Chapter 165: Did they find the culprit?

Morgana hadn’t even finished saying “Nothing” when a thud echoed down the corridor ahead of them—not a real impact, but the heavy sound of boots running in formation.

Damon stopped automatically.

Morgana did too.

Three guards turned the corner at the same time, almost bumping into each other in their haste. The first one raised his hand, signaling for Damon and Morgana to back away.

“You two! Stop right there!”

The voice wasn’t rude, but it had that typical authority of someone who had received direct instructions from the duke and was inwardly panicking.

Morgana raised an eyebrow.

Damon remained absolutely still—neutral, docile. Perfect.

The guards quickly approached and formed a barrier in front of them. All armed. All sweating. All clearly… too nervous to think clearly.

One of them spoke quickly:

“No one leaves these corridors. Direct order. We still have a thief inside the mansion.”

Morgana exhaled, deeply offended.

“I already noticed that,” she said, crossing her arms. “Now, why exactly are you blocking the way? I’m just returning with my escort to the main hall.”

The tallest guard cleared his throat, trying to compose himself at her posture.

“Madam, our orders are clear. Everyone must be redirected to the hall. You cannot circulate in the corridors. The thief could be hiding anywhere. We are conducting a thorough sweep.”

“Yes,” Morgana replied impatiently. “Then let us pass to the hall. That’s literally what I just said we’re doing.”

There was a brief, awkward silence between the guards.

Damon crossed his hands behind his back and glanced sideways—he didn’t laugh, but the line of his lips trembled, almost a suppressed smile.

The guard coughed, composing himself.

“Right. But we need to escort you there. You can’t walk alone.” Morgana turned to Damon, exasperated.

“As if I needed an escort,” she muttered.

Damon shrugged, with that “it’s not that serious” air, trying to soften her irritation.

“They’re just doing their job, Morgana.”

She glared at him.

“Don’t play the reasonable one now.”

He stifled another laugh.

One of the guards, trying not to appear intimidated by her, pointed back to the corridor they had come from.

“Please. Go back the way you came. It’s a security measure.”

Morgana let out a loud sigh, full of elegant anger.

Damon only lightly touched her elbow—a very subtle gesture, almost a silent request for her not to argue with them.

She hesitated… but didn’t pull her arm away.

“Let’s go,” he said calmly. “It’s not worth wasting time arguing.”

Morgana narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously.

“You’re very calm for someone who hates crowds, Demon.”

“It’s just that,” he replied softly, just loud enough for her to hear, “I’ve spent the whole night trying to keep up with your pace. After that… nothing seems difficult anymore.”

She blushed.

Visibly.

She tried to disguise it by quickly turning her face away and walking in the indicated direction, her skirt fluttering like a living irritation.

The guards followed them, forming a small cortege behind them.

Damon walked beside her, step by step, completely composed. Anyone who looked would see only:

A novice knight and his companion being escorted back.

Nothing less.

Nothing more.

And yet… Damon felt every muscle in his body prepared. If anyone asked where he had been the last few minutes, the answer was literally there, walking beside him: Morgana.

She stopped in the middle of the corridor and looked back at the guards.

“How long is this going to last?” she asked impatiently. “I have no intention of being stuck with a hundred hysterical nobles in the lobby.”

“As long as it takes,” replied the guard. “Until we capture the intruder.”

“Capture,” she repeated with venomous sarcasm. “Of course. With this level of impeccable organization…”

Damon whispered:

“Morgana…”

She raised her hand, asking for five seconds of patience. He smiled.

They continued walking.

The corridor, illuminated by golden chandeliers, seemed longer now, each step echoing like a testament to innocence.

Damon walked calmly, but inside…

…he was analyzing everything.

The guard routes.

The orders shouted in the distance.

The closed doors.

The soldiers’ positions in the side corridors.

All of this entering his memory like living maps.

They approached the door that led back to the main hall. Before they entered, one of the guards stretched his arm in front of them, blocking their passage.

“Just a moment.”

Morgana turned her head so quickly it looked like she was going to rip the man’s throat out.

“What now?”

The guard almost stammered.

“P-protocol. We need to register who is returning to the hall.”

“Register?” she snorted. “You’re going to take attendance while a thief is on the loose?” Damon placed his hand on her shoulder.

A firm, calm touch.

Which made the guard swallow hard and Morgana instinctively close her mouth.

He spoke gently—but also with that kind of voice that couldn’t be challenged:

“It’s just a name. Let’s cooperate.”

Morgana slowly turned her neck, facing him with an expression that said, “When we’re alone, you’ll pay for this.”

He smiled.

Without any regret.

The guard opened a notebook.

“Name?”

Morgana replied with absolute elegance:

“Morgana Arven.”

The guard wrote it down so quickly he almost tore the paper. After all… she was one of the owners of that place. How could he not recognize her? “I-I’m sorry, miss,” he replied tremulously.

Morgana looked at him. “Hurry up.”

Damon remained motionless as the guard’s gaze shifted to him. “And you?”

“Damon. I’m an aspiring knight from Arven Academy.”

— You may enter.

The guards opened the double doors of the main hall, leaving a crack.

Morgana entered first, still irritated, her footsteps echoing.

Damon followed her—naturally, without haste.

But before passing through the door, he heard two guards conversing behind him:

— They say the thief is still on the second floor.

— They picked up dirt footprints near the east corridor.

— The duchess is furious. Swearing she saw someone fleeing.

Damon continued walking.

Perfect.

This meant that no one would suspect he was already downstairs, calmly walking beside Morgana.

When the door closed behind him, sealing them once more inside the great hall, Morgana sighed loudly and turned to face him.

— That was ridiculous. Completely ridiculous — she complained, straightening her posture. “If they were going to lock half the world in here, at least they should do it with some competence.”

Damon smiled, putting his hands in his pockets.

“At least we’re back.”

She looked at him with that expression that said she was trying to assess something about him. Something small, subtle… but that she couldn’t quite decipher.

“You’re very…” she narrowed her eyes, “…serene. That’s suspicious.”

Damon tilted his head, feigning surprise.

“Just because I’m calm?”

“Yes,” she insisted. “Normally, when things get crazy, you… become different. More aggressive. Now you’re acting like nothing’s happening.”

He brought his face closer to hers—just a little—and murmured:

“Maybe it’s because… I was expecting you.”

Her expression froze.

For three full seconds.

Then she violently turned her face away.

“Hmph… idiot.”

But he didn’t back down.

The hall was filled with nervous voices, guards closing doors, and nobles murmuring conspiracy theories.

And there, in the midst of it all…

Damon and Morgana began walking together through the crowded hall—he completely innocent in everyone’s eyes, and she completely unaware of how much she was protecting him simply by being by his side.

The hunt for the thief had begun.

And he was two steps away from Arven’s most perceptive noblewoman.

Calm.

Elegant.

And dangerously comfortable.

Morgana advanced through the hall as if she owned the place—and, technically, she did. The guards tried to organize the crowd, but as soon as she walked, people automatically moved aside, making way.

Damon followed beside her, discreet, but always a step behind. From afar, they seemed like just a knight escorting an important lady.

Up close… anyone more sensitive would feel the electric tension between them.

When they reached the center of the hall, a messenger from the duke climbed onto the makeshift stage and tapped the magic microphone, his voice echoing:

— Gentlemen! The situation is under control!

“We ask that you remain in the hall until further notice.”

A murmur swept through the room.

Morgana let out an indignant sound.

“’Under control,’ of course,” she muttered. “If that’s control, I’m a pink fairy.”

Damon chuckled softly.

Morgana glared at him.

“Don’t laugh. I’m annoyed.”

“I know,” he replied, still smiling. “I understand.”

She opened her mouth to resume her lecture… but didn’t have time.

From the other side of the hall, someone shouted:

“WE FOUND THE THIEF!”

The shout cut through the hall like a blade.

Damon froze.

Morgana did too—but for completely different reasons.

People around them stirred, murmuring, climbing onto chairs, trying to see something. Guards rushed towards the main staircase, forcing their way through.

And Damon…

…stood absolutely still.

But, inside, three thoughts raced against each other:

1. He was the thief.

2. So who the hell did they “find”?

3. And why the HELL was this happening now?

Morgana, beside him, narrowed her eyes like a predator.

“What was that?” she murmured, already preparing to run towards the commotion.

The guards appeared at the top of the main staircase like a clumsy avalanche—three of them carrying someone by the arms and legs, the body hanging like a sack of potatoes. The entire hall erupted in a wave of whispers.

Morgana’s eyes widened, and she took a step forward.

“Did they catch anyone yet…?” she murmured, perplexed.

Damon, beside her, stood still.

Absolutely still.

It was as if his body had gone into emotional quarantine while his mind ran a marathon.

When the guards descended the last step and the chandelier’s light illuminated the supposed “criminal’s” face, Damon finally saw who it was.

An ordinary man.

One of the waiters.

His face was covered in dust, his clothes were crumpled, he was completely passed out—maybe even unconscious from fright—while being displayed as a trophy.

And that’s when…

…Damon almost choked to death with pure laughter.

Not outwardly.

Outwardly, he remained the same elegant and composed statue beside Morgana, with a perfectly neutral expression.

But inwardly…

Inwardly he was banging on the floor, laughing until he was breathless.

“They caught the waiter who ran off to vomit behind the kitchens…? No… it can’t be… oh, by the gods, those amateurs…”

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