Chapter 167: Next steps

The house was silent when Damon pushed open the door.

Silent… but welcoming. A stark contrast to the suffocating chaos of the ball. Here, the air was warm, scented with herbs, garlic browned in butter, and the distant sound of bubbling pots.

He let out a sigh—a short, discreet, almost imperceptible one. A sigh of relief.

He had succeeded.

The letter was safe inside his coat.

And no one suspected a thing.

As he closed the door behind him, he heard light footsteps in the hallway.

“Damon?”

It was Aria.

She appeared in the kitchen archway, her hair haphazardly tied back, her apron stained with sauce, and a wooden spoon in her hand. Her blue eyes widened when she saw him.

For a second she just stood there, staring, before her expression softened into a worried smile.

“You took your time…” she said, approaching quickly. “I… I was worried.”

He tilted his head, amused, unable to help it.

“It’s good to know someone cares.”

Aria grimaced indignantly.

“Of course I care! You disappear, don’t send word, come back late…” she moved closer, examining him as if looking for cuts or scratches. “At least you’re in one piece.”

He held up the sealed envelope.

“I brought what you needed.”

And then, from the back of the kitchen, Ester’s cold—yet calm—voice was heard:

“Good job.”

Unlike Aria, Ester didn’t run to him.

She didn’t smile.

She didn’t show shock or relief.

She simply appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, as if he had returned five minutes after going to the bakery.

She wore a loose nightshirt, her hair tied up in a bun that was too perfect for someone who had been cooking.

Her silver eyes examined Damon from head to toe.

“You weren’t seen?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Do I look like I’ve been seen?”

Ester didn’t answer. She just turned her back and went back to the stove, stirring some pot as if organizing a robbery operation were as trivial as adjusting the seasoning.

Aria gave him a light slap on the arm.

“Don’t provoke her… She’s been waiting the whole time.”

Ester, with her back turned, replied immediately:

“That’s a lie.”

Aria smiled slightly.

Damon almost laughed—almost—but the sound ended up stuck in his chest.

It was strange to return to that.

Strange… and comfortable.

He followed the two to the kitchen.

*

The dining room was already set: table set, freshly baked bread in a basket, a steaming broth in the middle, soft lighting. Nothing extravagant. Nothing worthy of a noble ball.

But cozy.

Real.

Aria went back to stirring a pot, humming like a satisfied cat.

Ester placed plates on the table with almost military precision.

Damon leaned against the door, watching.

“So… you two cooked together?”

Aria blinked.

“Of course. I wanted to make something nice for when you got back.”

Ester, without looking at him:

“And I wanted to stop her from burning the house down.”

Aria threw a chopped onion towards Ester—missing, naturally—and Damon let out a low laugh.

The first real laugh since entering the Arven mansion.

*

When they sat down, the table was silent for a few moments.

Aria served Damon with too much care, as if she were afraid he would disappear again if he looked away.

Ester drank her tea, observing his every gesture as if evaluating a mission report.

Finally, Aria spoke:

“You’re different.”

He looked up.

“Different how?”

She placed her spoon on the table. “More…” she searched for the word with difficulty “tense. Tired. As if he had carried something heavy.”

He looked at her for a few seconds.

And then he smiled — the soft, slow, dangerous smile he always used when he wanted to deflect.

“I did carry it. He raised the envelope again.” I brought what you need.

Ester immediately reached out her hand.

“Give it to me.”

He didn’t hand it over immediately.

He just observed the two of them.

Aria, worried.

Ester, composed.

They both waited for him.

He placed the letter in Ester’s hands.

And she held it as if it were a sacred artifact.

“Great,” she murmured. “Now we can begin.”

Aria frowned.

“Begin what?”

Ester and Damon exchanged a brief glance.

Ester replied:

“The next step.”

Aria blinked.

“Next…?”

Damon rested his arms on the table, looking calmly at the two of them.

“The ball is over,” he said. “But the game… has just begun.”

And Aria, without realizing it, shuddered.

As if she understood—instinctively—that he wasn’t being poetic.

He was being literal.

“Ester…” Damon looked at her, his voice low. “Has Elizabeth already sent you the next order?”

The usual shadow of irritation crossed the girl’s face, but she sighed.

“No.” She held up a folded envelope. “But she asked me to read this to you as soon as we found a safe place.”

Morgana crossed her arms, leaning against the wall, her eyes attentive but silent — clearly interested in the matter, but maintaining a “I don’t care” pose.

Ester unfolded the paper.

The seal was broken.

The edges, irregular.

The symbol… unmistakable.

Damon felt a pang of conscience, remembering the moment he stole it — and the duchess’s desperate reaction when she realized it was missing.

Ester cleared her throat and began to read:

“Special invitation — mandatory attendance at the inner circle. Date: next full moon. Location: Arven underworld, ruins district. Credential included. Item of interest confirmed.”

She lowered the paper, looking at Damon with a tense expression.

Morgana raised an eyebrow.

“Item of interest?” she murmured. “Sounds… dangerous. Or expensive. Or both.”

Damon clicked his tongue.

“It’s the duchess. It has to be.” He ran a hand through his hair. “The way she reacted when she realized someone had taken the letter… it looked like the world was about to collapse on her.”

Ester nodded slowly.

“Probably.” Her fingers slid along the side of the letter. “Especially considering the duke isn’t even in Arven.”

Morgana frowned, surprised.

“The duke is gone? For weeks?”

“Months.” Ester corrected. “He went to a meeting with nobles from the borders. The duchess took over everything while he’s away.”

Damon let out a short, humorless laugh.

“So she’s neck-deep in this.”

He snatched the letter from Ester’s hands, turning it over. “And she seemed quite desperate not to let this leak. Why on earth would an invitation leave someone in that state?”

Ester crossed her arms, staring at him with the serious expression she assumed when she was about to say something unpleasant.

“Because this isn’t just an invitation.”

She held out her hand.

“Give it to me.”

Damon handed it back.

Ester opened it again, turned it over, and showed the boy and the heiress Arven a detail they hadn’t seen before:

A second embossed symbol, almost invisible.

A broken horn.

Morgana’s eyes widened slightly.

“…ah.”

She looked at Damon. — This is a black market auction.

The air seemed to grow heavier.

Damon tilted his head.

“Black market auction?”

Ester answered. Her tone was neutral, but there was a thread of discomfort there—typical of someone forced to deal with filth, even if she didn’t like it.

“A clandestine event where they buy and sell everything that is illegal, forbidden, cursed, or politically risky.”

“She took a deep breath.” Forbidden weapons, ancient artifacts, slaves, rare creatures, contracts… lives.

Morgana added:

“And blood favors.”

Silence swallowed the corridor.

Damon fixed his gaze on the symbol.

An invitation to it.

Something the duchess desperately needed to hide.

Something an absent duke shouldn’t even know existed.

He slowly raised his gaze to Ester.

“…what exactly is being auctioned off in this? Ester turned the card over again, running her finger under a coded passage.”

“Lot D-13. Entity sealed in the circle’s archives. Released for observation only, final sale not authorized to the commoners.”

Morgana held her breath.

“What… what kind of entity?”

Ester continued reading.

“Historical relevance: High. Risk: Unclassifiable.”

…

The darkness did not sit still.

It breathed.

A slow, heavy exhale that came from the stone itself — or from the thing trapped inside it.

For a long time, there was only silence.

And then… a faint sound.

A soft, broken wetness, like the trembling breath of someone who had tried to stop crying so many times that her voice had forgotten how to make noise.

Inside the pitch-black chamber, curled against the farthest corner of the cell, a woman sat with her knees pressed to her chest. Chains — thin but inscribed with runes that burned faintly — circled her wrists like cold bracelets.

Her hair, long and tangled, clung to her cheeks each time she shook.

She whispered.

Again.

And again.

“…why…?”

Her voice cracked like glass.

“…why did it have to be me…?”

She wasn’t screaming. Screaming took strength.

She didn’t have that anymore.

A tear slipped down her chin, then another, falling on the dusty floor like drops of silver.

“I didn’t choose… any of this…” she murmured, squeezing her eyes shut as though trying to erase herself. “I didn’t choose to be born in this world… in this body… with this blood…”

Her fingers tightened in her hair.

Her breath quivered.

“I just… want to be free…”

Another breath, trembling, raw.

“…I just want to be free again…”

The chains hummed — a low, oppressive vibration, reacting to her rising distress. Runes shimmered weakly, as if warning her not to get emotional.

As if she hadn’t learned that lesson a thousand times.

She sank her forehead against her knees.

“I have to find her…” she whispered. “I have to… I have to find the Queen…”

Her voice broke.

“…the Queen of all demons…”

The cold stones around her pulsed faintly with restrained power — not hers, but the seal’s.

She lifted her head slowly, eyes glowing the faintest trace of unnatural light — starved, flickering, as if life itself were leaking out of her.

Her whispers grew softer.

“Please… I need to go to her…”

A metallic echo rang above her.

A distant door.

Voices approaching — muted, cautious, and terrified.

The woman flinched, backing deeper into the darkness like a wounded animal.

Her voice was barely a breath now.

“Please… let me go…”

The footsteps grew louder.

Whoever was coming… wasn’t supposed to be here.

And whatever she was…

The world was about to try selling her.

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