Morgana stood motionless for a few seconds before the window, observing the grey gardens of Arven Manor while reorganizing her thoughts. The encounter in the hallway had confirmed more than just her long-held suspicions. The Duchess had not only consolidated power within the house—she already behaved like an absolute sovereign. The Duke himself seemed reduced to a living ornament, a walking signature dressed in expensive silk. This changed everything. And it meant that Morgana couldn’t waste a single minute in that room.

She turned away from the window and looked around the room with a practical gaze. The atmosphere remained preserved with an almost offensive fidelity, as if obedient servants maintained the illusion that the former daughter of the house still slept there every night. The four-poster bed was perfectly made. The books on the shelves were still arranged by height. The screen by the fireplace remained at the same angle as years ago. Even the discreet scent of lavender on the fabrics seemed calculated to feign normalcy.

"How touching," she murmured to herself. "A well-kept prison."

She walked straight to the desk near the east wall, a dark wooden piece inherited from her maternal grandmother. From the outside, it appeared merely refined furniture. Inside, it concealed half the secrets Morgana still held in that house. She sat in the chair for a moment and slid her fingers under the bottom edge of the main drawer until she found an almost invisible groove. She pressed twice to the left, once to the right.

A dry click was heard.

The false base of the drawer lifted a few millimeters.

Morgana removed the hidden compartment and placed it on the table. Inside were old letters tied with dark ribbon, a small account book, two retired family seals, and a thin bundle of documents folded in waxed parchment.

She opened the account book first.

The pages contained records made by her mother years before, before the sudden and conveniently ill-explained death that had paved the way for the new Duchess. Creditor names, asset movements, secondary properties, silent loans between noble houses, and notes written in the margins in precise handwriting. Morgana had spent years not understanding the true importance of it all. Now she saw it clearly.

Money was memory.

And memory, among aristocrats, was worth more than blood.

She quickly flipped through the pages until she found three marked with blue tape. There were old transfers linking House Arven to two families mentioned that morning in the drawing room of Morgana’s mansion: Valcor and Verden. Amounts too small to attract attention, too regular to be casual.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

She immediately set the book aside.

Then she opened the waxed bundle. They were partial deeds to outlying lands, lease agreements, and unfinished legal correspondence involving dry canals in the industrial zone north of the city. Her heart raced just enough to irritate her. That was precisely the region where Damon and the others had found warehouses used by the criminal network.

So the connection between the Arven House and those properties was older than it had seemed.

Perhaps officially forgotten.

Perhaps buried on purpose.

Perhaps reactivated by recent hands.

Morgana carefully gathered everything and placed it in a discreet leather bag she had brought hidden under her cloak.

Then she stood up and went to the main bookcase. She pulled out three specific volumes: a historical atlas, a collection of noble genealogies, and a tedious treatise on rural administration. She placed them on the bed and opened the third one in the middle. As expected, the interior had been excavated years ago to create hollow space.

Inside was a small black iron key.

She smiled for the first time since entering.

"Thank you, past self."

With the key in hand, she crossed the room to the built-in wardrobe. Most people would think to look for jewelry there. Morgana ignored dresses, boxes, and fabrics, kneeling before the back panel. She inserted the key into a hidden slot behind a row of never-worn shoes.

Another click.

A narrow plate slid to the side.

There lay a shallow safe hidden in the wall.

Morgana opened it and found exactly what she expected: a sealed metal tube, some old coins, and a thin folder covered in red leather.

The tube contained her mother’s personal correspondence, kept away from the eyes of the Duke and, later, the Duchess. The red folder was more dangerous: copies of internal powers of attorney, authorized signatures, and proposed inheritance changes in the months leading up to her father’s second marriage.

She opened it quickly.

The older documents bore the Duke’s true seal. The more recent ones showed slight differences in handwriting. Nothing gross enough for a common court to notice. Enough for an attentive person to suspect.

Imitated signatures.

Or guided by another hand.

Morgana felt her jaw clench.

The Duchess hadn’t just taken emotional influence. She had taken legal instruments of the house piece by piece.

She also put away the briefcase.

A noise in the hallway made her freeze.

Footsteps.

Two pairs.

Approaching.

Morgana silently closed the safe, replaced the false plate, and rose in a fluid movement. She picked up a hairbrush from the dressing table just as there was a knock at the door.

Three light knocks.

"Lady Morgana?" said a female voice from outside. "We’ve come to prepare the room for dinner."

Maids.

Or sent eyes.

"Come in."

Two young women entered with basins of hot water and perfumed fabrics. Both lowered their heads properly, but one of them glanced at the room too quickly before smiling. The other avoided looking directly at anything. Trained or frightened.

Morgana sat before the mirror and began to brush her hair with studied calm.

"It wasn’t necessary."

"The Duchess insisted that everything be impeccable tonight."

Naturally, she insisted.

Morgana saw the reflection of the two in the mirror.

"Does she usually worry so much about my comfort?"

The older woman hesitated for a second, too short to go unnoticed.

"She desires family harmony."

"How inspiring."

The maids began to organize clothes, change towels, and discreetly relight the fireplace. While they moved, Morgana took the opportunity to slide her leather bag into a side compartment of her open suitcase. She covered it with ordinary dresses and closed the lid without fanfare.

The younger maid approached the wardrobe.

"Would you like me to choose an outfit for dinner, milady?"

"No."

The answer came softly and absolutely.

The young woman immediately recoiled.

Morgana continued combing her hair as if nothing had happened.

"I also desire privacy for the next hour."

"Of course, milady."

The two withdrew shortly after, bowing again. When the door closed, Morgana waited a full five seconds before crossing the room and pressing her ear to the wood.

Facing footsteps.

Pause.

Whisper.

Then real distance.

She locked the door once more.

"Amateurs."

She returned to bed and opened the historical atlas. Among old maps was a folded sheet she had almost forgotten: a partial diagram of the internal service passages of Arven Manor, drawn by her and a cousin years ago during an adolescence dedicated to escaping tutors.

Hidden corridors, false panels, narrow staircases between walls.

Invisible routes.

Morgana slowly smiled coldly.

If the Duchess controlled the house through guards, servants, and public presence, there were still parts of the manor that belonged to ancient memory. Parts she perhaps didn’t know.

She marked two important routes on the map: one led near the Duke’s former private office; the other passed behind the wing where the Duchess kept her apartments.

Valuable information.

Dangerous information.

She folded the paper and put it away with the other documents.

Then she walked back to the desk, tore off a blank sheet of paper, and wrote a few lines in simple cipher, one that Elizabeth would decipher in seconds:

Advanced control over the Duke. Compromised signatures. Old connections with Valcor, Verden, and industrial properties. I need to get this out today.

She folded the note, sealed it with neutral wax, and rang a small side bell.

Minutes later, an elderly servant entered. It was Tomas, a man who had served her mother decades ago and who had survived in the house thanks to his talent for appearing invisible.

He bowed.

"Milady."

Morgana handed him the letter.

"This needs to leave the mansion discreetly."

Tomas received the seal without looking at it.

"I understand."

"For the residence you envision."

"Naturally."

She studied him for a moment.

"My father."

The old man took a deep breath, still without raising his eyes.

"I see less of him each month."

The answer sufficed.

"Thank you, Tomas."

"Some debts we chose to pay, milady."

He left in silence.

Morgana remained alone once more in the carefully preserved room. Now, however, the chamber seemed less like a mausoleum and more like an outpost.

She had documents.

She had internal routes.

She had confirmation of control over the Duke.

And she had a dinner date that night with the woman responsible for all of this.

Morgana closed her suitcase, adjusted her gloves, and raised her chin before the mirror.

"Then come," she murmured to the Duchess’s reflection she imagined before her. "Let’s feign civility until someone bleeds."

Morgana closed the bedroom door behind her with absolute care, keeping her hand on the doorknob for a second longer just to listen. Outside, the corridor remained silent, except for the distant echo of servants’ footsteps in other wings of the mansion. Still, she didn’t relax. In that house, silence rarely meant safety. Often it only meant that someone was silently observing better than the others.

Her room remained almost untouched since the last time she had been there. The four-poster bed was impeccably made, the heavy curtains held back by golden ribbons, the dressing table arranged in irritating symmetry, and the bookshelves too clean to have been touched by innocent hands. Everything seemed lovingly preserved. Morgana knew how to recognize meticulous attention when she saw it imbued with care.

She walked to the desk near the window and ran her fingers over the dark wood. There was no dust. Someone had the room cleaned regularly. Perhaps the duchess wished to maintain appearances. Perhaps she wanted to ensure that any alteration was noticed immediately. Perhaps both at the same time.

Morgana opened the first drawer. She found correspondence papers, sealed envelopes, ribbons, new quills, and small bottles of ink. Nothing important. In the second, antique jewelry she hadn’t worn since adolescence, inherited medallions, and a mother-of-pearl fan she detested. She closed it without hesitation. In the third, finally, the false bottom was still where she had left it years before.

A slight smile touched her lips.

She pressed the inner corner of the wood, heard the discreet click, and lifted the hidden compartment. Inside lay three thin notebooks bound in gray leather, a bundle of letters tied with blue ribbon, and a small, unmarked iron key. Morgana quickly and methodically removed everything and placed it on the bed.

These notebooks contained notes made by her mother during the last years of her life. Domestic records at first glance: guest lists, dinner dates, wine cellar purchases, supplier names. But her mother had never written banal things out of mere habit. Each list hid patterns, observations, and associations. Men who visited too late. Servants transferred without reason. Repeated payments to nonexistent houses. Small traces of great corruption.

Morgana opened the first volume and leafed through pages marked by her own most recent handwriting. There were notes added years later, when she had begun to understand what she had read in her youth without comprehending. One name appeared repeatedly in specific weeks: Valcor. Another always surfaced near shipments from the north: Halbrecht. And, in later margins, a symbol she herself had drawn when she noticed that the coats of arms appeared altered in different commercial documents.

She took a deep breath.

Elizabeth would be unbearably pleased to see this.

The letters tied with blue ribbon were even more personal. Correspondence between her mother and an old court friend, Lady Aveline Dorset, a woman famous for smiling too much and listening better than she appeared. After her mother’s death, Aveline had conveniently disappeared into the countryside. Morgana had always suspected that the escape had less to do with mourning and more to do with survival.

She stored the notebooks and letters inside a leather bag brought for this purpose. Then she turned to the built-in wardrobe against the wall. There, behind dresses she would never wear again, was another hiding place. She moved the hangers, knelt down, and released two lower boards. Beneath them lay a flattened metal box.

Upon opening the lid, she found old property titles, copies of land records, maps of the eastern region of Arven, and partially burned contracts. Her father had never known that she had copied those documents when she still discreetly managed part of the family archives. At the time, she had done it out of prudence. Now she understood that she had done it on instinct.

She separated the maps and contracts, discarding redundant papers. One of the titles immediately caught her attention. It was the transfer of a set of abandoned warehouses to a trading company created only weeks before the signing. The company had been dissolved months later. The legal representative’s name was crossed out, but the seal mark remained visible enough to recognize fragments.

Valcor.

Morgana let out a small, humorless laugh.

"You really never innovate."