Slowly but enough to make the Duke sweat and not make him reckless.
By the time the carriage wheels rolled away from Hazem's estate, Eiden's mind had already shifted to his next destination.
—
Evan's knuckles rapped gently against the wooden door.
"Young one..." he called softly, "breakfast has been prepared. Master Eiden has already departed for his errands."
Silence answered him.
Evan's brow furrowed, though his expression remained patient. He pressed his palm flat against the door, as if he could somehow reach through it.
"I'll leave a tray for you here. It's still warm." His voice was kind, but it carried a quiet firmness. "Even if you have no appetite, you must eat something, little Anore."
He waited, just a heartbeat longer, hoping—futilely—for a response. But none came.
With a faint sigh, Evan placed the tray gently by the door, adjusting the cloth so the steam wouldn't escape too quickly. "I'll return later to check on you.." he murmured, stepping back with the soft dignity of a man accustomed to walls thicker than stone.
Inside the room, Anore sat curled in the farthest corner, arms wrapped tightly around his knees. His forehead rested against them, his breath shallow and trembling as if each inhale was a battle.
His fingers clutched at his sleeves, nails digging into fabric just to anchor himself. His body refused to move, coiled in on itself, as though making himself smaller might somehow make the world let go.
The untouched food outside the door might as well have been in another kingdom.
Evan's voice had reached him, but it sounded so distant. Like a voice through glass.
Anore's shoulders quivered, silent sobs tightening his throat until even breathing felt like a betrayal.
Why couldn't he stand? Why couldn't he move?
His mind whispered cruel truths: He didn't deserve kindness. He didn't deserve to be saved.
His hands remained clenched, pressing against his shins as if trying to hold himself together.
But the cracks were widening.
And no one could see them.
"Someone—please help me "