The silence that followed Damon’s comment lasted only a few seconds, but it was a heavy, dense, almost competitive silence. Morgana and Elizabeth didn’t immediately look away from each other. There was respect there, though neither of them would call it that. They were women accustomed to controlling environments, people, and narratives. Sharing strategic space required an effort that both clearly found irritating.

Cherry observed the tension as one watches a particularly entertaining play.

"If it helps," she commented casually while stealing a biscuit from Ingrivid’s tray, "you two have exactly the same expression when you’re planning to destroy someone."

"Incorrect," Elizabeth replied without even looking at her. "I destroy people politely."

Morgana let out a dry noise of disdain.

"And I destroy people efficiently."

"You see?" Cherry pointed between the two, pleased with herself. "Same energy."

Ingrivid handed Damon another cup of tea before he could complain about his own existence again. He accepted automatically, still observing the map on the table. The more he analyzed the situation, the more he realized how delicate everything had become. They were no longer dealing only with aristocratic intrigues or power struggles. The Duchess had transformed House Arven itself into a political and psychological fortress.

And that made any mistake fatal.

Elizabeth pulled one of the documents closer and ran her fingers over a list of names.

"House Verden will probably abandon the Duchess as soon as they perceive a direct financial risk. They have no true loyalty, only fear of losing privileges."

"Cowards," murmured Morgana.

"Yes," replied Elizabeth calmly. "And cowards are extremely useful when manipulated correctly."

Morgana placed her hands back on the table.

"I don’t just want hesitant allies. I want people willing to act when the time comes."

"You will have that," said Elizabeth. "But first we need to ensure legitimacy. If you appear accusing the Duchess without sufficient public support, some nobles will simply interpret it as a resentful daughter trying to reclaim her inheritance."

Morgana’s expression hardened immediately.

"And you think I don’t know that?"

"I think your anger gets in the way of your pragmatism."

"And your pragmatism gets in the way of your humanity."

Elizabeth held her gaze without wavering.

"Humanity doesn’t topple power structures."

"But hatred does."

"And then it creates another, worse structure."

The tension rose rapidly again. Damon sensed the exact moment when that conversation risked turning into a personal battle once more. Before that could happen, he pulled one of the maps of Arven Manor to the center of the table.

"Morgana. Show the passages."

She looked away from Elizabeth with evident reluctance, but obeyed. She picked up a pen and marked two discreet lines on the partial floor plan of the mansion.

"There’s an old entrance behind the east wing. Originally it was used by servants during large events to circulate without interrupting the main corridors. Very few people still know about it."

Elizabeth leaned slightly forward, interested.

"And it leads directly where?"

"Below my father’s private library." Morgana made another mark. "There’s also a secondary passage near the Duchess’s chambers. Narrow, uncomfortable, and probably covered in dust, but usable."

Cherry raised an eyebrow.

"So you literally have secret corridors of aristocratic conspiracy."

"Countless," Morgana replied humorlessly. "Old families love hiding places."

"That’s the richest thing I’ve ever heard."

Damon ignored Cherry and continued analyzing the drawing.

"How many guards patrol the main wing?"

"Now?" Morgana took a deep breath. "More than before. She replaced several old men with personnel directly loyal to her."

Elizabeth crossed her arms.

"Which means she already suspects instability."

"Or she just likes control," Morgana replied.

"The two things usually go together."

Ingrivid remained silent for much of the discussion, but finally spoke while collecting some empty cups.

"If she really controls the Duke mentally, then the Duchess is probably paranoid too."

Everyone looked at her.

Ingrivid continued in the same neutral tone.

"People like that never feel safe. The more power they accumulate, the more they believe everyone wants to take it."

Elizabeth nodded slowly.

"This could work in our favor."

"Or make everything more dangerous," Damon added.

Morgana gave a cold smile.

"Dangerous was already inevitable."

The sun continued to descend beyond the windows, bathing the library in a reddish light. Gradually, the atmosphere of the room ceased to seem like merely an impromptu discussion and took on the real weight of preparation for war.

Because that was exactly what it was.

It didn’t matter how many elegant smiles the nobility wore. It didn’t matter the titles, the refined dinners, or the crystal goblets. In the end, Arven had always resolved disputes in the same way: power against power.

Elizabeth opened another sealed letter.

"There’s another problem."

Damon looked up.

"What?"

"The Duchess isn’t isolated." She placed the letter on the table. "Some smaller houses have depended financially on her for years. If they feel she’s threatened, they might react aggressively."

"Then we crush those houses together," Morgana replied immediately.

Elizabeth let out a patient sigh.

"You really do wake up thinking about violence."

"It works."

"Until it stops working."

Morgana leaned back in her chair, clearly frustrated.

"You talk as if we have months."

"And you act as if we have minutes."

"Maybe we do."

The sentence chilled the atmosphere again.

For a moment, no one responded.

Because deep down everyone knew she might be right.

Damon watched Morgana in silence. Since returning to Arven Manor, she seemed to operate under constant tension, like someone trying to keep her own life from crumbling before her eyes. Her anger wasn’t irrational. It was fear transformed into aggression.

Fear of losing her father.

Fear of losing the house.

Fear of arriving too late.

Elizabeth noticed this too. Damon saw her expression soften just a little.

"Morgana."

She didn’t answer immediately.

"I understand your urgency."

"Do you understand?"

"More than you can imagine." Elizabeth slowly set her cup down on the table. "But if we move forward without consolidating enough support, the Duchess could turn her downfall into a succession crisis. And then the whole of Arven bleeds along with her."

Morgana looked away for the first time since the beginning of the discussion.

"Arven is already bleeding."

The answer came out low. Tired.

This seemed to hit Elizabeth harder than any previous outburst.

Damon noticed the change immediately. The hostility between them hadn’t disappeared, but it had gained something new. Recognition.

They were finally looking beyond their own pride.

Cherry, naturally, ruined the emotional moment almost instantly.

"So," she asked while biting into another biscuit, "when exactly do we start the illegal part?"

Ingrivid closed her eyes for a second.

"Please, never say that out loud again."

"But it’s a valid question."

"Unfortunately," Damon murmured.

Elizabeth picked up a new pen and began writing names on a clean sheet of paper.

"Tonight we begin discreetly. Tomorrow we begin politically. After that..."

She looked up at Morgana.

"...depending on what we discover inside the mansion, we’ll decide how much blood will be needed."

Morgana held her gaze for a few seconds.

Then nodded slowly.

It wasn’t peace.

It wasn’t trust.

But it was an agreement.

And at that moment, for people like them, that was almost miraculous.

–

The service corridor of Arven Manor remained shrouded in an uncomfortable silence as Clara carried a basket of freshly laundered linens close to her chest. It was already past early evening, and most of the servants avoided walking alone through the less-used wings of the property after sunset. Not out of outright superstition—no one in that house was foolish enough to speak openly of fear—but because the manor had changed in recent years.

People whispered less.

Smiled less.

And disappeared far too often.

Clara tried not to think about it as she walked down the narrow corridor behind the north wing. She had worked at the house for only eight months, enough time to learn to keep her eyes down and her mouth shut. The Duchess valued discretion. Everyone knew that.

She turned the corner slowly, adjusting the basket in her arms, when she noticed something strange.

A smell.

Iron.

Heavy.

Hot.

Her pace slowed immediately.

The door to the old silverware storeroom was ajar. A thin sliver of light escaped through the dark crack. Clara frowned. That room was rarely used now. The antique silverware and ceremonial pieces had been moved to other wings months ago.

So why was there light there?

She hesitated.

She should call someone.

She should leave.

But curiosity overcame fear for just a second.

And it was enough.

Clara pushed the door open slowly.

The basket fell from her arms instantly.

White sheets scattered across the stone floor as she took an automatic step back, unable to breathe properly.

There were bodies.

Pileged.

Five of them.

Maybe six.

She couldn’t count immediately because the horror blurred everything before her eyes.

Guards’ uniforms.

Darkened blood.

Arms bent at awkward angles. A face partially crushed against the floor.

Another man’s eyes were still open, fixed on the void with a frozen expression of pure terror.

Clara reflexively brought her hand to her mouth to stifle the scream rising in her throat.

The metallic smell was suffocating.

Too recent.

Far too recent.

She took another step back, trembling so much she could barely stand. Her mind refused to comprehend what she was seeing. House guards didn’t simply die like that. Not inside the mansion.

Not like that.

Then she heard footsteps behind her.

Calm.

Elegant.

Unhurried.

Clara froze instantly.

A chilling sensation slid down her spine before the voice even emerged.

"You’ve entered the wrong place."

The maid turned so quickly she almost fell.

The Duchess stood in the hallway.

Impeccable.

Dressed in dark silk, her hands covered by delicate black gloves. The golden candlelight made her face beautiful in an almost supernatural way. Her perfectly styled hair contrasted grotesquely with the carnage behind Clara.

But it was her eyes that shattered any illusion.

Cold.

Absolutely cold.

The Duchess observed the bodies for only an instant before turning her attention back to the trembling maid before her.

"What a misfortune," she said softly. "You saw something inconvenient."

Clara opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

Her whole body screamed to flee.

Run.

Call for help.

But her legs wouldn’t obey.

The Duchess’s presence seemed to crush the air around her.

"My lady... I... I don’t..." Clara finally managed to stammer, taking another step back. "I won’t say anything..."

The Duchess inclined her head slightly.

"Of course I would."

The answer came with terrifying calmness.

Without anger.

Without raising her voice.

Like someone commenting on the weather.

Clara felt tears welling up immediately.

"Please..."

The Duchess approached slowly.

The heels echoed softly on the stone.

Tack.

Tack.

Tack.

Each step seemed to draw more strength from the maid’s body.

"Do you know what the problem is with ordinary people, Clara?"

The maid’s eyes widened.

She knew her name.

"You believe that survival depends on kindness." The Duchess smiled slightly. "But survival depends only on usefulness."

Clara finally managed to regain some control of her body.

She turned abruptly to run.

She couldn’t even take two steps.

Something cold grabbed her neck from behind with impossible speed.

The Duchess violently pulled her back.

Clara let out a muffled cry as nails—no, not nails, claws—pressed her throat.

The fallen basket slid across the floor as she desperately tried to grab the woman’s arm behind her.

It was too strong.

Much stronger.

The Duchess brought her lips close to her ear.

"And you’ve just become useless."

Then she twisted.

The crack echoed through the narrow corridor.

Dry.

Brutal.

Clara’s body instantly lost all strength.

The Duchess released her unceremoniously. The maid fell to the floor among the scattered sheets, her eyes still open in a horrified void.

Silence.

Complete.

The Duchess observed the corpse for a few seconds without any visible emotion. Then she sighed slightly, almost irritated by the inconvenience.

"What a mess."

She slowly raised her gloved hand. There was blood on her fingers.

Behind her, shadows began to move in the dark corridor.

Two men appeared immediately, both wearing the uniforms of the house guard. Neither of them showed any reaction to the body on the floor.

They had seen this before.

"Have this cleaned up," the Duchess ordered calmly. "And find out who left the corpses in that storage room. I want names before dawn."

"Yes, my lady."

She cast one last glance at Clara.

Then she smiled.

A small smile.

Empty.

"The mansion is getting too noisy."