The rain had stopped sometime during the night, but the air still carried that washed, metallic scent. Mist curled low over the courtyard, blurring the edges of the world.
Caesar woke to the dull ache of bruises along his ribs and jaw, a deep, persistent reminder of yesterday's encounter. The servants' wing was already stirring—the shuffle of feet, the murmur of early conversation. He moved slower than usual, testing each step, but refused to limp.
Berla intercepted him in the corridor outside the laundry room, a bundle of freshly folded sheets in her arms. She gave him a brief look, eyes flicking to the faint swelling at his jaw."You should still be in bed."
"And let someone else take my share of the work?" he said, forcing the words to sound lighter than they felt.
She didn't smile. "You know they'll try again."
"I know."
That was the end of it. She shifted past him, leaving the faint scent of soap and warm linen behind.
In the kitchens, Marith was rolling dough on a broad wooden table, dust rising in little clouds with each turn of her hands. She didn't comment on his face or the stiffness in his movements—just slid a mug of warm broth toward him without looking up."Drink. You'll need it."
Caesar took it, the warmth bleeding through his fingers. "Marith—"
"You're not going to thank me," she interrupted. "You're going to tell me if you see them near the courtyard again."
He nodded. She still didn't look at him, but the edges of her mouth softened slightly.
The day passed in small, measured tasks. Cleaning the silverware for the dining hall. Carrying firewood up the narrow servant's stairs to the upper rooms. Polishing the dark wooden banisters until they gleamed. His body ached with every movement, but the repetition gave his mind room to turn over other thoughts—most of them circling back to the letter Ethan had warned him about.
He hadn't seen it again since that morning in Alaric's salon, but its absence weighed heavier than its presence. If it had already cost someone their life, what could be in it? And who would risk smuggling such a thing into the heart of the Valemont estate?
Near dusk, he found himself sent to deliver a tray of wine and bread to the smaller council room—an antechamber used when Alaric met privately with certain guests. He wasn't supposed to linger, but when he pushed the door open, the faint sound of voices drew him up short.
"…still in our possession?" one voice asked, deep and unfamiliar.
"Locked away," came Alaric's calm reply. "Until I decide otherwise."
Caesar kept his head down as he set the tray on the side table, but his ears burned. Locked away. It could have meant anything, but in his mind, the words hooked onto the image of the folded scrap of paper under the ledger.
When he left, he didn't look back, but the shape of the conversation stayed with him through the rest of the evening.
That night, after most of the household had gone quiet, Caesar was making his way toward the servants' wing when Ethan stepped out from a side corridor. The butler's black suit seemed to drink the torchlight, and his expression was unreadable.
"I hear you've been asking questions," Ethan said.
"I've been working," Caesar replied evenly.
"Working with your ears open," Ethan corrected. He stepped closer, the faint scent of rain-damp feathers clinging to him despite being in human form. "The letter you're thinking about—do you want to know the truth?"
Caesar hesitated. "…Yes."
Ethan's voice dropped, almost too low to hear. "It isn't just dangerous because of what it says. It's dangerous because of who it's meant for. And if you were smart, you'd hope they never read it."
"Who?"
Ethan tilted his head slightly, crow-like. "You wouldn't believe me. But if the wrong eyes see those words… they won't just kill the messenger. They'll come for anyone who might have even brushed the envelope."
He stepped back into the shadows before Caesar could speak again, leaving him alone in the hall with the cold certainty that whatever was written in that letter could unravel more than just his own life.
The following evening, the great hall was alive with the low hum of noble voices. Alaric sat at the head table, his expression serene, eyes moving like a blade scanning every edge of the room.
Caesar moved between the tables, pouring wine, clearing plates, his role invisible yet unavoidable. He could feel Alaric's gaze on him more than once—not just in passing, but in that lingering way that made the back of his neck prickle.
When the hall emptied and the fires burned low, Alaric called him forward."You've been different lately, Caesar."
"I'm doing my work."
"That's not what I mean." Alaric's tone was mild, but his eyes didn't soften. "You move like someone with… experience. Yet you weren't like this when I first took you on."
Caesar said nothing.
Alaric leaned back in his chair, studying him the way one might study a map. "There was someone I once knew—long ago. You remind me of them. The way you look at the world, as though you've already seen the ending. I wonder… is it you? Or is it something inside you wearing your face?"
The fire popped softly in the hearth.
"I serve you, my lord," Caesar said.
"Yes," Alaric murmured. "For now." He let the words hang, then added, almost lazily, "Blood remembers, Caesar. And yours… is not as common as you pretend."
Caesar met his gaze, but Alaric only smiled faintly and waved him away.
That night, alone in his narrow bed, Caesar found no rest. The bruise along his ribs throbbed with each breath, but it wasn't the pain keeping him awake—it was the echo of Alaric's voice, and the uneasy truth that the letter and his bloodline might be tangled threads in the same dangerous weave.