Who the hell was that?

  It could not be Brynhildr. Celeste had confirmed she was still in the dungeon and would have warned him if the warrior woman had ever left. Besides, what possible reason could she have for picking the lock to her own room? That was beyond absurd.

  No. This must be someone else. Someone with the same idea as him, trying to break into the room while the owner was away. He could worry about the who ter, though. What mattered the most now was that he could not afford to be seen. So, without a second thought, he dropped to the floor and slid under the bed. Not the best hiding spot, obviously, but the only one this room had to offer.

  The lock clicked softly, the door opened with a muted creak, and someone stepped into the room. The intruder, whoever they were, clearly knew how to move silently. Viktor remained utterly still beneath the bed, holding his breath as he strained to catch a glimpse. From this position, however, all he could see was the lower edge of a long, red skirt, brushing just above a pair of leather shoes.

  So, a waitress of the inn. After all, Nadja wore something simir.

  That raised a question. What was her intention? It could be something simple, like petty theft. A waitress, tempted by the sight of a loose purse, was trying to steal from unsuspecting guests. If that were the case, she would likely move straight to the wardrobe, grab the gold, just one or two coins if she was smart, and then vanish down the hall. That would be the best-case scenario.

  But there was another possibility.

  What if she were not here for the gold? What if she were among the ones who were hunting Brynhildr and Dagnar? That changed things. If she were only after money, she would be in and out, but if she were after information, then she might search the room thoroughly. Including under the bed.

  Damn it!

  Viktor’s hand slipped into his pocket, brushing against the smooth surface of the silk-shooting tube. The st resort, but one he was ready to use. If she spotted him, he would shoot, web her to the floor, then bolt out. However, he couldn’t just walk away and pretend that nothing happened. Someone was going to find a waitress cocooned in Dread Spider’s silk, then questions would be asked, and there was no way he could deny his involvement. No, he had to control the narrative.

  He already had a story ready. He came upstairs looking for Azran. Found a door half open. He peered inside. Caught a waitress going through someone else’s belongings. He confronted her. She panicked. Lunged at him. He defended himself. Simple.

  Sure, the woman would tell a different story, but hey, it would be her word against his, and he was confident that most people would believe him.

  Still, it would be a mess. Brynhildr and Dagnar would know someone had poked around their stuff. Considering how paranoid they were, they might leave Daelin immediately and never come back. Viktor sighed. Well, there was nothing he could do about that. For now, he waited, ready to strike, while hoping it wouldn’t come to that.

  To his surprise, the intruder neither moved toward the wardrobe, nor did she spare a gnce at the bed under which he y. Instead, she crossed the room, walking straight to the desk. Why? He furrowed his brow. She stood motionless for a moment, as if contempting something, and then began to act, but to do what, he could not tell. He heard sounds, but not enough to understand what was really going on. Then, just as swiftly and silently as she had entered, she slipped through the door, pulling it shut behind her with a whisper. She was gone, as if she had never been there at all.

  He stayed where he was, ft on the floor, ears straining to catch the faintest indication that she might return. He exhaled slowly. One breath. Two. Only once he counted to twenty did he allow himself to roll out from beneath the bed.

  He approached the desk at once, eyes sweeping across its surface. But nothing had changed. The drawers were as empty as before. No marks, no sign of disturbance, nothing out of pce. And yet, something must have happened here. He was certain of it.

  Frowning, Viktor let his gaze drift upward. And he saw it.

  Mounted on the wall just above the desk was a picture frame. A painting of some ndscape, with green hills, a shepherd, and a few sheep. Nothing special, really. Just some cheap decorations the innkeeper had tossed into this room.

  But... had she moved it? And if so, why? Was there something behind that frame?

  It didn’t hurt to check, so he peeled the picture frame off the wall and flipped it over. It looked exactly as one would expect, pin, rough wood, a few scratches here and there, utterly unremarkable—except for one single detail. A single drop of fresh ink, still slightly wet. It was too new to be anything but the work of that woman.

  The droplet would dry, fade, and become just another blemish. If Brynhildr ever noticed it, she would likely assume it was an old stain, something that had always been there, long before her arrival. Anyone who saw it would think nothing of it.

  Anyone but Viktor.

  His lips curled into a smile as he realized what had happened. He knew exactly what was responsible for this. After all, it was something that had once belonged to him—another artifact in the Tyrant’s Legacy.

  This Reliquary was a set of two items: a quill and an inkpot. To use it, one needed only to spill a drop of the ink somewhere. On a wall, a desk, or the back of a picture frame, like this. It sat there, looking harmless, all the while soaking up every spoken word in its reach. And then, no matter the distance, whether the quill was across the room or across the sea, it would move on its own, replicating everything caught by the drop. Whispers, arguments, secrets, the ink heard them all, and the quill wrote them down, word for word, line by line. A perfect instrument for a spy.

  Viktor chuckled. Whoever was chasing Brynhildr and Dagnar must have connections in very high pces. Backed by some royalty, even.

  Now came the real question. Should he stay and search more of the room, or leave, then try to figure out the identity of the intruder? His instincts leaned toward the tter. Lingering here too long, with who-knew-what kind of dangerous pyers nearby, was a bad idea. Better to get out while he still had the chance, then decide the next move after he got somewhere safe.

  But then—

  [Master.]

  “What’s the matter?”

  [There is something beneath the wardrobe.]

  Oh? He bent down for a closer look. And sure enough, something was indeed there. It must have entered his field of vision while he was under the bed, but he was too focused on the woman to notice. Fortunately, there was someone else here to catch what he had missed. He reached in and pulled it out. A notebook.

  It had to belong to Brynhildr. Could be useful, could be very useful. He opened it at once, eagerly flipping through the pages with rising anticipation, only for it to crumble into disappointment. Every single page was bnk. Not a single scribble, nor a note, nor even some cryptic codes. Just empty sheets. Useless.

  Or so he thought, until something thin slid free from the middle, falling to the floor. He caught it midair. A folded piece of parchment, hidden between the pages, almost as if the notebook itself existed solely to be its sheath. Now this was something.

  It was a letter.

  To my dearest sister,

  I hope this letter reaches you in good health, though I fear it brings only grief.

  Forgive me, for the silence, for the years, for reaching out only now, and in this way. If you are reading these words, then I am most likely already gone from this world.

  I am so sorry.

  I never told you why I left. I vanished without a word, and you deserved better. I was afraid of what the truth would do to you, to your oath to the Crown, to the pride I always saw burning in your eyes.

  But I can no longer carry this secret. You must know the truth.

  Sixteen years ago, I had an affair with the King. I was but a young, foolish, lovestruck girl, blind to consequence. Only when I learned I was with child did I begin to realize what I had done. I knew my presence, my very existence, would cause problems for everyone. For you. For him. For the realm.

  So I left. I said no goodbyes.

  I meant to live quietly, to raise my son far from the court and its dangers. We lived in a small vilge, and for a time, we were happy. But famine struck, and then sickness followed. Many died. I grew ill. And now, I know I don’t have long to live.

  I don’t regret the life I chose. But I fear for my son. When I’m gone, he will have no one left in this world.

  That’s why I’m writing to you.

  The boy who carries this letter, the one who stands before you now, is my son. Your nephew. His name is Duncan.

  Please, look after him. Protect him. Give him a pce in the world.

  I know I have no right to ask this of you after so many years of silence. It shames me to reach out now only to burden you with this, but I truly have no one else.

  Forgive me. For the silence. For the pain. For leaving without a word.

  But above all, please protect my son.

  With all the love I was too afraid to show,

  —Lif

  Viktor chuckled. What a drama we have here. Well, whatever. He would think about it ter, once he was out of here.

  He slid the folded letter back into the notebook and returned the whole thing to where he had found it. He rehung the picture frame, then gave the room one final sweep, checking for any sign he had been here. Wardrobe closed, bed undisturbed, nothing left out of pce. Then he slipped out, relocked the door, and walked away.

  When he got back to the first floor, he found the pce had gotten much more crowded. People were showing up for lunch, obviously. Cedric would be here soon, and Azran could come down at any moment, so he needed to leave as soon as possible, before someone started asking awkward questions.

  He spotted Nadja leaning against the wall, probably grabbing a moment’s peace before the chaos began. She was wearing the Emberwood Inn’s standard getup. A cream blouse, a deep green bodice ced tight with bck cord cinching her waist, and of course, a long, red skirt that flowed just above her ankles. It didn’t really mean anything, though, since every other woman working in this pce wore the same damn thing.

  A waitress, huh? Viktor could only think of three possibilities.

  The first was that she was a genuine employee of the inn who was hired by the pursuers to sneak into Brynhildr’s room. But he doubted it. There was no way they would entrust such a precious artifact to some random waitress. No, they had to handle the task themselves.

  The second possibility was that one of the pursuers had disguised herself as a waitress, wearing a stolen uniform, and infiltrated the inn. Not impossible, but very unlikely. It was just too reckless. One wrong gnce, and a regur or staff member would notice the unfamiliar face, ask questions, and the whole charade would fall apart.

  That left only one pusible expnation, the third scenario. The pursuer had gotten a job here, working the floor like any other waitress. She was waiting, watching, getting close to her targets without drawing any suspicion.

  If that was the case...

  “It seems the inn’s getting busier by the day,” Viktor said as he strolled up to Nadja.

  “It is. And it’s good for business, I suppose, but...” The woman nodded, a trace of fatigue glinting faintly in the eyes beneath the long shes. “Well, more customers means more work for us, but the pay hasn’t increased much, if at all.”

  She and Cire would get along famously, Viktor thought, grinning to himself. “I’m sure the owner’s hiring more staff to keep up?”

  “He is, but it doesn’t help much.” Nadja let out a soft snort. “Most of the new girls are clueless; some can’t even bance a tray. Still...” She gnced toward the far end of the hall. “At least we’ve got Yvonne now. She’s only been here a week, but she’s sharp. Real sharp. Quick on her feet, good with the customers. Honestly, she’s been a blessing.”

  He followed her gaze and found a busty waitress with blonde hair. Yup, she was definitely new. There was no way he could have forgotten someone like that if he had seen her at least once before.

  One week, huh?

  Sorry, Nadja, Viktor thought, but your blessing won’t be here much longer.

  In one way or another.