The reception room of the Valerius estate did not smell of blood. It smelled of lavender, beeswax, and the terrifying, sterile scent of absolute power.
Velara stood in the corner, deep within the shadow of a velvet curtain, her hands clasped loosely behind her back. To the untrained eye, she was furniture. A servant. A nobody. To the man kneeling on the intricate mosaic floor, she was the executioner's blade, though she held no weapon.
"Please," Baron Harkness wheezed. His sweat was ruining the Valerius floor. "It was a misunderstanding. A clerical error."
Seated before him in a chair of carved obsidian was Lucius Valerius, the second son of the Patriarch. He was peeling an orange with a small, silver fruit knife. He didn't look up.
"A clerical error," Lucius repeated, his voice smooth as oil. "That is a fascinating choice of words, Baron. You claimed the shipment of grain to the Northern border was lost to bandits. Yet, my ledgers show that your personal accounts in the Iron Bank swelled by thirty thousand gold marks the very next day."
"Coincidence!" Harkness cried, his eyes darting around the room, looking for an ally. He found none.
Lucius finally looked up. He smiled, and it was the smile of a wolf looking at a trapped rabbit. "We are House Valerius, Baron. We do not believe in coincidence. We believe in competence."
Lucius gestured vaguely with the fruit knife toward the corner. "Velara. Read it."
Velara stepped forward. She moved silently, the result of a lifetime spent learning how to be invisible. She opened the black leather folio she held. Her voice was flat, devoid of pity or malice.
"On the fourth day of the Moon, Baron Harkness met with a representative of the Silver Syndicate at the Gilded Rose brothel," Velara recited. "At midnight, a transfer was authorized by your scribe, verified by your seal. The grain was not stolen; it was sold to our enemies to feed their garrison."
She looked up, locking eyes with the Baron. Her expression was bored. "We also have the scribe. He was quite talkative after the second finger was removed."
The Baron collapsed. The lie had shattered.
"Traitor," Lucius whispered, popping a slice of orange into his mouth. "Not just a thief, but a traitor."
"I have children!" the Baron sobbed, pressing his forehead to the cold tiles. "I have a wife! Please, Lord Lucius. I will pay double. Triple! I will give you my estate!"
Lucius sighed, wiping his hands on a silk napkin. "Your estate is already ours, Harkness. We bought your debt two days ago. As for your family..." He paused, letting the silence stretch until it was physically painful. "We are not savages. We do not punish children for the sins of the father."
The Baron wept with relief. "Thank you. Oh, thank the gods—"
"However," Lucius interrupted, his voice dropping an octave. "We cannot allow weakness to spread. Velara?"
"Yes, My Lord?"
"Escort the Baron to the courtyard. Ensure the guards make it public. Then, send a letter to the Baron's wife. Tell her that her husband died of a sudden heart failure." Lucius stood up, bored with the sport. "And tell her that House Valerius graciously forgives her husband's debts, in exchange for the indefinite fostering of her eldest son within our walls."
Velara felt a cold chill, though her face remained a mask. Hostage, she thought. He is taking the heir as a hostage to ensure the wife's loyalty. It was cruel. It was efficient. It was the Valerius way.
"Come, Baron," Velara said softly.
The Baron looked at her, confusion warring with terror. "Heart failure? But... you're going to kill me?"
"No," Velara said, closing her folio. "I am going to walk you outside. The guards will do the rest. If you walk with dignity, it will be quick. If you scream, they will make it last to set an example."
She offered him a hand. It was a gesture of mockery disguised as courtesy.
The Baron stared at her hand, then at Lucius's retreating back. He realized the game was over. He stood up, trembling, and allowed Velara to lead him toward the massive oak doors.
As they walked down the long, opulent hallway, lined with the busts of Valerius ancestors who had crushed empires and silenced kings, the Baron whispered to her.
"You are one of them," he hissed, his fear turning to venom. "You have no soul. You just watch and write in your little book while good men die."
Velara didn't break stride. She didn't look at him.
"Good men don't sell grain to the enemy while their own people starve, Baron," she replied quietly. "And as for my soul... I sold that years ago to pay for this position."
She opened the doors. The blinding sunlight of the courtyard flooded in, accompanied by the sharp metallic sound of soldiers drawing swords.
Velara stepped back into the shadows of the hall. She watched as the Baron was seized. She watched the flash of steel. She watched the blood stain the pristine white stones of the courtyard.
She felt nothing.
She took a quill from her pocket, opened her black folio to the page marked Harkness, and drew a single, neat line through his name.
One threat removed. A thousand more remained.
"Velara," a voice called from the shadows behind her.
She turned. It was the Steward, the old man who managed the household's spies. He looked at her with eyes like beads of black glass.
"Clean work," he croaked. "But the Patriarch has a new task for you. Something... delicate."
"More delicate than a Baron?" she asked.
"Much," the Steward said, handing her a sealed scroll. "This concerns the Third Heir. He has been spending too much time in the Lower City. Find out why. And Velara?"
"Yes?"
"If he sees you, do not return."
Velara took the scroll. The wax seal was still warm. She tucked it into her tunic, right next to her beating heart.
"Understood," she said.
She turned and walked deeper into the manor, leaving the sunlight and the dead Baron behind. In House Valerius, the only safety was in being useful, and the only currency was secrets.
Velara was very, very rich.