The air grew thin and biting as the serpentine path wound higher toward Mount Sert; with each curve of the ascent, the temperature plummeted further, penetrating through fabric and skin alike. Yet, oddly, the road itself seemed to defy the encroaching elements, its surface increasingly immaculate as we approached the crest. I suspected that a crew had been dispatched ahead of the Lord Duke’s arrival to ensure that the way was free from snow and debris, an arduous task executed with military precision.

  Our arrival was neither anticipated nor heralded, and there was no reception to greet us. Halted at the gate, we were required to declare our intentions before the keeper begrudgingly allowed us entry, instructing us to make our way swiftly to the stables. Our coachman, uncouth and indifferent, refused to provide assistance in returning us to the main building. He brusquely claimed that the gatekeeper had urged him to make haste and that he had been expressly ordered to turn back towards Bernan the moment his task of ‘delivering’ me was completed.

  Princess’s dainty slippers, wholly unsuited to the harsh conditions, faltered in the snow as we trudged forward, laden with the weight of the tomes we had painstakingly gathered. Our skirts became tangled, dragging in the icy slush, and the cold gnawed unrelentingly at our legs, sending shivers up through exposed skin.

  No servants could be found through this torturous path we were forced to endure. Rascal’s anecdote of running through the manor without being able to find anyone to help rang true. When events demanded the servants’s full attention, other parts of the estate fell eerily silent, as though abandoned. No one appeared to meet us, no hand reached out to ease our burdens, and the side entrance that should have offered refuge was locked and dark. Forced to circle the manor, we sought the northern entrance near the chapel, where the soft glow of candlelight from within promised warmth and sanctuary.

  Just as I neared the chapel, numbness in Princess’s feet nearly overcame me, and I began to plot how I might mitigate the onset of illness. Suddenly, a creak shattered the quiet; a door, set ajar in the distance, seemed to welcome me in. The warmth it promised lured me closer, the prospect of escape from the bitter cold urging me forward. I quickened my steps.

  This merciful portal to a more temperate world beckoned us inward. It was not an invitation I was to reject; each step toward the delicious heat within was a struggle as I trembled uncontrollably, my teeth chattering too violently to announce my entry. The first breath of the inviting air from inside bolstered my resolve for that final stretch. The door swung wider, and I stumbled into the solid stone and the plush carpet beyond.

  Our feet, weak from the strain and numb from trudging through snow up to our ankles, faltered under the weight of the books in my arms. I tripped forward, instinctively thrusting our hands out to avoid a face-first fall, sending the manuscripts tumbling open to random pages. All I could discern of the person who had opened the door for me were the boots they wore, standing firmly before me.

  Feeling quickly returning to our lower extremities, I attempted to recover from what must have been perceived as a rather shameful display of clumsiness. Looking up to see who had opened the door to ascertain whether it was appropriate to apologize or chastise them for not coming to help me sooner, I faced a familiar figure.

  Tall and sinewy, with the telltale musculature of a warrior most nobles lacked. His wine-red hair, sleek and precisely cut at the chin, framed a face marked by years of experience. Lines that once had been hidden now etched deeply across his countenance, each wrinkle a testament to the battles fought and the wisdom gained. Distinguished, carefully trimmed beard adorned his lips, corners of the mouth, and descended down his chin as if closing a lock.

  This was the Duke of Teloran, Duke of Ensine, Count of Suden, Count of Trepton, Count of Raslih, Count of Yalthin, Baron of Tredian, Baron of Werminton, Baron of Sert, and Baron of Uliot, a strategic genius under whose banner tens of thousand of men fought, and Master of Highsummit Manor—Archiments Cafligen, often called ‘The Steel Duke’, ‘The Liberator of Portolec’, or ‘The Reaper of Tashinor’ depending on where he went. He had not known defeat or retreat in a single battle and was said to be a peerless seddeveri, a master of the Path of Steel, who could decapitate a man ten strides ahead in the blink of an eye. My Lord Father.

  I had noticed no sign of his arrival when we passed the stables; his carriage, always notorious for its size and the six horses that pulled it, had been absent. His elite guard and escort, all proficient seddeveri themselves, were nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he had arrived ahead of us, unnoticed in the stillness of the morning, and this would explain the eerie emptiness that enveloped the estate. Yet, that did not justify why he now stood alone before an unmanned door, seemingly awaiting us.

  “Old manuscripts, Princess? Is that what occupies your studies now?” His tone was mild as he eyed the open pages scattered at my feet.

  He alone, aside from myself, dared to use Princess’s sobriquet with impunity. My irreverence was excused by my pitiable condition. As for my father, in this world, there were far easier and less painful methods to commit suicide than to call Archiments Cafligen a traitor.

  “It is…” I began, the words escaping before I could consider their form. His presence demanded an immediate response; his sharp, hawk-like eyes fixed upon me, expectant.

  “Your absence was noted during my welcome,” he continued, not interrupting, for the few words I had managed were too feeble to require any true cessation.

  Indeed, Princess’s absence would not have gone unnoticed. I needed to convey the reason for her nonappearance, ensuring he understood that Kyolhan had explicitly granted us permission, yet without allowing it to come across as an excuse.

  “My deepest apol-”

  “You can apologize when we speak, and we shall speak when I summon you.” His voice cut through my attempt at repentance, silencing me with a finality that brooked no argument. “For now, get up. Standing here shivering in the cold with your books strewn about is hardly the proper setting for a discussion. Go take a warm bath before you fall ill.”

  With that, he turned on his heel and walked toward the chapel, offering no further explanation. He left as swiftly as he had appeared, without acknowledging the strange circumstances of his presence. I hesitated for only a moment before gathering the scattered manuscripts, my mind racing with thoughts of what had just transpired. With the books once more in my grasp, I hastened down the corridor, noting my reflection in the polished surfaces we passed.

  “I told Fermina that I was supposed to stay here! Didn’t I? Didn’t I?” Princess prodded for a specific answer, anxious. “Look at what’s happened! Master Archiments was so angry! W-what is he going to do to me now?”

  “He was not truly angry, just pressed for time,” I reassured her.

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  No matter how inferior Princess was to him in the social stratum, my father did not help us from the floor, which courtesy would have otherwise demanded. His hands remained behind his back at all times except when he left. My father had also opened the door for us and must have seen us coming somehow. His behavior was out of the norm, but he was dismissive, not upset. He clearly wished for privacy and discretion, which was why I was rushing in the opposite direction, saving my breath instead of answering Princess since walking through the snow had left me winded.

  The first person we ran into was none other than Confred, the seneschal. He came to our encounter immediately with his slick mustache and sharp spectacles.

  “Lady de Irchard, good afternoon,” he offered in a tone as dry as parchment. “I had not been informed of your arrival.” His words, while polite, hinted that someone would soon suffer for the omission. “I would welcome you properly, but we are under martial law. All guests and servants, save a select few, are confined to their quarters. Doors are to remain locked until further notice.”

  Martial law—a lockdown protocol meant to safeguard the lives of those in the mansion in the event of an attack. Highsummit Manor was not a fortress, but it might as well be, with its sturdy exterior wall and formidable gate. Located at the end of a lone path in Mount Sert with cannons and muskets being safely aimed outside, a hundred men could defend against thousands. We could hold indefinitely with fresh, stream water from the mountain rushing to our feet, grain reserves, and a closed path on the northeast leading to a natural reservoir where game from the mountain could be hunted to feed the mouths of hundreds for months, possibly years. Yet, there had been no sign of danger when we passed through the gates. Why enact such drastic measures now?

  “You must return to your quarters at once,” Confred insisted, his tone hardening. “Knock on the door and announce yourself to your sisters.”

  “Master Archiments instructed me to take a warm bath,” I replied, informing him of the will of the Lord of the House. “I was hurrying to obey.”

  “That is not possible at present. The servants are unavailable to draw hot water, and only controlled trips to the lavatories are permitted. No one is to leave their rooms.” His impatience grew, his stance bristling with authority. “Lady de Irchard, I ask again. Return to your quarters, or I will be forced to make you comply.”

  Despite his age, Confred remained a formidable figure, while Princess’s complexion was comparatively unimpressive. A contest of strength between the two would end as swiftly as it began, but his threats did not frighten me. Rather, after such a poor welcome to my ancestral home, his tone irked me to the point I could not bear complying.

  “Then I am fortunate to have found you, Confred.” I smiled, defying his menace. “Perhaps you could summon some servants to prepare my bath? Master Archiments’s orders are absolute under martial law, are they not?”

  His scoff betrayed a flicker of irritation. “Lady de Irchard! Remember your station!” His bispectacled eyes hardened, while his tone became as rough as gravel.

  “Perhaps you should remember yours,” I countered, my retort sharp with an intentional insolence that was seldom employed. It struck a nerve, for I witnessed Confred’s entire frame clench in response. “Is it customary for you to question your Master’s instructions so freely? The Lord Duke wishes to speak with me urgently—though at a later, undisclosed hour. Upon my arrival, no servants were present to assist me, nor to help with my burdens. I trudged through the snow in these shoes, Confred. I am freezing. Our Master suggested a warm bath, that I may prevent illness. After all, conversing while one is suffering from a cold does tend to prove quite difficult, would you not agree? You could, of course, manhandle me and force me into my quarters, but do remember this, seneschal—when the Lord Duke inquires as to why I neglected my health, your name shall be the first upon my lips.”

  We stared at one another, locked in an unspoken battle, a delicate dance of defiance without crossing the threshold of open hostility. I refused to yield, stubbornly standing my ground as I tapped my foot with exaggerated impatience.

  “Follow me, Lady de Irchard,” he rasped as if there was sulfur in his throat, his mouth barely opening. “I shall escort you to the washroom. You are to remain there until I come back with servants to assist you,” he admitted defeat in a silent rage.

  “Could I further inconvenience you by stopping at my quarters first?” I pressed my luck further, suppressing the burgeoning smile that threatened to surface. As harrowing as the day had been, this trivial victory lightened my spirits. “My dress is damp; I shall need a change of attire.”

  Confred exhaled sharply through his nose but maintained his composure. “Very well, Lady de Irchard. And permit me to relieve you of those manuscripts; I shall see to it they are returned to the library.”

  I handed him the books, having concluded my study of all but one. Donating them to my father’s library was a satisfactory resolution. The remaining tome could be deciphered at a later time. “Place them in the section reserved for Master Dubart,” I instructed, ensuring they would be easily located in the future.

  “Of course. Now, if you would follow me.”

  As we made our way to the de Irchard sisters’s quarters, I noticed signs of heightened activity within the estate. Armed soldiers stood vigil at regular intervals, stationed outside various hallways. Whatever had prompted this lockdown must have been significant. Had a guest met an untimely end, or had something of great value been stolen?

  A sneeze tickled our throat, and I indulged in it rather crassly, deliberately louder than necessary to test Confred’s patience. Yet, despite my efforts, Princess’s voice betrayed me, emitting a sound far more delicate than intended. Confred remained impassive, and we continued onward to a room directly below the one where I had spent the better part of my life. A soldier stood guard at the door, stepping aside to allow us entry after Confred knocked.

  There was a rush of tiny steps on the other side, and the door opened pressingly.

  “Confred! Anything you need?” Rascal greeted merrily. “Oh! Aufelia! How are you!? Y-you left without saying anything!” She bounded out—unbefitting of the current martial law protocol—and embraced me tightly. I returned the gesture, grateful for her warmth. “You are so cold!” she exclaimed.

  “I have been out in the snow. No one to greet me, no one to assist me; I am merely here to collect some clothes. I am to bathe, hoping to stave off illness,” I explained succinctly.

  “Ohhh! A bath, so nice! Can I come with? Can I? I want a bath, too!”

  “Oh, Riatna, I am not so sure…” I glanced at Confred, silently imploring him to intervene on my behalf. “Confred has already been inconvenienced enough…”

  Rascal released me immediately, her energy undiminished. With a skip, she positioned herself before the old seneschal. “Please? Please, please?” she implored, her voice adopting a high-pitched, almost childish tone, reminiscent of a small creature’s plea. “Sir Confred, when have I ever asked you for anything? Pleeeease?” Her words were playful, her tone coaxing, as she endeavored to sway the stern man.

  To my astonishment, it worked. Confred sighed, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his thin, graying mustache. Rascal’s charm was evidently potent enough to elicit such a rare response. “Go on, fetch your clothes and towels. And do be quick about it, will you?” he gently urged.

  Rascal erupted into jubilant celebration. She flung the door wide open, darting inside to ransack our drawers and chests with gleeful abandon. Fermina was quietly sitting in a chair near her bed, offering me a soft yet warm smile. I returned it in kind. She rose gracefully, bowing her head in acknowledgment to Confred. Their exchange of pleasantries was blessedly brief, for Rascal, true to form, had already returned, her arms laden with clothes.

  “Look at the mess she made! And all the drawers were left open. Dubart! Can you tell Riatna to not hold my dress like that? It’s going to wrinkle!” Princess’s voice fretted, as I caught her reflection in the mirror near Fermina’s bed.

  Rascal’s inexperience was to blame for the disarray, though it was a forgivable offense. Customarily, one would don a thin, temporary robe post-bath, changing into fresh attire within the privacy of one’s quarters. The deviation from this practice was due entirely to my directives to Confred. The difference was inconsequential. I quietly took hold of Princess’s dress, folding it more neatly. My silent reprimand for Rascal came in the form of a gentle head rub, which elicited a giggle from the happy girl.

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