I was sitting in my room, the soft ticking of the grandfather clock blending with the rustle of pages as I studied the political landscape of Eastern Alecia. It was a fascinating region—fractured counties, backroom politics, leaders drunk on legacy. I found comfort in the structure of it all. The motivations were predictable. The betrayals made sense.

  Unlike here.

  A scream pierced the stillness. My father's voice—sharp, hoarse, unmistakable.

  I didn’t move at first. I stared at the sentence I had just read, tracing the words with my eyes once more before I slid the book closed. The gold lettering on the cover reflected a dull sliver of sunlight from the window. I placed it gently on the desk and stood up.

  My footsteps echoed faintly as I walked through the hallway. The house was quiet, as it always was—too large for its own good. My fingers grazed the cool mahogany railing as I descended the stairs, the screaming growing louder.

  When I arrived at the drawing room, the scene was already in motion.

  My father stood at the center of the room like a mad conductor, his arms raised, face red with fury, eyes wild with indignation. Around him were a dozen servants—some in uniform, some still in sleepwear, all with their heads bowed slightly. No one dared speak.

  I didn’t announce myself. I leaned lightly against the archway just out of view, in the familiar shadow of the corridor. Watching.

  "Who stole the family jewel?!" he roared, his voice raw.

  No one answered.

  "It was here this morning! Who in God’s name took it?!” he demanded again, pacing now. “I want every door locked. No one leaves this house until it's found. Do you hear me? The entire mansion is on lockdown!”

  His anger was performative—less grief, more outrage at the insult to his pride. A violation of possession, not sentiment.

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  The servants remained silent, their eyes trained on the ground like schoolchildren waiting for a storm to pass.

  After a moment, he snarled and waved them off. “You’re all dismissed. Get out of my sight.”

  They scattered quickly, like leaves in the wind. My father turned on his heel and disappeared into his study, the door slamming behind him with a force that made one of the portraits rattle on the wall.

  I stayed a moment longer in the hallway. The silence that followed was almost louder than the shouting.

  Then I turned and walked upstairs.

  My sister’s room was two doors down from mine. She was sprawled on her velvet sofa, reading about the greatest chess master in this world, Lactum Erjen, with an air of practiced boredom. She looked up as I entered, one brow lazily arched.

  “Let me guess,” she said. “You heard the screaming?”

  “Where was the family jewel kept?”

  She blinked, then sighed, as though the question required more effort than she was willing to give. “Main hall. Display case near the fireplace. You’ve seen it before.”

  Of course I had. But I wanted confirmation. I gave a nod and left without another word.

  The main hall was immaculate, as always. Grand chandeliers hung overhead, refracting the morning light into small scattered rainbows on the marble floors. The display case in question sat beneath an oil painting of our great-grandfather—a man who looked far more dignified in paint than he ever did in the few surviving photographs.

  I walked over to it, my shoes tapping against the tile. The case was unlocked. Not shattered, not broken—just… opened. Carefully. Deliberately. The red velvet cushion inside still held the faint outline of the jewel, like a ghost of its former presence.

  There were no fingerprints on the glass. No footprints. No signs of forced entry. Whoever did this knew what they were doing.

  I knelt slightly, examining the floor. Nothing.

  It was clean. Too clean.

  I straightened and stared at the empty space for a while. A priceless artifact, the cornerstone of our family’s history and pride, stolen in silence.

  The pattern would become predictable after this event.

  My father would rage. My mother, if she even noticed, would host a luncheon to complain about it. The staff would be interrogated. People would be accused. Some might be fired.

  But the truth? That would stay buried.

  Unless I unearthed it.

  It sounded like a fun way to pass the afternoon anyways.

  I turned away from the empty case, the echoes of my steps stretching long and hollow across the marble as I left the hall.

  Let the hunt begin.