Ah, the waiting game, as people call it, is about pressure. Silent, invisible pressure. Like holding your breath in a room full of nobles and watching who gasps first.
I hate the silence, the uncertainty, the thousand little what-ifs gnawing at the edge of my thoughts like hungry dogs. No moves to make, no dice to roll—just the bitter taste of tea that's gone lukewarm and the sound of the clock mocking me with every tick.
And yet, here I am. Playing it anyway.
Because sometimes, waiting is the loudest thing you can do. Let the Marquess sweat a little. Let him wonder why I haven't sent a ransom, why I'm not desperate, why I'm not groveling. Let him imagine what else I might know. Nobles like him hate unanswered questions. They itch at their pride like fleas under silk.
The truth is, I already showed my hand—but only the cards I wanted him to see. The rest? Safely tucked up my sleeve, right beside my last nerve.
I'm not threatening him. Gods no, I'm far too charming for that. I'm offering goodwill wrapped in mystery. It's the kind of play that makes men wonder if saying no might be… expensive.
As I waited for a reply from the Marquess, I returned to my old routine—making preserves in the back kitchen, surrounded by the comforting scent of boiled fruit, sugar, and citrus peels.
This humble business had started as a desperate attempt to keep the orphanage afloat when donations dried up. Now, it was our lifeline. The coin it brought in helped settle most of our lingering debts, and last month, it even paid for repairs to the broken roof in the boys' dormitory. My sticky-fingered saviors: strawberry jam, pickled daikon, and candied ginger.
The once-empty main hall now buzzed with life. Children sorted jars, labeled them with wobbly handwriting, and stacked them into crates bound for the morning market. Others darted between tables, chattering, laughing, and occasionally arguing over who had eaten the last dried fig. The chaos was familiar, alive, and oddly soothing.
I stood in the archway, arms folded, watching them. Despite the shadow looming over us, warmth bloomed in my chest. This—this ragged, sweet-smelling mess was why I played the game.
Then the door creaked open.
Lysandra stepped inside, boots dripping with early frost, her face taut with grim purpose. One look at her, and my stomach turned.
"They're searching," she said without preamble.
I didn't ask who. Her voice had that sharp, tight edge she only used when things were truly bad.
"And from your tone," I said mildly, "I take it it's not the kid still looking for his missing cat."
Her mouth pressed into a thin line. "No. It's the Red Fang. They're looking for the twins."
Ah. Of course they were.
I didn't flinch. I'd been expecting it. We hadn't just stolen from them—we'd humiliated them. Walked past their guards, undid their wards, and made off with their 'treasure' without a single trace left behind.
Still, knowing the storm is coming doesn't mean you don't feel the cold when it hits.
"Any idea how close they are?" I asked.
"Not yet," she replied. "But they're asking questions in the right places. Offering coins. Threatening folks. It's only a matter of time."
My mind shifted to the twins.
They'd woken up just before dawn—small, disoriented shapes curled in the infirmary beds. When their eyes opened and took in the unfamiliar stone ceiling, the hard mattress, the absence of warmth, and gold-trimmed curtains, panic had set in like a tidal wave.
Alsa had screamed. Alfon, ever the braver of the two, had shouted demands between choked sobs. They wanted their father. They wanted to go home. They wanted everything to make sense again.
It had taken time—more time than I liked—to calm them down.
We sat together in silence, then in hushed conversation. I let them talk. I let them cry. I gave them food and warm milk, and space. When they asked where they were, I didn't lie. But I also didn't say too much. Just enough to ground them. Just enough to start building trust.
They were smart, those two. Even in grief and confusion, they had sharp eyes and sharper instincts. I could see it in the way they clung to each other, how they listened even while pretending not to. Survivors.
"Where are they now?" I asked Lysandra.
"In the courtyard," she said. "Alsa's playing with the girls. Alfon's playing knights with the boys."
I nodded. "Good, at least their at ease. Keep it that way. Make sure that no one suspicious is lurking around the premises."
"Already on it, Goldy."
"And the rumors?"
"Managed… for now. No one knows they're here. Not yet."
I glanced back at the busy hall. The noise, the laughter, the comfort of normalcy—all of it teetered on the edge of a blade. The Fang wasn't just another street gang. They had reached. Money. Bloodthirst. And worse, they had a backer who didn't tolerate failure.
We couldn't run. Not yet. Not without an answer from the Marquess. Not without a deal.
So, we would play the waiting game a little longer.
I sighed and rolled up my sleeves. The jam still needed stirring.
"Let's make sure the children stay busy," I said. "Fear spreads faster in silence."
Lysandra gave a curt nod, then slipped back into the hall.
And I went back to boiling fruit, stirring sweetness over flame while the world beyond our door edged closer to burning.
Marquise Mansion
A tall, imposing man was standing in a study room, a grim yet angry expression was plastered on his face. This was Marquise Alexander Alcasa, one of the richest people in the empire as well as one of the most influential.
This was Marquess Alexander Albert—merchant prince, nobleman, empire-builder. To the world, he was an untouchable force: sharp-witted, merciless, and far too powerful to be trifled with.
But in this moment, he was a father.
The message reached the Marquess early in the morning, hand-delivered by Vale with the same sharp precision he applied to everything. Alexander had read it in the solitude of his study, the pale light of dawn barely warming the cold marble floors.
To say he was angry was an understatement.
How dare a lowly gang of thugs lay hands on his children? The rage had surged up instantly—hot, silent, and controlled only by the need for secrecy. This news, for now, was kept close. He'd given strict orders: his wife, still away visiting her family estate in the north, was not to be told. Not yet. Not until it was over.
Papers were scattered across the desk and the room, the results of his rage. Its words still burned behind his eyes. His children were alive. Safe. And not in the hands of the Red Fang.
That part, at least, was a relief.
But they were also not home. Not in his arms. Not in the place where no one would dare touch them. Instead, they were under the roof of some backwater orphan-keeper who had the gall to make demands.
Alexander turned slowly toward the hearth, staring into the fire as if it had personally offended him. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides.
"To use my children as leverage," he muttered, voice low and venomous. "A merchant in a beggar's clothes. Clever. Arrogant."
He hated being manipulated. He hated feeling helpless. And above all, he hated being reminded that, for all his power and coin, he had still failed to protect the only two things that mattered.
He picked up a glass of brandy and tossed it back in a single swallow.
A knock echoed on the heavy double doors.
"Enter," he said curtly.
A steward stepped in, head bowed. "Your Grace, shall we dispatch an armed escort to retrieve the children by force?"
Alexander didn't answer right away. He stared into the flames, jaw tight, thoughts spinning.
He could. He had the men. He had the right. He had burned entire villages for less.
And yet… if this man had truly kept his children safe—fed them, sheltered them, comforted them—then what message would violence send to Alsa and Alfon? That their father trusted only brute force? That safety came with a trail of blood?
He let out a slow breath.
"No," he said finally. "We'll play the civil game—for now. Send a reply. I will meet this… Eamond."
"But—Your Grace, are you sure that's wise?"
"I didn't ask for your counsel."
The steward fell silent.
Alexander stepped away from the fire, straightening his coat, every movement razor-precise. "Tell the man I will come to him. No guards. No blades. Just me and the debt he's so eager to collect."
"And the Red Fang, my lord?"
His eyes narrowed. "If they make a move before I do… remind them who I am."
The steward bowed and slipped from the room.
Alexander stood alone once more, hands behind his back, gaze fixed on the fire. Somewhere out there, his children waited. And so did the man bold enough to barter with a lion.
So be it.
Let the game begin.