Instead of Arya, I prefer her mom (Chapter 47) (Patreon)

The hour was getting late, with the sun sinking low, travelling past the horizon. It had been a long day, not only for Cedric, but Teirm’s various forces.

Currently, a member of a certain organization slipped from one street to the next, dressed like an average pageboy. With measured steps, they headed for a large manor, built near the city keep.

The inhabitants’ status was self-evident—the area being reserved for the city’s most important members. Yet, the towering, opulent mansion, tended to by more than two-dozen servants, was nothing more than a seaside retreat, empty for most of the year.

This wasn’t known to the humbly-dressed man. Working as a runner for his society, he frequently interacted with nobility, but wasn’t qualified to do anything more than that. He’d also not visited this manor before, yet had noticed it during his comings and goings. Who wouldn’t? The place was too conspiquous.

Thinking his own thoughts, he reached the front gate, tall and spiked to keep ne’er-do-wells out. There wasn’t even anything like a bell. How was he supposed to pass on his note?

While he stood there scratching his head, a dark-clothed servant appeared from somewhere in the courtyard, emerging from behind a tall, manicured bush.

“What is your purpose?”

The speaker was an older man in his fifties, appearing friendly enough.

Clearing his throat, the messenger waved the parcel in his hand.

“Delivery. Don’t know who for, I was told to just drop it off.”

The gardener—he did seem to be a gardener, judging by the clippers in his hands and dirt all over his clothes—gave a single nod, accepting the note through the gate.

“My thanks. I’ll make sure it gets where it needs to go.”

The messenger hesitated for a moment, wondering if he could trust this man and if he’d get in trouble if the letter went missing. However, he soon got over it, turning to leave. He had other important things to do, and besides, their organization always used encrypted messaging.

Giving his farewells, the pageboy disappeared down the street, his mind already on his next task. As such, he didn’t notice the strange look the gardener had given him, nor the surreptitious shifting of curtains in a second-story room.

When he was gone, the gardener shrugged, stowing the letter before going back to work.

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Some time later, the very same older man entered through a back-door, leaving his mud-encrusted shoes and dirty gloves outside.

“My lord…!”

While he switched his overclothes, not wanting to befoul the house, a maid suddenly appeared in the small room. She was carrying a basin of hot water, sending the ‘gardener’ an exasperated look.

The man waved his hand irritably, cutting her off in the middle of her sentence.

“Don’t lecture me, girl. With the extent of your nagging and henpecking, someone might think you’re the master of this house, not me.”

His words drew a look of mortification from the maid. Biting her lip, she nodded once before setting the basin on a table and turning to leave. However, her feet briefly stopped at the threshold.

“…sir, won’t you at least have Will do the rest? Why even hire him if he’s going to sit around all day!”

The old man sent her a mean look.

“I said get, you nasty girl! Always trying to get your coworkers into trouble… or are you trying to peek at this old man? Trust me, after my time in the army, this battered body isn’t all that appealing to the eye.

The maid’s eyes went wide before letting out an embarrassed squeal, vanishing down the hallway.

The old man shook his head, taking a rag and soaking it in water. Having taken off his hat and after wiping his face, a strikingly familiar personage was revealed. In fact, he was none other than Eustace Beaufort, the same ‘old man’ who Cedric encountered not a day earlier!

Finishing up, he sighed, his mind wandering to the past. It could be said he acted far too familiarly and casually with his servants, but old habits were hard to shake. He’d not grown up with a silver spoon in his mouth, bad had been the son of a common soldier. It was only after his father distinguished himself that their lot in life improved, but by that time, Eustace was already grown himself.

“Pft, not like that boy of mine. Gods forbid I’d grown up like him, wearing silk and eating white bread. It doesn’t do him any good.”

Despite his words, his tone was soft. He loved his son far too much to give him anything but the best, spoiled or not. Then there was his condition…

Suddenly feeling morbid, the duke finished up, thinking of the letter. The lad probably thought he hadn’t caught on to his little ‘secret society’, but he himself was an old fox, well used to intrigue. Well, if it kept him busy and happy, then all was well. Anything to distract from his situation.

Grunting, he patted himself down—now clean and dressed—heading for the dining room. It was evening, and time for dinner. Though he had administrative work to do, sharing a meal with his wife and son was one of Eustace’s greatest pleasures in life. He wouldn’t miss it for the world.

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It was past midnight, and the manor was quiet and dark. However, a faint light shone behind a certain window on the second floor. It belonged to the Beaufort heir, a young man named Arthur.

Sitting at a sparse desk with a single flickering candle placed on the tabletop, he examined a certain letter. Holding it with paper-white hands and thin, skeletal fingers, his pale blue eyes scanned the contents from top to bottom.

They appeared innocuous enough, seeming like a message from a friend, inquiring about his health and sending well-wishes. However, it was nothing but a façade. Instead, applying a particular cypher, the letters could be rearranged to mean something entirely different.

Yet, instead of the letter, the youth himself was of more interest. At first glance, an observer would be able to see there was something seriously wrong with him. Certainly, being thin wasn’t unusual, but one look at his face—noting his sunken eyes, hollow cheeks and thin, blue veins running under his skin—was evidence enough of his illness. His hair, though blonde, was un unhealthy color, more yellow than golden.

After finishing with the letter, he held it over the candle with a shaky hand. When the flame had all but consumed it, burning toward his fingertips, he dropped it in a bowl of shallow water. His expression absentminded, he took a handkerchief from somewhere, coughing shallowly into it. Though the fit was subdued, flecks of pale blood, almost pinkish, were left on the white cloth.

“She’s dead…”

His mutterings were almost imperceptible, his voice soft and raspy. For a moment, he simply sat quietly, but then his expression suddenly changed. It was nothing more than a faint darkness behind his eyes, a thinning of his lips and his brows lowering, yet it conveyed a sense of terrible anger—all the more terrifying on a face as haunting as his.

However, it was only for a second. Quickly as it came, it went, his expression turning resigned. Leaning back against his chair, he ran a hand over his face.

“…no, I’m the one at fault. I underestimated them. I was too hasty. Before acting, I should’ve gathered more information-…”

Before he could carried away, he forcibly shut his mouth, cutting off his thoughts. There was no point in dwelling on his failures. More than anything, he needed to decide what to do next.

Exhaling slowly, he reached for a side-drawer, sliding it noiselessly open. From inside, he took a sheaf of wood-pulped paper and a feather quill with black ink. Setting everything on the desk, he started writing his correspondence. However, he wasn’t getting into contact with the messenger’s organization, but a different—even more secretive group—instead.

Truth be told, Arthur’s involvement with Teirm’s underground forces was mostly a smokescreen. Certainly, they had their uses, but his association with them was mostly to fool his father. 

When he was still young, at his lowest, depressed and suicidal—lamenting the uselessness of his body—he had a chance encounter with a certain extraordinary individual. What happened afterward, well… it didn’t bare speaking of to anyone. However, the result was that Arthur found himself part of a strange and esoteric society, one he’d never heard of, nor was told much after his induction.

However, over the past ten years, he’d all but confirmed the truth of the matter. The organization was a cult, though he hadn’t a clue who they served or worshiped. However, that mattered little to him. It was nothing more than a means to an end, drawing on their resources and acquiring their services. Neither was to be scoffed at, though he was careful about making use of them.

After performing a few services for the cult, he’d managed to accrue enough favor for an exchange… In fact, that was the source of the strange dagger, capable of killing even warded mages. Arthur had long wanted to cure his terminal illness, and was saving favor with that intent in mind, but his hand was forced. 

Over the years, he made many enemies among the nobility and the underworld while attempting to expand his influence. During such conflicts, mages were often hired to decisively tilt the scales in one’s favor. As such, if he had no way of dealing with them, he had no choice but to sit quietly and wait to die. Though it vexed him, he could only arm his retainer.

However, with the operation botched and Shiva dead, the mysterious weapon was gone, taken by his enemies! Yet, with nothing to be done, Arthur exercised his considerable self-control to turn his mind toward the future.

Pursing his lips, he resolved to put distracting thoughts aside, returning his attention to the letter. The dagger might have disappeared and his favor used up, but that didn’t mean he had no recourse. Given the item’s value, he doubted the cult would be willing to let it fall into the hands of an unknown enemy.

He wouldn't escape punishment, but given how long he'd served them for and how few mistakes he'd made, he didn't think it would be more than he could bare. He'd gotten too comfortable, dealing with small time mages, and had underestimated his enemy. However, that wouldn't happen again...