The secondary archives of House Artos had smelled of dust and rotting vellum, but the solar where Edric now sat smelled distinctly of impending change.
Outside the heavy arched windows, a sharp frontier frost was thickening, dusting the courtyard stones in a brittle layer of white. Inside, the massive mahogany desk was completely buried under a mountain of neatly categorized ledgers, loose sheets of parchment, and charcoal-scrawled tally sheets.
Gathered around the desk was Edric’s inner circle.
Lira and Matthus looked like they had been dragged through a battlefield. Matthus had deep, bruised shadows under his eyes, his hair standing on end from where he had repeatedly run his fingers through it in frustration. Lira, conversely, sat with a terrifying, rigid posture.
Standing just behind them were Gareth and Serah. Gareth’s face was an unreadable mask of cold, professional disapproval, while Serah leaned against the stone wall, her arms crossed over her steel breastplate, her gaze fixed intently on the paperwork.
"We are finished, young master," Lira said, her voice flat and precise as she tapped a remarkably slim, leather-bound notebook sitting directly in front of Edric. "We have scoured through every record and ledger for the past three years."
Edric leaned forward, resting his chin on his steepled fingers. "Give me the short version, Lira. How bad is it?"
Matthus let out a dry, hacking laugh, rubbing his temples. "It's bad, my lord."
Lira opened the notebook, her finger tracing a line of precise figures. "Over the past three years, under the guise of 'frontier wastage' and 'spoiled rations,' a small network has consistently altered the intake records of the eastern grain silos."
"Approximately fifteen percent of the harvest taxes paid by the commonfolk never made it to your stores." Matthus continued.
"And where did they go?"
"It was quietly redirected to black-market fences in the south. Furthermore, the maintenance funds allocated for the infantry barracks and armor repairs were systematically halved."
As Lira outlined the stolen percentages, Edric looked past the fraud to examine the final grand totals of the house's actual, remaining treasury. A sudden, unexpected realization settled into his mind. He leaned back slightly against his plush pillows, a slow, appreciative breath escaping his lips.
‘Wait a minute,’ he thought, looking closely at the massive baseline figures. ‘Even with these bastards bleeding the accounts dry for years... this house is still ridiculously wealthy.’
The sheer volume of gold, silver, and raw resources still sitting safely in the lower vaults was staggering.
The old Edric had been a completely spoiled, gluttonous idiot, but the generational wealth of a frontier Marquess house was undeniable. If his family was this rich while running on an administrative system leakier than a rusted bucket, it meant only one thing.
The economic potential of the Artos territory was absolutely monstrous.
If he could patch the holes and manage his resources with a modern mindset, Galehelm wouldn't just survive, it would become an absolute powerhouse.
"There is more, my lord," Matthus interjected, sliding a separate, heavily ink-stained ledger toward Edric. "The largest black hole in the budget belongs to the Dunmere Mine."
Edric’s golden eyes sharpened instantly. He didn't even need to look at the ledger. Dunmere mine, discovered by the census to be defunct, yet was still receiving upkeep.
"According to the monthly requisition forms signed by the administrative office, House Artos has been pouring thousands of silver pieces into it every single quarter." Continued Lira as she opened an old ledger.
"Funds for 'structural reinforcement,' 'tunnel drainage,' and 'essential tool replacement.' They’ve even been drawing weekly hazard pay for forty phantom miners who haven't held a pickaxe in five years."
"Who is the ringleader?" Edric asked softly.
"Chief Scribe Malek," Matthus stated flatly, his grim scowl mirroring Lira's severity. "He ran a tight, insulated circle. Only four junior clerks under his direct supervision were brought in to handle the physical tallying and altering of the records. Five people in total."
Gareth quietly mused. Malek was the old man who had served House Artos for over a decade, the very same bureaucrat who had tried to block the census ordered by Edric.
But as Edric stared at the Dunmere file, a thought struck his modern sensibilities. In his original draft, he had written off the mine as a dead plot point. But what if it wasn't?
He looked up at the exhausted auditor. "Matthus. Is it possible to re-open the Dunmere mines?"
Matthus blinked, clearly caught off guard by the sudden question of the young lord.
He rubbed his stubbled chin thoughtfully. "We cannot say for certain, young master. The paperwork says it's collapsed, but considering Malek fabricated everything else about the site, the collapse itself might be a lie to keep people away."
"Mhmmm," Edric thought quietly. "Let's find out then, have some of our engineers survey the mines."
"At once, my lord." Matthus agreed.
"And what of the five rats?" Interjected the crimson haired female-knight leaning at the back, "their insolence cannot go unpunished."
All eyes turned back to Edric. The room fell perfectly silent, waiting for the young lord's judgment on the corrupt clerks.
"Serah," he called out as he stood from his seat, "assemble everyone in the receiving hall."
"By your will, my lord."
A few hours later, the heavy air inside the main administrative wing was suffocating.
Chief Scribe Malek was no fool. The moment the sudden summons to the receiving hall echoed through the manor, a cold, oily dread had settled deep in his gut. For a week, he had watched that wretched common girl Lira and the exhausted auditor Matthus tear through the secondary archives. He had tried to block the census, tried to dismiss it as a boy-lord’s passing whim, but now?
Inside his private office, the fire in the hearth was roaring, fueled not by logs, but by thick stacks of loose parchment.
"Hurry, you idiots! Burn the eastern ledger! Not that one, the one from last winter!" Malek hissed, his voice cracking with a terrifying desperation. The distinguished, untouchable aura he usually maintained was completely gone. His silk robes were stained with ink, and his wrinkled hands were shaking.
Around him, his four junior clerks were in a state of absolute, blind panic. Cold sweat slicked their faces as they frantically tossed incriminating receipts and black-market trade missives into the flames.
"Lord Malek, what if they found the Dunmere reports?" one of the younger clerks whimpered, dropping a stack of papers onto the rug. "The ghost payroll... there's no way to forge the signatures if they actually checked the barracks!"
"Shut up and burn it!" Malek snarled, slamming his fist onto his desk. He looked at the leather chests lining the wall, filled with years of accumulated gold. I should have taken it all, he thought bitterly. I should have gathered my family, loaded a carriage, and fled to the south weeks ago.
But before he could even reach for a chest, the heavy oak door to his office was violently thrown open.
Four heavily armored guards stood in the doorway, their halberds gleaming brutally in the firelight. At the front stood one of Serah’s trusted lieutenants.
"Chief Scribe Malek," the lieutenant announced, his voice devoid of any warmth. "The Marquess requests your presence in the receiving hall. Immediately. Leave the paperwork."
Malek’s heart skipped a beat. He swallowed hard, forcing his trembling hands into his sleeves and trying to project a calm he didn't feel. "Of course. We were just... clearing out some outdated storage. Lead the way."
When Malek and his lackeys were escorted into the grand receiving hall, Malek's stomach instantly plummeted.
Every single employee of the manor was present. From the highest-ranking knights to the lowliest scullery maids, hundreds of people stood packed into the stone hall. At the far end of the room, sitting upon the elevated dais, was Edric. He looked entirely detached, his sharp golden eyes sweeping over the crowd like a hawk watching a field of mice. Gareth stood like a shadow at his right hand, and Serah stood to his left, her hand resting heavily on her greatsword.
Malek and his four clerks were tightly escorted to the very front of the crowd, right beneath the dais.
Edric raised a hand, and the low chatter in the room instantly died.
"I have called you all here because changes must be made if House Artos is to survive the winter," Edric’s voice rang out, clear, cold, and carrying a strange, modern weight that commanded attention. "First, regarding the administration of this estate. Effective immediately, Matthus is appointed as the Head Clerk of House Artos."
A quiet murmur rippled through the crowd. Matthus stepped forward, bowing deeply.
"Furthermore," Edric continued, his gaze narrowing, "Lira shall serve as his direct support and primary auditor. I command every single person in this room, regardless of station, to provide any and all assistance they request. Their word is my word."
Near the front, a couple of older, veteran clerks began to murmur aggressively under their breath. "A common girl? Elevated above us? She’s a nobody..." one muttered. But under Gareth’s icy glare, they ultimately shut their mouths and lowered their heads.
Edric didn't give them time to dwell on it. "Second, our territory sits on a volatile frontier. Security is paramount. As such, I am ordering an immediate expansion of our military forces. We must recruit more soldiers."
Serah shifted slightly, her armor clinking, but Edric clarified before the room could panic.
"This is not a forced conscription," Edric stated firmly. "This will be a permanent profession with steady wages, housing, and full benefits provided by my treasury. All second sons, landless peasants, and unemployed able-bodied men within our borders are permitted to apply."
At the back of the hall, several of the elite knights visibly bristled. They exchanged hesitant, disapproving glances.
Knights took immense pride in their lineage, their lifelong training, and their exclusive standing; the thought of common folk filling out their ranks, not as expendable conscripts, but as permanent, paid brothers-in-arms, rubbed them entirely the wrong way.
Standing in the front row, Malek let out a slow, silent breath. The tension in his shoulders relaxed slightly. A smug, confident thought crossed his mind. The boy is just playing at being a warlord. He's focusing on the army and the commoners. He hasn't found out a thing. His lackeys looked at each other, a collective wave of relief washing over them. They were safe.
Then, Edric’s golden eyes snapped down, locking directly onto the old scribe.
"Which brings me to my final announcement," Edric said softly. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. "Chief Scribe Malek. Clerks Robert, Thomas, Julian, and Peter. Step forward."
A cold spike of adrenaline shattered Malek’s brief confidence. His knees shook as he and his four pale, trembling lackeys stepped up to the base of the dais. Cold sweat poured down their backs.
"My lord?" Malek managed to say, his voice wavering. "How may your humble servants—"
"You are accused of high treason, corruption, and the embezzlement of House Artos' treasury," Edric interrupted flatly.
The words hit the hall like a thunderclap. Total, dead silence blanketed the room. Malek and his lackeys stood frozen, completely stunned, their mouths opening and closing without a single sound escaping.
"What say you in your defense?" Edric asked.
Silence.
"Nothing?" Edric turned his head slightly. "Lira. Matthus. Present the evidences."
Lira stepped forward, opening the leather notebook. With a loud, echoing voice, she laid out the cold, hard numbers. She detailed the fifteen percent stolen from the grain silos, the halved barracks maintenance, and finally, the crown jewel of their fraud: the thousands of silver pieces drawn for the defunct Dunmere Mine and its forty phantom miners.
As the sheer scale of the theft was revealed, the atmosphere in the room violently shifted. Several of the guards and knights grew visibly enraged, the money meant for their armor, their food, and their barracks had been lined in these five men’s pockets.
Realizing he was staring into an abyss, Malek’s survival instincts kicked in. He fell to his knees, throwing his hands out. "My lord! This is a fabrication! A conspiracy!" he yelled, pointing a trembling finger at Lira and Matthus. "I have served your house for over a decade! I served your father! Are you truly going to take the word of an exhausted disgruntled clerk and a nameless, common girl over a loyal servant of your bloodline?!"
It was a desperate play to manipulate the young lord's historical arrogance, but Lira simply held up a stack of documents. "These are the secondary intake ledgers, Master Malek. With your personal wax seal stamped on every single fraudulent page. Can you refute your own seal?"
Malek choked on his words, his face turning an ash-gray. He couldn't.
Edric rose from his seat, looking down at them like a judge delivering a divine decree. "By my authority as Marquess of House Artos, I declare you stripped of your titles, your positions, and your standing. Every single asset, estate, coin, and piece of land you own is hereby seized by the crown to repay your debts."
"Mercy, my lord! Please!" one of the junior clerks wailed, throwing himself flat on the stone floor, weeping openly. Another clerk grew red-faced, screaming in anger at the guards clutching his arms, but his rage quickly dissolved into pure despair.
"Take them to the deepest cells of the dungeons," Edric commanded coldly.
"My lord! My lord, please!" Malek begged, tears finally spilling over his wrinkled cheeks as the guards dragged him backward. "I have a family!"
Edric’s eyes narrowed into slits. "Your family lived in luxury bought from gold stolen from my house, Malek. They will join you in the dungeons until every single coin is accounted for."
The five corrupt bureaucrats were dragged out of the hall, their screams and begs fading down the stone corridors.
Edric swept his gaze across the remaining household staff. The absolute, unyielding ruthlessness of a modern mind operating with absolute power radiated off him.
"Let this be a lesson to every soul working under this roof," Edric declared, his voice echoing off the high rafters. "Anyone who steals from this house, shall be subjected to the exact same treatment. I do not care how high your position is. I do not care how long you have served. If you take what is mine, I will strip you of everything you are."
A heavy wave of terror washed over the servants. Many of the corrupt or lazy staff members trembled, clutching their hands together in fear.
But as Edric looked out into the crowd, he noticed something else. A quiet, fierce nod from the stable hands. A look of fierce approval from the guards. Some of the honest, hard-working servants were looking at him not with fear, but with a newfound, profound respect.
The old, spoiled, rotten, tyrant, brat was dead. A true lord had taken his place.