"Something stirred them."
"Exactly." Draco shut the book with a dry thump. "Which means we have either a natural shift in their territory—or someone deliberately pushed them into ours."
Darius exhaled, his casual demeanor flickering. "You think it's sabotage?"
Draco didn't answer, but the set of his jaw said enough.
"I'll leave for Infoduro tonight," Darius offered, rising from the chair. "At least send someone who can confirm if this is an isolated incident or a precursor to something larger."
Draco's gaze settled on him, appraising. "No. I need you here. With the nobles growing restless after the banquet incident, your presence matters more than ever. I'll send someone else."
Darius tilted his head. "You don't trust me to handle it?"
"I trust you," Draco said, finally standing. "Which is why I need you here."
There was a silence between them—neither of them backing down—before Darius gave a slow nod and turned his eyes away, masking his expression with a smirk.
"You're getting soft, dear brother."
"And you," Draco replied, lips curving faintly at the edge, "are getting too bold."
Darius let out a low, amused chuckle as he leaned back in the chair once more, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Well, someone around here has to stir the still waters." He tapped the table lazily. "At least consider asking Grand Duke Lawrence for help. He knows the ins and outs of the western territories better than anyone. Might even offer you his knights if you stroke his ego a little."
Draco's gaze darkened at the mention of Lawrence. The humor slipped from his features, replaced by a cold weight of calculation.
"I'll request his involvement," he said, slowly, "when the time is right. Not now."
Darius raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"
"Because," Draco said, voice low and clipped, "if he's already involved in what happened during the banquet… then the last thing I want is to give him an excuse to bury his mistakes deeper. Not until I know where he stands. "
That silenced Darius for a moment. He leaned forward slightly, fingers laced before him, watching Draco intently.
"So you do suspect him?"
Draco didn't look up from the parchment he was scribbling on, but his answer was clear, quiet, and heavy.
"I suspect everyone."
—--------------------------------------------
Marie was laid gently onto the grand canopy bed, the velvet curtains drawn halfway as the most trusted maids of the Duke's household began to attend to her. Only those hand-picked by Lawrence himself were allowed near her—each of them sworn to silence. No idle whispers. No carelessness. Her chambers were under heavy guard, with strict orders: no one was to know the condition of the duchess' daughter.
Outside, in the Duke's private study, Lawrence sat hunched over his desk, quill dancing across parchment, though his mind was elsewhere. The soft creak of the door was followed by brisk footsteps. Marshall entered, a hand to his chest in formal greeting, but his usually calm demeanor betrayed unease.
"Your Grace," he said, voice tight.
Lawrence looked up immediately, catching the shift in his expression. "What is it?"
Marshall stepped forward, lowering his voice. "From our sources inside the royal palace—we've received news."
"Go on," Lawrence urged, brows already furrowing.
"The Crown Prince," Marshall began, "has left the palace… along with several of his most trusted aides. They've departed toward the western provinces. Quietly."
Lawrence stiffened. "Do we know why?"
"They're saying it's about the troll attacks near the borderlands. The village in Infoduro, to be precise."
"And do you believe that's the truth?" Lawrence asked, narrowing his eyes.
Marshall hesitated for a beat before meeting his gaze directly. "I think he knows about Princess Marianne."
Lawrence exhaled, slow and deep, dragging a hand through his hair as he leaned back in the chair. His face showed every ounce of the weight pressing on him.
"This could be his way of severing the alliance," he muttered. "A political move disguised as duty."
"A clean break," Marshall agreed. "If he exposes Princess's condition, the King has the right to annul the engagement. And then…"
"I can't lose this alliance." Lawrence finished grimly.
Silence lingered before Lawrence straightened again, voice colder now. "What about the woman? The lookalike?"
"We've combed through what little we could. No ties to the assassins. No weapons. No prior presence in any record. Aa a matter of fact no presence at all. It is as if she dropped form the sky itself. It is a mystery but so far has been harmlessly existning in the city. "
Lawrence tapped the desk thoughtfully. "If she's harmless as you say, then perhaps she can be useful."
Marshall gave a questioning glance. "You mean to say…"
"If she can fool a mother," Lawrence said with a glint in his eye, "then deceiving a prince might not be far behind."
"You want her to become Marianne?" Marshall asked, careful with his tone.
"First, we must learn what she desires," Lawrence murmured, rising from his seat and moving toward the tall, arched window. His voice lowered, steady and resolute. "Only then can we determine if she's fit for the replacement."
He paused, gazing out at the palace gardens before adding, "Bring her here. I will meet her myself. And I'll decide whether she's worthy of wearing Marianne's name."
Marshall gave a solemn nod. "As you wish, Your Grace."
Far across the capital city of Eurokea, in the rusted bones of a forgotten inn, a silent betrayal was set into motion.
The moon hung low and dim, casting narrow shadows through the warped windowpanes. The hallway creaked as three broad-shouldered men in heavy wool cloaks moved with practiced coordination, their boots making barely a sound. One of them carried a coarse burlap sack under his arm, and at the front of their silent procession stood none other than Lora.
She waited just outside Mae's room door, her face dimly lit by the oil lamp hanging nearby. Her voice came out soft, perfectly measured, without a trace of urgency. "Miss…?"
Silence.
No answer came from within, and Lora did not knock again. Instead, she glanced toward the men with a quiet, unreadable look, then reached into the pouch tied at her waist. A small iron key glinted briefly in the lanternlight. With a practiced hand, she turned the lock and pushed the door open slowly, its hinges whispering faintly.
Inside, Mae lay curled on the makeshift straw mattress, deep in exhausted sleep, one hand tucked under her cheek, unaware of the storm about to break around her.
Lora stepped back and let the men enter.
The rustle of their boots was quiet, but decisive. One of them knelt, pulling a thick cloth from the sack, while another swiftly approached Mae. In seconds, her eyes shot open—a flicker of confusion, then terror. She tried to scream, but a hand clamped over her mouth. The cloth was forced between her lips, rough and dry, stealing her breath. Rope followed next, binding her wrists and ankles with military precision.
"Mmmph—!" Mae thrashed, wide-eyed, heart hammering in her chest. But the men worked fast.
She was shoved into the sack, her muffled cries swallowed by the coarse fabric and the stillness of the hallway. One man hoisted her over his shoulder as if she weighed nothing at all. Her bag, along with every trace of her presence in that room, was left behind.
Lora closed the door behind them quietly, as though nothing had ever happened.
Outside, the street was nearly empty. A few drunken patrons stumbled under the flickering lamp posts, none of them sober enough to notice the girl in the sack being carried toward the wooden carriage parked not far from the inn.
The men tossed the sack inside without care, right on top of some crates and baskets, as if she was nothing more than a sack of potatoes. Her muffled grunts went unheard. She rolled slightly before coming to a stop between a pile of wilted vegetables and a broken basket.
Lora climbed in behind them, more hesitant now, her face pale. She didn't look at the sack but pushed it up gently, straightening it to make space in the cart. Then she sat down in a corner, pulling her legs close to her chest and keeping her eyes on the ground. The carriage creaked quietly before starting to move.
Mae had struggled for a while, but slowly the effects of the herbs they'd forced her to breathe—or maybe the jarring bumps of the rough ride—pulled her into unconsciousness.
Far away from the city, hidden beneath the canopy of thick forest trees, Crown Prince Draco rode alongside two of his personal knights. One was Sir Fredrick, son of Earl Carl of Grekna, a noble by blood and proud by nature. The other was Steve, a quiet, focused man of commoner background, who had earned his place through skill and loyalty. Fredrick and Steve couldn't be more different in how they carried themselves, but both were deadly serious when it came to their duties.
Draco kept both of them close—not for their manners or pedigree—but because they were the best at what they did. Fredrick's blade was as sharp as his pride, while Steve's speed and stealth made him near invisible when needed.
This journey was anything but routine. They had kept it quiet, deliberately avoiding any mention of their mission at court. The western borders were growing unstable, and rumors of troll attacks had surfaced. Draco couldn't afford to leave it to chance—not with the palace in political chaos.
Though he was the crown prince and rightful heir, most of the ministers sided with the Empress—his stepmother—and favored his younger half-brother, Darius. Draco didn't resent Darius, and had even thought once that if Darius ever became capable, he would gladly hand over the throne. But for now, the kingdom was on the brink, and he believed only he could hold it together. That meant acting quickly, solving even the smallest problems before they bloomed into full disaster.
Fredrick had looked ten
se the moment they left the city. They had taken a narrow trail along the river instead of the main road through Characot and into Infoduro. The horses' hooves echoed softly on the damp earth, and Fredrick glanced suspiciously at the dense trees on either side. His eyes flicked over to Steve, who rode quietly with his hood up, focused and calm.
"Your Highness," Fredrick finally called out.
Draco slowed his horse, turning slightly. His face, mostly hidden beneath his own hood, was unreadable, but his eyes were alert. "What is it, Fredrick?"
"Why are we taking this trail? The road through Sorough is much safer and quicker," Fredrick asked, concern clear in his tone.
"I didn't use the portal either for the same reason," Draco replied. "Too risky. If word gets out that I've left the palace, it'll cause more trouble than we can afford."
Fredrick frowned. "But this path could be even more dangerous. If the Empress finds out, we'll be sitting ducks. We don't know what else could be waiting in these woods."
Draco's jaw tightened. He didn't like being questioned. "Sir Fredrick, you are free to turn back if you're afraid of dying in the woods. I'm sure Steve and I can finish this journey without you."
Without another word, he kicked his horse forward and disappeared deeper into the trees.
Fredrick's face darkened with frustration. Steve gave him a brief glance, expression unreadable, but it felt like judgment—and Fredrick hated that more than anything.