The nearly fifty-year-old man nodded calmly and began to advance, followed silently by his wife and two sons. His steps were steady, measured.
After the head of the family entered first, Grievous began to listen to faint, almost inaudible whispers from the servants to his left. The murmurs floated in the air like fragile threads, barely catching his attention.
"It seems that something has happened to Young Master Grievous. Look at that cane he is walking with."
The old fox smiled inwardly, a slow, cunning twist of his thoughts. 'My plan will start on its main course,' he thought, 'let's see what happens.'
He moved forward with deliberate slowness. Each tap of the cane against the marble floor echoed slightly, a steady rhythm in the vast, palace.
'Fortunately,' he thought, 'in my world, I used to use a cane due to the loss of my right foot, so I'm somewhat used to this.'
The cane pounded on the ground with every step Grievous took as he slowly entered the giant palace. Directly in front of the entrance, beyond the heavy doors, stretched a vast hall. Two grand staircases curved upward on either side, their crimson carpets gleaming under the chandelier's soft light, meeting seamlessly on the first-floor balcony.
The air was thick with the scent of polished wood and faint traces of incense burning somewhere deep within the walls. The palace breathed of true history, power, status, and authority.
Calmly, his brother approached him, concern barely veiled beneath a formal expression.
"Hey Grievous, are you feeling unwell?"
Grievous looked slightly surprised, as if caught off guard by the question. Then he quickly and foolishly shook his head.
"I want to rest."
The brother nodded quietly, eyes flickering with a mixture of doubt and relief. Without another word, he let his younger brother go, watching silently as Grievous limped up the stairs.
Slowly and quietly, the crutch tapped on the stairs covered in bright red as Grievous climbed. Each step was deliberate but at the same time laborious, the familiar weight of the cane a physical reminder of his current weakness.
He thought calmly, 'I must go to the branch of that special intelligence organization. I think I will do it but not now, I will wait for the night.'
The palace's silence wrapped around him like a cloak, broken only by the faint echoes of his footsteps. The memories of a poor child from another life flickered through his mind. Quietly, he climbed into the room and closed the door behind him.
After sitting on the bed, he whispered to himself, a low breath lost in the storm that was his thoughts.
"I will need a lot of things. I need money."
The room was modest compared to the grandeur of the palace. Heavy curtains blocked out the daylight, and the air smelled faintly of old paper and leather. The bed creaked softly beneath him as he settled, the cane resting against the wall.
Quietly, the man began to feel his mental strength extend instinctively, like the tentacles of an octopus spreading out in search of prey. His target was clear: the head of the family.
Slowly, he found him in the depths of the palace, the man's mind like a fortress but somehow not impenetrable. Grievous crept silently into the man's thoughts and added two discreet suggestions: Give Grievous three million pounds, and get him into the family treasury. Then he added one last instruction: Keep all of this in secret under the pretense that you will buy something.
On the other side of the palace, the father moved with dull eyes. Without suspicion, he retrieved the money from his private safe and placed it in a space ring, an enchanted container that could hold vast sums without weight or bulk a normal thing for most nobles to have.
He then headed toward Grievous' room.
With a muted knock, he paused, waiting for a response.
Grievous opened the door and smiled with a calm, almost serene expression.
The father moved forward, and Grievous quietly followed him, both heading toward the family treasury.
All the servants Grievous passed seemed to forget what they had seen, as if a veil of forgetfulness had settled upon their minds. They continued their work, unaware of the silent plot unfolding in their midst.
After some walking, the two quietly arrived at the basement of the palace, where the strongest guards in the family stood alert, their eyes sharp but respectful. They recognized the head of the family and stepped aside without hesitation.
Slowly, the large door opened, revealing the treasury. The guards moved to the side at the command of the head of the family, and the father and son entered quietly.
After closing the giant door behind them, the father stood silently to the side, his eyes blank and unreadable, while Grievous moved through the vast chamber. The place was filled with everything of importance to the family: weapons, spells, magical techniques, armors, and enchanted tools.
The light inside was dim but sufficient, casting long shadows that danced across the rows of meticulously organized artifacts. The air smelled of old metal, aged parchment, and a faint spark of residual magic.
Grievous quietly looked around as he moved between tables where things were arranged in perfect order, divided by type and purpose. He examined the weapons carefully, searching for something suitable for his current situation.
Nothing caught his eye.
He then turned to the section dedicated to magical techniques. Here, ancient scrolls and tomes lay stacked, some glowing faintly with enchantments.
There, he found three techniques and quickly increased his comprehension, absorbing their contents in a rush of understanding. He found that only one of them was clear enough to use, while the others seemed incomplete, their instructions fragmented or encoded.
He paused, running a finger along the edge of the scroll, feeling the faint hum of power beneath his touch.
'This is the one,' he thought, 'but I will need to practice it carefully.'
Grievous closed his eyes for a moment, allowing the magic to seep into his being. The room seemed to pulse softly around him.