I remained standing by the granary wall. The setting sun stained the horizon, casting long, skeletal shadows across the ground.
Graves couldn't have pulled this off alone. To guard and transport grain on this scale required wagons, men, and established markets.
About fifteen minutes later, riders appeared from the direction of the manor. Kyle led the way, his face pale and set in a hard line. Beside him, Graves struggled to keep pace on a pony, looking frightened to death. His wig had slipped, and his waistcoat was buttoned askew. He was speaking rapidly to Kyle, but the lad didn't even turn his head.
They dismounted a few yards away. Graves practically rolled toward me, nearly tripping over his own feet.
"My Lord! Lord Hellsworth!" he wailed, wringing his hands. "The young master said... To burn it? I beg you, reconsider! This is madness! The smoke is tainted; the rot will spread across the entire province! I'll haul it all away myself and bury it in deep pits, I swear! Just not the fire!"
He trailed off, only now noticing the wounded mercenaries slumped by the wall and the shattered lock. His jaw slowly dropped, and his eyes began to dart around, searching for an escape route.
I took a step forward, my shadow completely swallowing the little man.
"Graves, I decided to personally verify the extent of this 'infestation.' And do you know what the most amazing thing is?"
I slowly gestured toward the open doors, where mountains of clean, golden grain shimmered in the torchlight.
"The grain has been healed. Right before my eyes. Tell me, Graves, do you think this is a miracle... or did you simply take me for an idiot all this time?"
Graves slowly turned his head toward the doors. His face went from flushed red to a deathly grey in an instant. He opened his mouth, but only a pathetic, strangled wheeze came out.
Kyle, standing behind the steward, slowly shifted his gaze from the grain to Graves, and then to me. His face had transformed into a frozen mask of fury. I could see the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place in his mind: the starving villages, the empty treasury, and the mercenaries at the door.
"Kyle, there are more rats left here. Those two by the wall aren't the only ones. Search the barracks, the stables, and the guest houses. Anyone who offers resistance... you know what to do."
Kyle hesitated for a split second, casting a look of pure loathing at the steward. He clearly wanted to snap the man's neck himself.
"Go. Leave him to me."
Kyle gave a curt, almost military nod. His jaw was clamped tight. He signaled to the guards, and a moment later, the yard erupted with the thunder of hooves and the ring of steel as the detachment tore off toward the outbuildings.
I was left alone with Graves.
"Get up."
The steward tried to say something, clawing at my boot, but I recoiled in disgust. The smudge from his filthy fingers on the expensive leather made my teeth grate.
"To the cellar."
I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck like a frightened cat and shoved him toward the side door leading to the granary's basement. Graves stumbled and sobbed, nearly tumbling down the stairs as we descended into the damp, cold room that smelled of mold and wet stone.
Down here, there were no prying eyes. Only a single torch on the wall. I threw Graves onto a wooden chair in the center of the room and bolted the heavy door.
Slowly, with almost haunting method, I removed my gloves. Graves, huddled in the chair, watched my every move with pupils dilated in terror.
In my past life, I had once played the role of a butcher in an amateur theater production. I had spent hours watching them work. How they sharpened their knives. How they looked at a carcass. A butcher doesn't need to hate the meat to carve it. He just needs to know the anatomy and have a sharp tool.
I drew my small knife and took a step forward. The blade touched his chin softly, almost tenderly, forcing his head up.
"Now, we are going to play a game. I ask a question, and you give me an answer. No equivocations. If I don't like the answer..."
I pressed the knife a fraction harder, leaving a tiny red dot on his skin.
"I will edit your 'rough draft' piece by piece. Shall we start with the fingers? Or skip straight to the tongue?"
Graves sobbed, his jaw shaking so violently his teeth clattered.
"My Lord... Baron Fawcett! It was all him!" the steward shrieked. "He said you'd be gone soon anyway... that the estate would be taken for debts! He sent men at night; they hauled the grain away! I only opened the doors!"
Baron Fawcett. A petty figure who always hovered where there was easy prey. In the novel, he was the one who pushed Hellsworth over the precipice.
"Names, Graves. I want the names of the middlemen. Where did the money go? And most importantly, where is the stash that even the Baron doesn't know about? I know you. You're too greedy not to have kept a 'rainy day' fund."
His eyes flicked to the locked door, then back to my face.
"Under the floor... in the stables. Third stall on the left. Under the troughs... a false floor. I put my share there. The Baron doesn't know, I swear! He took the lion's share, and I... I only got the crumbs!"
"Crumbs that could have fed a dozen families."
I pressed the blade a little harder, making him gasp.
"How much?"
"Seven hundred... no, eight hundred gold marks. And the promissory notes. The Baron forced the local farmers to sign them in exchange for the seed I claimed was mine. All the papers are there, in the iron coffer!"
Eight hundred gold marks. Enough to pay the guards' wages for three months and buy coal for the smithy. But the notes were more important. With them, I could buy back the peasants' loyalty simply by burning the debts in the town square.
"Who is the contact from the Kingdom of Men? Who took the grain at the gates?"
"A merchant named Marcus. He... he works for the Golden Rose Bank. They planned to drive the estate to bankruptcy by midsummer to buy the mines for a pittance. Fawcett only gets a percentage for looking the other way at the border smuggling."
Marcus. The very debt collector from the novel. I slowly pulled the knife away from his throat and straightened up.
"You were useful, Graves. In your own way."
"You... you're letting me go?"
A pathetic spark of hope lit his eyes.
"I promised I would let you leave these lands alive. And I keep my word. But I never said in what condition you would leave."
I turned to the door and slid the bolt. Heavy footsteps were already echoing outside. Kyle was returning.
He entered the cellar a moment later. His armor was flecked with blood, his face pale from exhaustion and rage. He looked at the trembling Graves, then at me.
"Area cleared?"
"Four mercenaries dead, two fled into the woods. We found their camp by the old mill. There were empty wagons ready for loading."
"Good." I pointed at Graves. "Take him. Have the guards escort him to the edge of the estate. But first... have him show you the hidden gold. Then, see to it that he cannot sit on a horse for the next six months and throw him out."
Kyle looked at me with undisguised shock. He had expected an execution. Or for me to simply seize the gold and go back to my drinking.
"You're giving the gold to the estate?"
"I am giving the gold to the guard. Tomorrow morning, you will pay everyone's wages in full."
I walked past my son. At the exit, I paused and looked up at the night sky. The stars were brilliant.
***
I emerged from the cellar just as the first rays of dawn began to stain the crests of the watchtowers a pale rose. The cold morning air caressed my face, washing away the lingering, stagnant scent of mold and fear that had clung to me after Graves's interrogation.
The manor's inner courtyard resembled an anthill. Kyle's guardsmen were heaving the bodies of the slain mercenaries onto a wagon. Kyle himself stood by, watching as two soldiers hauled a resisting, whimpering Graves toward the stables.
Kyle threw a brief, heavy look my way but said nothing. His eyes still held a profound bewilderment, mixed with the dregs of distrust.
I ignored him and headed for the main entrance of the castle.
As soon as I crossed the threshold, the stale stench of stagnant ale, dust, and something sour assailed my nostrils. The hall was shrouded in gloom. The candles had burnt out, leaving nothing but waxy streaks behind. Someone's filthy glove lay abandoned on the stone floor, and a fresh wine stain bloomed obscenely on the carpet.
"Disgusting."
The thought slashed through my mind.
"How can anyone live in such a pigsty?"
I stopped in the center of the hall and took a deep breath, trying to suppress a rising irritation that threatened to spiral into panic. In the past, Victor would simply howl and smash everything in sight when something provoked him.
Instead, I summoned the entire domestic staff. Within a minute, terrified servants began scurrying into the hall. They huddled together, adjusting their clothes on the fly, casting fearful glances in my direction. The head maid, Martha—a woman with a face like a withered apple—stepped forward, her hand trembling.
"L-Lord Victor... you called? We... we were just about to prepare breakfast..."
I scanned them slowly. Filthy aprons, unkempt hair. It was intolerable. My gaze locked onto Martha. Her headpiece sat crooked, shifted a couple of centimeters to the right. It was an eyesore, a jagged tear in the fabric of the world.
I walked up to her. Martha froze, holding her breath and squeezing her eyes shut as she braced for a blow. But I merely reached out and, with my fingertips, delicately adjusted her cap until it reached perfect symmetry.
"We shall have guests soon. And I do not wish for them to see this pigsty."
The servants exchanged looks. Guests? Hellsworth hadn't hosted guests in years, unless one counted Victor's former drinking cronies.
"Martha,"
I turned to the head maid.
"You have two hours. I want this hall to shine as if it were newly built. Scour the stone floors with soap and buff them with wax until they gleam. Do the same for the carpets. Every candle is to be replaced with a new one of identical length."
I walked down the line of servants, pointing out their flaws.
"You—sweep the cobwebs from the vaults. If I find a single web, you'll be eating it for lunch."
The servants stood there, aghast. They were used to the screaming, to glasses being hurled at their heads, to the unpredictable rage of a drunken lord. To them, it seemed the Lord had finally lost his mind, and this particular brand of madness felt far more dangerous than his previous alcoholism.
"We... we won't make it, my Lord... Two hours is far too little..."
I stopped and looked at her.
"You will make it, Martha. Because if you do not, I shall personally inspect the quality of your work. And if I find so much as a speck of dust... I shall find a way to ensure you never hold a cleaning rag in those hands again."
My final words made them jump. The servants scattered like a flock of startled sparrows. A moment later, the castle echoed with sounds it hadn't heard in a very long time: the rasp of brushes, the splash of water, and the frantic thud of footsteps.
I ascended to the second floor and paused by the railing, overlooking the chaos unfolding below.
"Did I push too hard?"
The thought flickered as I saw a young maid nearly drop a basin of water, shaking with fear.
I rubbed the bridge of my nose. The role of the "Butcher" I had donned in the cellar still lingered, imposing its methods. But the truth was, I had no intention of killing anyone over a dusty shelf. My irritation wasn't born of bloodlust, but of this cursed sense of wrongness.
When things are out of place, when the corners of carpets are curled, or when fingerprints smudge the silver—I feel, physically, as if my world is cracking. There was nothing to be done about it now.