Chapter 109: The End of a Duchy

The women began to compose themselves, an almost imperceptible movement taking over the room: the fear that had kept them immobile until then transformed into a practical urgency. The scarred woman who had spoken earlier—whose name was Maris, according to the others—approached Ester with unsteady steps, her eyes still swollen from crying, but with a lucidity that came from years of necessity.

“There’s more,” she whispered, as if confessing a dangerous secret. “He kept things. Places the guards didn’t even know about.”

Ester tilted her head, assessing. Damon watched Maris’s face, searching for any sign of lying. There was none; only fatigue and a short, hard determination.

“Show me,” Ester said.

Maris led them through smaller corridors, her steps measured, past antechambers that smelled of mildew and melancholy. Some of the maids joined the procession, eyes shining with a mixture of hope and fear. They knew the castle like no one else—where the Duke ate, where the servants cleaned up after parties, which doors were just facades. Where, for example, the Duke ordered the burning of papers he shouldn’t have burned.

They stopped before a stained tapestry; behind it, Maris pushed a loose stone. A lever was revealed; an ancient mechanism creaked, and a narrow door opened—a hollow, dust-filled hole.

“Here,” Maris said. “He liked to hide what he needed to forget.”

Ester lit a short candle and, gloved, reached into the cavity. She withdrew first a moldy envelope, then a small leather box. Damon stood nearby, eyes watchful, the ice veins on his wrists still faintly visible as he moved with calculated gestures so that his mana wouldn’t escape.

Inside the box were broken seals and a silver chain with a pendant: a small locket with a picture of a girl. The chain was stained, and the face in the portrait smiled innocently—a painful contradiction. Ester touched the locket and felt a knot grow in her stomach; the gesture was simple, human, and the whole room seemed to slow its breath.

“Children,” Maris murmured. “He took what he wanted. Sometimes they didn’t return. Sometimes they came from neighboring villages with promises of work.”

One of the other servants, a small woman named Elen, knelt and pulled a rolled-up piece of paper from her pocket. They were notes—transportation schedules, boat names, a scribbled map indicating a route to the river, with markings that corresponded to the dates of the disappearances.

Damon took the map delicately, as if holding something too flammable. His eyes ran over the markings; the blue coldness from before pulsed for a moment in his fingers, but he clutched the paper between his hands and controlled the sensation. Control required will—and shameful silence.

“That will do,” he said quietly. “These documents, these dates… they’ll be evidence. If we show the routes, the names, the payments, no one will be able to call this an accident.”

Ester had already stacked the box, the removed letters, and the medallion in a leather bag. She looked at the women who were now rummaging through shelves and drawers with slow, calculated precision: they thirsted for justice, or at least something resembling justice.

They brought more: a municipal guard’s notebook with falsified entries; receipts for purchases of components that couldn’t be justified by the house’s diet; drafts of rituals with terms only a madman or a desperate scholar would sign. There were lists of names, of “donations to the house” that, in simple terms, were transactions for the purchase of poisons and binding materials.

With each new find, Damon’s face hardened. It wasn’t just horror; It was the mathematical clarity of monstrosity: everything came from orders, approvals, seals. Power institutionalized in spreadsheets and seals.

“There’s one more place,” Maris said, her voice trembling. “A room no one was supposed to see. He said it was for wool storage, but…” she swallowed, “there’s a door in the north cellar, behind barrels. No one passed through it for pleasure.”

Ester studied her face; there was truth there, and also fear of remembering. “Show us.”

They returned to the cellar, a maze of shadows and barrels filled with the smell of alcohol. The door was small, reinforced by corroded ironwork. Maris, with calloused hands, pushed; it creaked. A low space opened, and the candlelight fled, making the blood on the walls appear darker.

Inside, small papers were taped to the walls—crumpled, childish drawings, scribbles from small hands—and, beyond, a chipped piece of board with cut marks. In one corner, a small, broken bed; in another, small cords and fragments of clothing. Everything spoke in silence.

Damon couldn’t contain the noise that rose in his throat—a sound that wasn’t just revulsion, but something more primal. He approached slowly, his blue eyes trembling under the glare that made them almost inhuman for a second. The air smelled of wet rags and stored fear.

“He kept them here,” Maris said with a sigh. “He said they were ’kept for future agreements.’ He spoke of it like an animal in a pen.”

Ester approached and ran her fingers along the board; she picked up a small piece of fabric with childish embroidery. The sheer softness of the cloth nearly overwhelmed her. Taking a deep breath, she put the fabric in her bag. “Show the others,” she ordered. “We’ll record everything. Photos, testimonies. We won’t leave any questions in line.”

Gradually, the maids became a team: the older ones cleaned and put away, the younger ones collected letters and labels, others drew sighs and counted names. Ester delegated with coolness and precision. Damon, when he wasn’t gathering papers, watched the women’s faces; there was something he wanted to record: a name, an expression, a way of holding pain without breaking.

“Who’s going with us?” he asked, as they returned to the main room, carrying the weight of small truths.

Ester looked at those who still trembled. “Whoever wants to go to Mirath,” she said, “will be protected. The Countess will organize shelter. Whoever prefers to stay here will take care of the papers and objects that need to disappear. But some of you will need to show your faces; without witnesses, the papers are worth little. We chose three to go. Maris, Elen… and young Nara,” she pointed. “She saw the map of the river.”

The three of them approached, fear curling around hope. Damon draped a blanket over Maris’s shoulders with a rough, almost paternal gesture. “You will be heard,” he said gravely. “I guarantee it.”

Maris looked him in the eye, and there was a plea there that didn’t need to be spoken: make this matter.

Ester took a final inventory: the volumes stacked, the most compromising objects packed, the medallion wrapped in cloth, the parchment with the blue inscription. “We must hurry,” she said. “The story we tell must have as little semblance of revenge as possible. Be factual. Be cold. If we are honest in our evidence, honesty in our words will be less necessary.”

Damon nodded. He still felt the chill in his bones—not just from the aftermath of the punch, but from something that was shifting inside him. He watched his fingers, as if hoping the chill there would be revealing. Ester noticed the gesture, and for a second, the hardness in her face—the automatic response to horror—softened, just a little.

“Let’s go,” she said. “Organize what you can. Burn any seals that might be linked to innocent people; remove anything that makes them too strong. Leave looting trails in the public areas—break some windows, scatter broken objects. But don’t destroy the truth.”

The maids obeyed with a mixture of vigor and relief. Doing something practical was like delivering justice in advance. While they worked, Damon packed the final pieces into the bags and mentally prepared to leave. He gathered the witnesses, adjusted a cloak over Maris’s shoulders, and checked, once again, the stability of the mana under her skin.

When they mounted their horses, the first footprints in the snow were still visible. Ester took one last look at the mansion—not with resentment, nor with triumph, but as if seeing a wound that must be tended to prevent infection.

“Mirath will wait,” she said, tightening her grip on the reins. “And Elizabeth will do the rest.”

Damon looked at the waving women, fragile as flags, and felt something that was a mixture of guilt and promise. “I will do what I can,” he murmured.

…

Elizabeth’s study was silent. Only the rhythmic sound of her quill scratching paper and the soft crackle of the fireplace filled the room. It was night—the kind when the city slept in the cold and the nobles feigned tranquility at their banquets.

Countess Elizabeth Wykes, leaning on her dark oak desk, was reading a recent report from the southern detachments. The news about Paraphal was becoming increasingly disturbing: internal corruption, missing shipments, people disappearing.

She had already suspected there was something more rotten than appearances suggested, but she had no proof. At least, that was why she sent Ester. For internal reconnaissance.

When she looked up to change the inkwell, she noticed the figure. The door, which she swore she had closed, opened without a sound.

A woman dressed in black crossed the threshold—tall, her movements smooth as a shadow. Her wet cloak dripped onto the wood.

“Ma’am,” she said, kneeling. “Urgent news from Paraphal.”

Elizabeth frowned. “Speak.”

The woman looked up, her voice firm but with a note of incredulity. “Duke Paraphal is dead.”

For a second, Elizabeth didn’t react. The quill slipped from her fingers, falling with a dry thud.

“Dead, huh?” she repeated slowly. “I imagine that foolish man tried to kill Ester. What an idiot.” We probably have everything we need now.

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