[Emerald Castle, Crown Prince's Study]
A sharp knock cut through the weighted silence.
Alden’s eyes flicked to the door.
"Enter," he called.
Captain Lut stepped inside. His face was carefully neutral.
"Your Highness," Lut saluted, fist striking chest. "Commander Pavel has returned."
Alden set down his glass. "Call him in."
Lut retreated. Moments later, heavy boots hammered the corridor. The door swung wide.
Commander Pavel strode in—a man of sixty who moved like a hard forty-five, beard trimmed close, uniform dusted with the grime of a night’s patrol. He stopped three paces from the desk and delivered a sharp salute.
"Report," Alden commanded.
Pavel’s jaw worked. "Your Highness, we checked the perimeter last night as ordered. And as you suspected, there was suspicious transportation activity at the southern shore." He paused, chewing the words. "Five carts of Imperial gold. When questioned, the merchants claimed it was Viremont's business."
Alden’s fingers went still on the armrest. "Destination?"
"Ravencliff."
Alden’s eyes narrowed. Ravencliff again. Just for today, he didn’t want to hear the name at all.
"They had permits," Pavel continued, a sour edge to his voice. He handed the paper over. "Official documentation. Our arrest would appear unlawful without further cause."
Alden scanned the document once before reclining in his chair, the leather groaning. "The Empress Seal."
'Convenient.'
Alden’s lips curled into a cold smile. "I see."
"Bring in those who carried the permit," Alden ordered.
Pavel saluted and withdrew. Barked commands filtered through the door, followed by the scuffle of boots and protesting voices.
Two men were dragged in by guards—merchants, by the look of their fine, travel-stained coats. They stumbled to their knees, foreheads pressing into the floor.
"Wait!" the one in the red doublet and black hose gasped. "Why are we brought here? We have permission to conduct business! We've broken no laws!"
Alden silently watched them. He let the silence stretch until their breathing turned ragged.
"Who permitted you?" he asked, voice quiet. "I don't remember issuing authorization for this transport."
Any shipment to Ravencliff required royal permission. They knew it. He knew it.
The two men exchanged a panicked glance.
"Tha... that was Lord Callum," the first stammered.
The room went dead still. Lut’s hand drifted toward his sword hilt.
Alden’s brow rose a fraction. "Your permit was issued yesterday?"
They both nodded. "Ye... yes. Your Highness."
Alden replied, "Lord Callum did not have access to the Empress Seal for the past month."
The color drained out of them.
"I—" the second one, wearing a fur-lined schaube, swallowed hard. "Forgive us. We... we may have made a mistake. It was Lord Aldric. Yes, Lord Aldric who granted the permission. This was payment for a high-value artwork purchased from Ravencliff. A legitimate transaction, Your Highness. Nothing more."
Alden smirked and stood up, stepping past them.
"Lead the way. To the carts."
The castle courtyard was drowned in the golden light of late noon. Five carts stood in a neat line, canvas pulled back to reveal stacks of gold bars gleaming in the sun.
Alden moved along the first cart. Fingers skimming metal. Testing weight. Balance. Pavel and Lut stood by, watching.
Behind them, the merchants shifted, breathing too shallow.
'Nothing,' Alden thought. He moved to the second cart. Shuffled the bars. Probed the walls.
'Nothing.'
The third cart yielded the same. Then the fourth.
Pavel’s confusion was written plain on his weathered face. Lut stood arms crossed, face blank.
Alden hesitated at the fifth cart. Doubt gnawed at him. 'Am I mistaken?' Sill's report said Aldric made a move.
'Maybe a decoy.'
He turned his attention back to the merchants.
Their heartbeats were too rapid. One had gone pale, sweat glistening on his forehead.
Alden closed his eyes, tuning out the wind, the armor, and the city. He focused on the men.
Violent. Not the rhythm of impatience, but the rhythm of terror.
'No... There is definitely something.'
He circled back to the fourth, then the third cart, the one he had already inspected. Instead of peering inside, he crouched down and slid his hand along the underside of the vehicle, his ears attuned to the men’s heartbeats.
Alden opened his eyes, gaze sharpening. "Got you."
His arm slid beneath the cart, its damp, muddy wood creaking beneath his weight. With a hand raised, he knocked on the bottom plank.
Moving his hand three inches to the left, he knocked again.
Hollow. Louder than solid oak should be.
Alden stood straight, dusting his knees. "Break the bottom."
The merchant in the schaube shrieked in terror. "No! Our gold! The reparation costs will be—"
"Please, Your Highness!" the other lunged forward, voice cracking. "...do not ruin our property! We are honest traders, we—"
Stolen novel; please report.
The Commander stepped forward, drawing a sword with a smooth hiss. The blade was raised high.
"No! Wait—!"
The steel came down. Wood exploded outward, shards skittering across the cobblestones.
"Your Highness, we’ve discovered something," Pavel said with a grim expression.
Alden stood beside the wreckage, surveying the scene with crossed hands. Nestled in the hollow, cushioned by black velvet, lay a rolled parchment sealed with red wax.
Pavel picked up the letter. It was too heavy for a letter and too concealed for innocence.
Unrolling it, his face darkened as he scanned the lines. "These are written in Kezreth."
Alden took the parchment, his eyes tracing the flowing script.
Lut and Pavel exchanged a quick glance, as if asking, 'Does he know the language?' Lut gave a tiny shake of his head.
He read it once, vertically. Then again, horizontally.
Then he chuckled—a low, dark sound more like an exhale than a laugh.
Pavel stiffened. "We need to take this to the royal translator. He can—"
"No need," Alden said softly. "They won’t read it correctly anyway."
In plain Kezreth, read left to right, the letter was innocuous.
He traced his finger down the first column, skipping every second character, then moved to the third column, weaving the meaning together in his mind. The real message bled through the ink.
Alden’s jaw clenched. A sudden collapse of the Viremont Market would plunge the Empire into a financial crisis, destabilizing half of the Empire’s merchant houses, and the amount of Imperial gold being sent was a significant sum. He couldn’t allow the enemy nation to profit from this situation.
But he paused, a thought crossing his mind. 'Did this happen in my past life?'
No, it hadn’t. The one who had fallen was Duke Ashvale, the military powerhouse of Leonhelm Empire guarding the East due to the rebellion.
Alden looked up, expression cold.
"Arrest them," he said quietly. "Charge: conspiring with an enemy nation to sabotage the Empire's market stability."
"Your Highness!" the first merchant screamed, dropping to his knees. "You must have read wrong. There's no way..."
Alden's gaze didn't soften.
Realizing that blaming the Prince might backfire, the other merchant pleaded. "We didn’t know! We were merely paid to deliver—"
"By whom?" Alden asked.
The first merchant’s mouth moved silently, yet no words escaped. The second one screamed hurriedly. "We... we don't know his name! He wore a mask, he paid in advance, he—"
"Take them to the holding cells," Alden ordered, turning away. "They’ll remember more after a night in the dark."
The iron-shod boots of the guards scraped against the stone as they dragged the merchants away. The men’s incoherent sobs echoed off the castle walls until the heavy oak gates slammed shut, ending the sound.
Alden didn’t watch them go. He stared at the stacks of gold, his reflection distorted in the cold metal.
"Confiscate it all," Alden said, his voice level. "And double the patrols on the southern shore. Where one rat squeezes through, a swarm follows."
"At once." Pavel slammed a fist to his chest, his heels clicking together.
The moment was broken by a messenger skidding to a halt near Captain Lut. The guard, breathless and his helmet slightly askew, leaned in urgently, whispering into the Captain’s ear.
Lut’s expression tightened. He stepped into Alden’s periphery. "Your Highness. Tower Master Torvenn is at the main gate. He is... insistent. He demands to see your guest."
Alden’s lips curled into a smirk, and he didn’t bother looking at the guard.
"Keep him waiting," Alden said, brushing an invisible speck of dust from his sleeve. "If he still has the energy to complain after an hour, I’ll meet him. Personally."
Lut nodded. "Understood. Should we inform Lady Kaelen?"
Alden paused before answering. "No."
Without waiting for an acknowledgement, Alden turned on his heel and strode toward the keep. The messenger swallowed hard, his armor rattling faintly against his chest as he violently suppressed a shiver.
Pavel watched the Prince’s retreating back, then looked down at the splintered wreckage of scattered gold. He stepped closer to Lut, keeping his voice low.
"Is everything alright, Captain Lut?" Pavel whispered, glancing at the Castle doorway. "His Highness seems… on edge."
The old captain turned to Pavel, a slight crinkle forming at the corners of his eyes.
"Don’t overthink it," Lut said, patting Pavel’s shoulder firmly. "Sometimes, a man needs some space to breathe. That’s all."
Lut offered a tight nod, then turned and jogged after his Prince, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he tried to catch up.
Left alone, Pavel gazed at the parchment he had retrieved, now held tightly in the Prince’s hand. Its edges were teetering on the brink of tearing.
He then turned away from the receding backs and muttered to himself.
"Did he... read it?"
Sweat trickled down his forehead. He swallowed hard. "Is he… truly alright?"
Alden paused, his hand resting on the cold iron of the door handle. Instead of turning to reassure his men, he climbed the steps, Kaelen’s earlier words reverberating in his mind.
'You’ll burn the entire forest just to kill one snake?'
"Better a burnt clearing," he whispered, a grim smile touching his lips, "than a paradise teeming with vipers."
In the hallway, Limon was already waiting for him. "Your Highness, Elara has prepared the stuffed pasta you favor for the evening meal."
Alden didn't reply, simply nodded.
Limon fell into step behind him. "Regarding the afternoon session... the docket is light. Perhaps you might retire early? I can inform—"
"No," Alden cut him off, staring straight ahead. "The session is vital."
After all, Aldric would be there. He needed to see the man himself, to figure out their game.
Limon hesitated. "Is this because of the Viremont situation?"
"If Viremont falls..." Alden said, his voice dropping, "the conspirators gain a foothold."
It must not fall into the hands of the conspirators. He kept walking, not looking back, though he could sense Limon's tension rising the more he spoke.
"Understood," Limon replied. "But His Majesty can solve them too. He has competent aides."
'Well, that remains to be seen.' Alden sneered. 'Competent? Probably. But would that help the Empire?'
"Kaelen said one of the participants was a man from Ravencliff," Alden replied. "And he has been operating in the Empire for years."
"They can't act alone. They must have connections. Someone with high clearance. Someone incredibly available," Alden muttered, mostly to himself.
Limon swallowed. "We can simply ask her..."
"Do so. But don't place high hopes on it," Alden replied. "If she knew, she would have mentioned it."
"Why wouldn't she know? She was there..." Limon’s voice hitched. "Unless... the 'Blood binding'? Can it order her not to see the identity?"
Alden nodded.
"But... how would you know? Shouldn't we still ask..."
Alden said no more. His posture remained straight, not a single tremor betraying his thoughts.
Limon didn't insist on an answer. He gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw straining. "Then we are blind."
As his boot touched the threshold of the corridor leading to his chambers, Alden stopped.
'Noise.' The faint scuffle of movement inside his chambers.
Limon closed the distance instantly, hand drifting to his side. "Your Highness?"
Alden’s eyes narrowed.
"Stay close," Alden commanded.
"Did something happen? Or did you forget something?" Limon swiftly closed the distance, his brow furrowed.
Alden's eyes narrowed with every step toward the heavy oak door. A heartbeat thrummed faintly in the air—rapid, irregular, coming from inside. Finally, he recognized the rhythm. Not an assassin. Someone he had called for himself.
"No. Let's go." Alden resumed walking, his pace unchanged.
He swung the door inward with a firm push.
The opulent four-poster bed loomed over the polished stone floor. But the elegance of the room was shattered by the figure trembling in the center of it.
Logan sat there, nearly naked, dressed only in a makeshift assortment of leather meant for livestock—chains and belts digging into his flushed skin. As the door opened, he flinched violently, scrambling to prostrate himself. His forehead knocked against the cold stone with a sickening
"Your Highness! I... I will do my best to satisfy you!" Logan’s voice was high-pitched, cracking with terror. He squeezed his eyes shut, turning his face away. "Please... have mercy!"
Alden’s brows furrowed as he stared down at the groveling figure.
Walking forward, Limon also froze. He looked as though he had walked into a nightmare.
Seemingly unwilling to make another assumption, Limon's gaze jumped from Alden to the man on the floor, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly.
"Prince... what... is this?" Limon gasped, averting his eyes.
Alden didn't answer. He calmly unclasped his heavy dark wool cloak and threw it over the shivering figure. The fabric landed with a dull , covering him.
"Clothe yourself," Alden ordered, his voice flat.
He walked past them to the edge of the bed and sat down, running a hand over his face. "Limon. The report."
"My... my Lord?" Limon stammered, still staring at the heap of wool.
"The agenda," Alden snapped, though as kindly as he could. "Read it."
While Logan scrambled beneath the cloak, the rustling of fabric filling the tense silence, Limon swallowed and recited the next day's schedule. By the time he finished, Logan was dressed in the cloak, clutching it tight like a shield.
"Dismissed," Alden said to Limon.
Limon bowed, shooting one last confused look at Logan, and fled the room.
Alden turned to the alchemist. "Logan. Do you know why I called you?"
"To... serve you?" Logan rasped, his face still burning crimson.
"Yes. But..." Alden took a deep breath. "...not the way you are thinking."
Logan’s jaw clenched. "I... I apologize for assuming—"
"Doesn't matter," Alden interjected, slowly lowering his voice. "There is something I need you to tell me. Honestly. What exactly was your Master Hadrian researching before his collapse?" Alden asked firmly, pinning Logan with his eyes.
Logan blinked, the fear slowly giving way to confusion. He took a shaky breath. "Master... always hated the persecution of the non-humans. He despised the divide. The prejudice. So... he was researching a way to mask one's true nature—to enable them to pass as human. Or the reverse."
Alden’s eyes narrowed as he pondered. 'Was that Master Hadrian’s research?'
The Kithari—skin-changing artifact. If Ravencliff intended to infiltrate the Empire, they needed Hadrian’s work. The monopoly on Bavarium was just a front; the real prize was the disguise. Geralt was a disposable pawn since the beginning. However, his ‘Will-Sapper’ remained a looming threat, and now the Kithari.
Turning back to Logan, he asked, “How far along was the research?”
