The administrative wing of House Artos rarely slept.
Even now, long after the audience hall had emptied, candlelight still flickered behind rows of narrow windows. Clerks moved between shelves stacked with ledgers while servants carried fresh ink, parchment, and trays of cooling tea through the corridors.
Inside one of the record chambers, tension hung heavier than dust.
“What exactly does he mean by a complete census?” one clerk muttered, rubbing tired eyes as he flipped through a ledger. “Every village? Every household?”
“That’s what was ordered.”
A younger scribe frowned. “But… why?”
No one answered immediately.
The room was cramped with shelves and cluttered tables. Maps of the Artos territory lay spread across desks, weighed down by inkpots and wax seals. Half the records looked decades old.
A balding clerk clicked his tongue. “This is absurd. Even the crown doesn’t conduct counts this thorough outside wartime.”
Another lowered his voice. “Do you think the young lord intends to raise taxes?”
“Or conscription,” someone else muttered.
At that, several faces darkened.
Winter was already difficult enough. If House Artos suddenly began counting every able-bodied man and every sack of grain, rumors would spread quickly.
A thin man near the back stiffened over his papers.
A census.
His fingers tightened slightly.
For years, collection records had passed through his hands before reaching the treasury. Small discrepancies here and there. Adjusted wagon counts. Missing grain blamed on weather or bandits.
Nothing outrageous.
Nothing noticeable.
At least, not before.
Now riders would go directly to the villages.
Questions would be asked.
Numbers compared.
Sweat prickled beneath his collar.
“This will cost a fortune,” another clerk complained. “Riders, escorts, lodgings, fresh records… and for what? We already collect taxes.”
“Do we?” an older scribe asked dryly.
The room quieted.
The old man adjusted his spectacles and glanced down at one of the ledgers.
“Most of these records are incomplete,” he said. “Some villages haven’t submitted accurate numbers in years. Gods, there are hamlets on these maps that no longer exist.”
“And yet they’re still taxed,” someone muttered.
A few uneasy glances followed.
Then the door opened.
Every spine straightened instantly.
Gareth entered without hurry, dressed as impeccably as ever in dark formal attire. His gloved hands rested neatly behind his back as his sharp eyes swept across the room.
The murmuring ceased.
He took in the untouched stacks of parchment, the scattered ledgers, the anxious faces.
Then he spoke.
“Why,” Gareth asked calmly, “has no one begun?”
The room stiffened further.
One of the senior clerks cleared his throat. “We were discussing the feasibility of the lord’s command.”
“Were you?” Gareth replied.
His tone remained perfectly polite.
Which somehow made the room colder.
The balding clerk stepped forward carefully. “Steward Gareth, surely you understand the difficulty of this undertaking. A census of the entire territory would require enormous manpower.”
“Then use enormous manpower.”
The man faltered.
Another clerk spoke up more cautiously. “There are also concerns regarding… interpretation.”
Gareth’s gaze shifted toward him. “Interpretation?”
“The villagers may misunderstand such an operation,” the younger man said carefully. “They may believe new levies or taxes are coming.”
“A possibility,” Gareth admitted evenly.
The room seemed relieved he was at least listening.
Then he continued.
“Which is why clear notice will accompany every rider.”
The relief vanished immediately.
One clerk frowned. “You truly mean to proceed with this?”
Gareth regarded him quietly for a moment.
“The lord issued a command.”
Simple words.
Absolute words.
“But after his recent illness…” another began carefully, “perhaps the young lord is acting somewhat impulsively.”
The room froze.
Even breathing seemed dangerous.
Gareth’s eyes settled upon the speaker.
Not angry.
Not cold.
Simply attentive.
“If the lord wished for opinions regarding his condition,” Gareth said softly, “he would have requested a physician. Not clerks.”
The man paled instantly. “My apologies.”
Gareth stepped toward the central table, eyes moving across the maps.
“Draft teams of three for each district,” he ordered. “One clerk. One guard. One local guide where applicable.”
He pointed toward the western territories.
“The mountain roads will require escorts familiar with winter routes. Prepare copies of every existing registry before dawn.”
Several scribes hurried to write the instructions down.
“Any settlement lacking records will be documented manually,” Gareth continued. “Population, trades, grain stores, livestock, winter shortages.”
The thin clerk near the back felt his stomach tighten further with every sentence.
This was thorough.
Far too thorough.
“And the cost?” one clerk asked hesitantly.
Gareth looked at him as though the question barely deserved acknowledgment.
“The treasury will bear it.”
“But—”
“You mistake inconvenience,” Gareth interrupted calmly, “for impossibility.”
Silence.
No one argued after that.
The old steward rested one hand lightly against the table.
“For years,” he said quietly, “House Artos has governed these lands through quotas and assumptions.”
His eyes drifted across the scattered records.
“Now the lord wishes for certainty.”
Something about the way he said it unsettled the room more than any threat could have.
Because Gareth himself did not seem entirely certain what Lord Edric intended.
And that uncertainty was spreading.
“Begin immediately,” Gareth ordered. “Riders leave by sunrise.”
Chairs scraped softly against stone as the clerks hurried into motion. Some gathered ledgers. Others fetched parchment or sorted district maps.
The room erupted into controlled chaos.
Yet beneath the frantic movement lingered something quieter.
Fear.
Not of punishment.
Of change.
Gareth watched them for another moment before turning away.
The corridor outside was silent save for the distant crackle of hearthfire somewhere deeper within the manor.
His office sat at the far end of the administrative wing, isolated from the noise of servants and scribes. Once inside, Gareth closed the door softly behind him.
The room smelled faintly of parchment and candlewax.
Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, filled with decades of House Artos records.
Tax ledgers.
Trade agreements.
Military inventories.
Orderly.
Predictable.
He crossed the room and pulled an older ledger from a shelf before setting it upon the desk.
The pages crackled softly beneath his gloves.
Years of reports passed beneath his eyes.
Harvests.
Trade revenue.
Mining yields.
Expenditures.
Punishments.
Never once…
His gaze lingered on the empty spaces between numbers.
Never once had Lord Edric asked how many people actually lived beneath House Artos rule.
Not when villages starved.
Not when winters worsened.
Not even when tax deficits increased.
The old Edric only cared whether quotas were met.
Gareth closed the ledger slowly.
The sound echoed softly through the office.
Then he removed his gloves, folding them neatly upon the desk.
His reflection stared faintly back at him from the darkened window beside the candles.
The poison should have killed him.
Every physician agreed upon that much.
Yet the young lord had awakened asking questions he had never cared to ask before.
Not softer questions.
More dangerous ones.
Questions about systems.
People.
Infrastructure.
Trade.
Control.
Gareth rested a hand lightly against the desk.
“What exactly happened to you, young master…” he murmured into the candlelit silence.
Outside, somewhere deeper within the manor, riders were already being prepared.
And for the first time in years, the machinery of House Artos had begun to move.
Elsewhere in the manor, two figures descended a flight of stone stairs. Torchlight slowly replaced the morning sun, and the air grew heavier with every step.
Serah’s boots clicked beside Edric’s, crisp and measured, echoing through the stairwell like distant drums.
Edric did not slow.
He had expected fear at the thought of confronting the girl accused of poisoning him.
Instead, he felt tension.
Sharp and bracing.
Like reading criticism for a draft he barely remembered writing.
They reached the dungeon antechamber.
Two jailers stood at attention, visibly startled by the unexpected visit. Their armor was old and poorly maintained, stained by things no one cared to identify.
“M-My lord,” the elder jailer stammered, bowing immediately. “We were not told—”
“You are told now,” Serah said sharply.
The jailer swallowed and fumbled with the keys at his belt.
Edric stepped forward. “The girl accused of poisoning me. Bring me to her cell.”
“Y-Yes, my lord.”
The jailer led them down a row of iron-barred cells. Most stood empty. A few held vagrants or petty thieves, their fear dull and habitual.
Then he stopped.
“This is the one.”
Torchlight flickered across iron bars.
Inside, a girl sat curled against the wall, knees drawn to her chest. Her clothes were plain and torn at the sleeve, her hair tangled though once carefully braided. She could not have been older than sixteen.
She lifted her head slowly.
Her eyes were red from crying.
Like an animal expecting a boot to come down at any moment.
Edric crouched before the cell.
The moment she recognized him, she froze.
Not in awe.
In terror.
She scrambled to kneel. “M-My lord, please—I didn’t—I swear I didn’t—”
Edric raised a hand.
Silence fell.
He studied her trembling hands.
The bruises on her wrists.
The bruise on her cheek that likely hadn’t existed before the arrest.
“Name,” he said.
“C-Celia, my lord.”
He nodded once.
“Celia. Tell me exactly why you decided to end my life.”
Serah’s posture shifted subtly beside him, one gauntleted hand resting near her sword. The guards exchanged uneasy glances, as if expecting Edric to execute the girl on the spot.
But Edric waited.
Celia looked up desperately, tears already forming.
“My lord!” she cried. “I did no such thing! Please—I never touched the wine! Please, my lord!”
She clasped her hands together so tightly her knuckles whitened.
A sharp discomfort twisted in Edric’s chest.
Still, he could not trust her completely.
He stepped closer to the bars.
“If you are innocent,” he said quietly, “then someone else ensured you would appear guilty.”
Her eyes widened in horror.
“I swear on my life, my lord! Please!”
She was crying openly now.
Edric’s expression did not change, but his thoughts moved like grinding gears.
In the original draft, he had never decided who poisoned Edric Artos.
The death had simply existed to remove him from the story.
But now—
now it was real.
Serah watched him carefully, trying to read his thoughts.
Celia trembled before him, waiting for judgment.
Expecting cruelty.
Then Edric spoke.
“Open the cell.”
The corridor went still.
The jailer blinked. “M-My lord?”
“Open it,” Edric repeated flatly. “Now.”
The man fumbled so badly the keys nearly slipped from his hand. Even Serah looked genuinely uncertain now.
When the iron door creaked open, Celia recoiled instinctively.
Everyone present had assumed Edric would strike her down.
Instead, he stepped back.
“Stand.”
Celia shakily obeyed, nearly losing her balance.
Edric glanced toward Serah.
“Remove the chains.”
Serah hesitated only briefly before stepping forward and unclasping the irons from Celia’s wrists. The girl winced but did not pull away.
The moment she was free, she hugged her hands tightly to her chest.
“My lord…” she whispered brokenly. “Please…”
Edric silenced her with a raised hand.
“You will not be punished today.”
The words struck harder than a scream.
Celia slowly looked up at him, eyes shimmering with fragile disbelief.
“However,” Edric continued calmly, “you are not freed, nor is your name cleared.”
Her breath hitched.
Hope and fear twisted together across her face.
The jailers exchanged confused glances.
Serah’s gaze sharpened further.
Edric stepped closer, enough for Celia to instinctively hold her breath.
“You will remain in my custody,” he said. “Under guard. Under my watch.”
His golden eyes remained fixed on hers.
“You will personally serve me. Until I learn the truth, you will not leave my sight without my direct permission.”
Silence followed.
Then the color slowly drained from Celia’s face.
Personal service.
Every servant in House Artos knew what those words could mean from a noble.
The jailers immediately lowered their eyes.
One of the guards visibly stiffened.
Even Serah’s expression darkened slightly before discipline concealed it once more.
To them, this was not mercy.
Only another kind of sentence.
Celia lowered her head.
“Y-Yes… my lord.”
But her voice sounded hollow.
Not relieved.
Resigned.
As though she had merely traded chains for something worse.
Edric looked toward Serah.
“Have her bathed and clothed,” he said. “If she is to serve me, she should at least be presentable.”
Serah bowed stiffly.
“Your will, my lord.”
She stepped forward and firmly took hold of Celia’s shoulder.
“Come.”
Celia obeyed immediately.
Not because she trusted them.
Because she believed she no longer had the right to refuse.
The group disappeared down the corridor, torchlight flickering across damp stone walls until only Edric remained before the empty cell.
Silence settled over the dungeon once more.
The jailers kept their heads lowered.
Edric looked through the iron bars at the dark corner Celia had occupied moments earlier.
A prison cell.
Cold stone.
Rust.
Fear.
This was the world he had written.
Not as a real place.
Not as a life.
Just scenery for a story.
A backdrop for suffering meant to make readers hate a villain.
And now he stood inside it.
Breathing it.
Responsible for it.
His gaze lingered on the marks the chains had left across the floor.
How many things like this had he written so casually?
How many ruined lives had existed only to move the plot forward?
Edric closed his eyes briefly.
Then exhaled slowly.
“…What a mess.”
Not just the poisoning.
Everything.
The starving villages.
The corruption buried inside House Artos.
The servants who feared him.
The girl who looked at him as though death would have been kinder.
And somewhere beyond these walls, the real poisoner was still waiting.
Edric turned toward the stairway leading aboveground.
Far overhead, faint sunlight filtered through cracks in the manor stone like distant gold.
For a moment, the dungeon no longer felt separate from House Artos.
It felt like its foundation.
Then Edric began to climb.
Step by step.
Back toward a story that still expected him to die a villain.