The cold stone corridor stretched endlessly before us, its dimly-lit torches casting flickering shadows along the walls.
I walked at a steady pace, flanked on either side by Clara and Sylvia.
This part of the castle was never meant for sunlight.
At the very end of this path lay the underground chambers. The place where secrets were dragged out, not coaxed.
Officially, those found guilty here were handed over to the imperial court or locked away in the duchy prison depending on the weight of their crime.
But everyone knew the unspoken truth.
If someone entered the interrogation chamber... they never came back.
The silence that followed us down the corridor was thicker than the damp air.
Sylvia, to my right, had her hands lightly clasped before her. Her steps were composed, but her mind was clearly not.
I didn't need an innate skill to know her thoughts were racing.
Between the trade plan I'd laid bare to her, the unpredictable outburst of her maid, and the looming presence of an interrogation room at the end of our destination, it'd be strange if she wasn't overthinking everything.
Even Clara, who usually walked like a blade hidden in plain sight, felt more rigid than usual.
"Say, Lady Sylvia," I started casually, "you haven't had the chance to try Clara's tarts, have you? The ones with lemon glaze on top."
Sylvia blinked, pulled from her thoughts. "I... can't say I have."
"A crime in itself," I said, glancing at Clara. "She bakes only when she's in a good mood though, so it's a rare opportunity."
Clara raised a brow, casting a side glance at me. "If you keep teasing me like this, young master, I'll start making only salted ones."
Sylvia gave a quiet chuckle. "That would be even more criminal."
I smirked. "You've got a sharp tongue when you want to. I was starting to think I'd have to bribe you with pastries just to get a reaction."
Her lips tugged into a subtle smile, but her eyes remained guarded. Still, that moment of levity—it was something.
Clara added, "The last time Lady Sylvia visited, she didn't stay long enough to try anything. Perhaps after this, I can arrange—"
She stopped mid-sentence, all at once.
Like a clock that had wound down in the middle of a tick.
Her entire expression shifted in an instant. Her eyes were no longer looking ahead, but to the corridor's corner.
I instinctively slowed my pace.
And there it was.
Two translucent blue windows flickered to life in front of me. One detailing priscilla and the other her maid Madeline.
Nothing quite brightens a walk to the dungeon like a surprise encounter with your lovely stepmother.
I gave a sidelong glance at Clara. Her face remained stoic, but her fingers had subtly shifted to hover near the edge of her sleeve, right where her blade was holstered. A twitch of her lip betrayed her irritation, just barely.
Sylvia, meanwhile, looked between us, eyes narrowing in curiosity as she sensed something had shifted.
Her poise didn't waver, but the air around her grew more cautious, more controlled. She didn't know what was coming, but she'd already started preparing for it.
Just as we reached the junction before the final corridor, two figures emerged from the torch-lit bend.
Priscilla Gyrfald.
The hem of her deep crimson dress glided across the stone floor with practiced grace.
Her ever-loyal shadow, Madeline, followed a step behind, her eyes sharp and fixed on me from the moment they turned the corner.
A flicker of surprise danced across Priscilla's face when her gaze landed on me, but it vanished just as quickly as it came. Her expression reset into its usual mask of soft poise.
"Mother," I greeted with a courteous nod, coming to a pause. Clara behind me bowed in silence, her posture sharp and formal.
Sylvia, ever the noble lady, offered a shallow curtsy. "Lady Priscilla. A pleasure to see you again."
Priscilla's eyes scanned over me, then shifted to Sylvia. For the briefest moment, I caught Priscilla's gaze flick to the Falcon crest stitched into my jacket.
Disdain.
Subtle, but there. Her lips pressed into a polite smile, but her eyes held a faint glimmer of criticism. Perhaps she didn't like what the family crest stood for. Or maybe she didn't like the company it kept.
Priscilla returned our greetings with a smile as hollow as it was pleasant.
"I must say, Hugo... the path leading to this place is hardly a romantic one," she said, her voice floating like silk but edged with thorns. "Taking your fiancée to such a place....it's not exactly the advice I'd give."
I smiled.
"A fair point," I said, tilting my head slightly. "Though, it could be argued that this corridor is hardly a suitable path for an elegant and noble lady such as yourself either. Forgive me if I'm prying, but might I ask what business leads you here?"
She didn't flinch, but her smile thinned.
"I heard that Marla, the one who sees to my errands, has been exposed as a spy from our enemies," she said. "Naturally, I was surprised. I simply wished to confirm the truth myself."
"Indeed?" I said, raising a brow. "It's surprising... the infiltration seems to have reached very deep, a spy working as a maid directly under a noble, rather than the general castle staff."
Her lashes dipped ever so slightly. "It's unfortunate," she said smoothly. "I've already ordered a complete inspection of my staff. I will personally see to it that no further liabilities remain."
"Excellent idea," I said with a pleasant nod. "And if I may add, restrictions on bringing in new staff from outside sources would be appreciated. At least enough to prevent more from infiltrating."
A soft click of her tongue, too quiet for anyone but me to hear. But it was there. The mask wavered, just for a heartbeat.
"Good to see you again, Hugo," she said with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
Without waiting for further exchange, she walked past us, Madeline glancing back just once with a flicker of something unreadable in her gaze.
I watched them go.
Still smiling. But not at all amused.
.
Lord Hugo stood frozen until the moment Lady Priscilla's silhouette vanished behind the stone bend, crimson eyes narrowed as though mapping her retreating steps.
Then he moved.
Not with a noble's grace, but with a sudden burst of urgency, his strides hastening into what could only be described as a sprint cloaked in formality.
"We're going," he said, his voice clipped. "Now."
Clara and I followed without question.
The castle's old stone corridors passed in a blur. Cold torches flickered along the walls, casting trembling shadows as we neared the interrogation wing, a place whispered about more than spoken of.
On our way we came across an inquisitor, clearly stunned at seeing the noble run.
But why is the inquisitor... here..in the corridor..?
Upon seeing the inquisitor, Lord Hugo's steps moved at an even faster pace, and that moment I understood what had gone wrong.
A lone guard stood at the arched doorway, his head bowing in respect.
"Young Lord," he said, tone polite but body shifting slightly into the path. "The cell is off-limits with out the Inquisitor. I must ask—"
He raised a hand, less for restaint and more to threaten.
Big mistake.
Before his fingers even grazed Hugo's coat, Clara's arm moved like a whip. Her hand grabbed the soldier's wrist midair and twisted it to the side with a sickening crack. Then she slammed him into the stone wall.
Hard.
The man groaned, his face twisted in pain.
Neither Lord Hugo nor I slowed.
He didn't even turn his head.
By the time Clara released the soldier's crumpled form and stepped in behind us, we had already reached the inner cell.
What I saw inside nearly made me stop.
Lord Hugo...our dear young lord, and silver-tongued speaker, was on the floor wrestling the guard.
The man beneath him, a castle guard, held a sword in one hand, reaching desperately toward the bound figure in the corner—Marla, the spy.
Her face was pale, lips split, and though restrained, her eyes were wide with panic.
I didn't hesitate.
My heel slammed down on the wrist of the guard holding the blade. The crunch beneath my boot told me enough.
The weapon flew into the air, my body moved without thought.
I caught it mid-arc, flipped it in my grip, and leveled the edge against the guard's throat in one seamless motion.
He froze. Wide-eyed. Arms slowly raised.
Clara entered a breath later.
With a whisper of movement, she swept one leg out, connecting her boot with the side of his head.
The guard dropped like a stone. Unconscious before he hit the ground.
Lord Hugo, casually, dusted off his sleeves.
As if he hadn't just been grappling with a man on the floor of a torture chamber.
"I... had.. it... under control," he muttered, clearing gasping, must be beause of all that running and....wrestling...?
I didn't respond.
Because for a brief moment, I wasn't sure if I wanted to scold him… or laugh.
Clara stood beside me, her eyes flicking toward Lord Hugo with a mixture of exasperation and silent relief.
Marla, still tied, exhaled shakily, her face pale but her gaze locked on.. me..?
.
This is embarrassing.
I mean, come on.
There I was, literally wrestling a full-grown guard into the dirt like some half-mad animal, using every ounce of strength I had just to keep his damned sword arm pinned.
And then in walk these two who dispatch him like swatting a fly.
No sweat.
No scuff.
Not even a single strand of hair out of place.
Would it kill them to at least pretend it took some effort?
Still mildly winded from all that running, I made my way toward Marla.
The inquisitor had clearly done a number on her.
Her skin was pale, streaked with grime and bruises. Her limbs sagged against the chair as though she no longer had the strength to hold herself up. But her eyes… they still flickered with a kind of primal fear.
She thought she was going to die.
I grabbed a nearby chair, metal, cold, and loud and dragged it right in front of her.
The legs scraped against the stone floor, echoing off the chamber walls like a blade on glass.
I dropped onto it and caught my breath, trying to look composed. My shirt clung to my back with sweat, and my lungs were still catching up with the rest of me.
Then came the sound of footsteps behind us.
The inquisitor. Late.
He looked around the room and froze.
His gaze swept over the unconscious guard on the floor, then to Sylvia still holding the sword, Clara with her arms crossed and clearly unimpressed, and me… trying not to look like a man who just rolled on the ground with a bodyguard.
"What happened here…?" he asked, politely but his voice had a thin layer of tension.
I didn't look at him.
"You left your post," I said coldly. "You don't move unless my father or the one in charge tells you to. Not because the duke's second wife asked you nicely."
The words came out sharper than I intended. Maybe I was still catching my breath, maybe it was the fact that I had nearly been trampled by both a traitor.
The inquisitor knelt immediately.
"I deeply apologize, Young Lord."
"Tch. Bring Sebastian here," I said, still catching my breath.
He bowed again.
"Right away."
And then he left.
…Wait.
Didn't I just tell him not to leave his post unless ordered by the one in charge?
I sighed.
Turning my gaze back to Marla, I leaned forward slightly.
"Do you have anything worth saying that might keep you alive?"
She blinked. Once. Twice. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused. The layers of fear and pain ran so deep, it was almost like she'd already died once and just hadn't realized it yet.
Maybe it was the torture. Or maybe she knew this chamber's reputation.
I wasn't exactly trained in this sort of thing. In my past life, I worked with pen and paper. My enemies were competent middle managers, not knife-wielding spies. I knew how to negotiate… not interrogate.
So I waited.
And then, against all odds, her lips parted.
"You seem… too carefree… for the doom to come."
Her voice cracked with each syllable, like her throat was raw. But it wasn't meant for me.
Her gaze, still unfocused, still distant, was fixed squarely on Sylvia.
Sylvia stiffened beside me. "Doom…?"
She repeated the word under her breath, her expression losing its usual polish.
A tinge of color drained from her cheeks, and her brows drew together in sharp confusion.
Sword still in hand, she stepped forward. "What do you mean by that?"
Marla didn't answer.
Her eyelids were already drooping. Whatever strength had been fueling her flicker of defiance had evaporated, and she slumped slightly forward in her restraints, her instincts clearly sensing there were no more threats in the room.
She was out. Half-conscious, at best.
Sylvia turned to me, uncertain. Her mouth opened to ask another question but I cut her off.
"Let her rest," I said, voice quieter now. "She already answered the question you asked me earlier in the garden."
Sylvia blinked.
"…What?"
The word was barely a whisper, but the weight behind it was crushing.
Her eyes searched mine, calculating, analyzing, trying to piece together what I meant.
And in that moment, I saw it.
The fear of what she might find when she did solve it.
I stood, leaving the chair cold and empty behind me.
The chamber was silent.