A young woman entered the door. Her raven black hair, tied into a ponytail at the back, swayed with her gait as she approached a desk varnished wood, holding a stack of papers between her arms.

"My Lord, here are the shipment manifests for the last month," she said.

Behind the desk sat a portly man pinching between his fingers a long, wooden pipe with decorative golden trims. "Very good," he said, "let's have 'em."

"Of course." Her cravat hung down as she leaned over to lay the documents onto the desk.

Meanwhile, his gaze followed her hips as she bent over his desk. Taking a breath, the bowl of his pipe glowed a warm red. He then let out a puff of smoke and grinned.

Tsk. What a pig. Despite her utter contempt, none of it showed in her appearance, and she kept to a cool, straight face.

He then ran through the papers one after the other at a breakneck pace that suggested he hardly scanned them as he put them down. After running his eyes through the last one, he tapped his pipe on the rim of his ashtray and said, "Good work, as usual. Oh and this Jizzarian stuff is right good. What was it called again?"

She glanced at him with sheer indifference. "I believe it is called Cannabis, my Lord."

"Hm. Hm." He took in another long, deep whiff, fanning the ember into a bright red glow. "Ahhhh... Very good. Say, if you ever chance upon one of these again, you know who to call first."

"Of course, My Lord."

"By the way, there was this guff I heard from Lord De-"

A sudden knock on the door interrupted their conversation. The voice of a young woman soon followed, saying, "My Lord, you have a visitor."

At once, the passive, contented expression on his face turned sour. "What!? Who is it?"

"Lord Christoff is here to meet you."

Her eyes narrowed as she shifted her gaze towards the door. Hm...?

"Ah!" In an instant, his mood swung the other way. Clapping his hands together, he then said, "Is that so? Well, let him in!"

"Understood."

The knob turned with a deep clack.

A cane appeared first, and with a light tap, it hit the stone floor. A middle aged man soon followed, dressed in a genteel attire consisting of a slick black jacket and pants over a frilled white shirt. "My good friend." He said, with a clear baritone voice.

Count Christoff of Morterdale... he's a close associate of Count Rosteforough over here... But last I heard, he should have been out with his army to subjugate the badlands north of his territory. What is he doing here?

"Ahh ha hah! It's quite rare for you to visit!" said the stout old man. His belly sagged stood up to meet his friend with a handshake.

"Indeed, indeed. It has been too long. Forgive me. The campaign at the Haverish front has kept me rather busy."

"Haverish? Is that what they're calling it now?"

"Yes, the name of the badlands has been decided. Once the monsters occupying it has been cleaned out, 'Haverish' will be added to the territory of the Kingdom."

"Haverish, huh? After the hero who founded the Easter Empire...?"

"Well, our Kingdom and the Empire does share a bit of history..."

"Hmph. Anyway, it just doesn't sit well with me."

With a mild chuckle, Count Christoff then turned to the young woman, who, at that point had been feeling quite out of place admist their discussion. "And a pleasure to see you too, once more, Miss Secretary." He smiled at her. "I trust things have settled down since the passing of Lady Farleigh?"

Her ponytail drooped down the side as she lowered her head. "Thank you for your concern, Lord Christoff. The village of Dellwick returned to normal rather quickly. No doubt this is thanks to the late Lady's long-standing good governance and His Majesty, the King's guiding hand."

"Humility." He tapped his cane on the floor as he turned his gaze to his friend. "A fine quality, is it not, my friend?"

"Hmph. Diligence is what counts." Count Rosteforough then turned around and returned behind his desk. "That and loyalty. Well, either way, I have nothing to complain about."

"Thank you for your kind words, my Lords," she said, with her head still down. I should take this chance to excuse myself. This pig was about to ask me for something earlier; best not let him add to my workload... Lifting her head towards Count Rosteforough, she placed her hand upon her chest and said, "My Lord, please excuse me. If there is nothing else, then I still have other duties to attend to."

"Hm? Mm." He nodded.

With a final bow, she finally went on her way.

Count Christoff followed her with his gaze as she passed him by. Afterwards, he turned to his friend and said, "She truly is diligent, is she not?"

"Mm."

The door closed behind her with a light thud.

She sighed.

Looking from side to side, the hallway greeted her with a yawning emptiness.

Huh... the guards are away? Shift change?

Her lips crawled outwards, forming a sinister grin at the corners of her mouth. She then leaned her back softly against the door, pressing her ear against it.

"Anyway, what did you come to talk about?" Count Rosteforough said, his nasally voice muffled by the door, but still clearly audible.

Christoff held his cane in front of him and stood with a dignified posture.

Brushing away a stray lock of hair from his forehead, he said, "Martin, in truth, I came to consult with you about something."

"Hm?" His friend, Martin Rosteforough, sat back onto his backrest and rubbed his chin. "Go ahead."

"Regarding that new Lady of His Royal Peerage."

"Aah..." He let out an exasperated breath. "That upstart... Baroness...what-was-her-name." He snapped his fingers as he tried to recall.

"Sylphia. The Heroine, apparently."

"Yeah. That."

"I was fortunate enough to attend his Majesty's summoning ceremony, you see, and I was able to capture a glance of our dear Heroine. You'd have to see it to believe it, but it seems our Heroine is but a child."

"That so?" Count Rosteforough's expression further soured into a full frown. "What was his Highness thinking, making a Lord out of the Heroine? And a child at that!? I just don't understand!"

"It seems she was also endorsed by some of the royal bloc, including the Duke of Ealdshire."

He snorted. "I could have guessed. If anyone was going to grease one of the King's schemes into the realm, then it would either be that greaseball Saunders, or Gregors.

You're not one to talk, my friend.

Christoff smirked. "Ah, speaking of Lord Gregors, have you heard?"

"What? I haven't heard anything."

"He's apparently been pining for the attention of her Royal Highness..."

"E-" The corner of his mouth shot up in disgust. "The princess? Is he an idiot?"

"Well..." The old man shrugged.

"Just because he's a Lord doesn't-" The man's belly expanded and contracted visibly as he heaved out a sigh. "He's probably as old as the King, isn't he?"

"Hah. No, no. Though he might look like it."

"Hahah. Yes, he does... what is this Kingdom coming to?" He shook his head. "Anyway, about that upstart."

"The Heroine."

"Yes."

"Hmm... there is certainly something going on behind the curtains. But what?"

"You don't think they're planning to expand their influence even more, do you?"

"Hm. That is always a possibility." Christoff paced around the room. The clacking of his boots lent a sense of urgency to the words he spoke. "Using a deified figure as the heroine as a political tool, being a gullible child nonetheless, the royalists are possibly aiming to consolidate popular opinion towards themselves." Then, with a tap of his cane, he emphasized his next words. "And thus, power."

"Tsk. Schemers." Rosteforough crossed his arms. "The rumors of the heroes coming back have always been fishy to me. I've never heard of such a ridiculous thing. Why would they be summoned now!?"

"Precedent aside, one thing is clear - our Londinium now has a heroine walking its lands." His eyes narrowed. "And if it's true that all of the other nations have also summoned theirs..."

"Heh." A wily smirk appeared on the stout man's lips. "That means my 4th Linden and your Azure Knights are going to bring a lot of influence for us integrationists."

"Indeed. In fact, that might exactly be it. With the coming of unstable times, the royalists might have hedged their bets not on the strength of their armies, but on the power of the heroine."

"I see! Tsk. So this was all a ploy to curb our influence after all!"

"At least, that's the conclusion I have arrived towards."

Rosteforough grimaced. "Damn them..."

"Well, that is simply how it is. Of course, they would take full advantage of the situation if they could. Now, it is up to us to turn it in our favor."

"Oh? Do you have a plan?"

"Well..." Christoff closed his eyes and took a deep breath. With a cleansed mind, he paced around and thought deep and long. When he turned to face the door behind him, however, his concentration broke. Something was off. The light filtering in from outside through the small indentation at the bottom of the door was cut into two by a shadow.

Hmm... curious. He cast a sinister gaze upon the door. An interloper? And so audacious as to do so in a Lord's own Castle? Who? Certainly, someone who has access in the first place. A spy. And for whom? Someone who wishes to eavesdrop on Martin's private conversation. Or perhaps mine?

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

In that case, I cannot reveal anything that could endanger me.

His attention then slid to the corners of his eyes, towards his friend, waiting impatiently for his answer. And for the moment, him as well.

Soon enough, Rosteforough's limited patience ran out. His voice carried an abrasive tone as he said, "Well?"

"I'm sorry, my friend, but even I haven't thought that far ahead."

"H-huh..."

"I simply came here to inform you of what I know."

"I see..." With a deflated expression, he slid back into his seat and relaxed. "Well, I appreciate it, Gerard. You know my door is always open for you."

"Same to you, my friend." A subtle smile fell on his lips. "It was a pleasure. Well, then, my carriage awaits."

"Of course. Take care."

As he made his way to the door, he noticed that the shadow had disappeared. Once more light shone fully upon the floor beneath, tinting the grey stone with the yellowish glow of the afternoon sun.

He opened the door.

He looked from side to side ans saw not a single soul in the hallway.

Sharp...

Popping his hat back over his head, he proceeded down the hall, maintaining his dignified gait all the way. My, my, you seem to have a rather dangerous individual roaming your halls, my friend. Heaven forbid I get strung up along with you.

The woman let out a sigh.

That was close... he noticed my presence back then, didn't he...?

Down the hill she went, back to the town of Linden, at the foot of Castle Morgh. The keep itself stood at the hilltop, surrounded by walls with towers and bastions dotting the shallow incline to the primary gate.

I should be more careful around that man...

While lost in thought, she blankly pulled her identification seal to the guards at the foot of the hill, and allowed her to pass through the castle's gatehouse, and enter back into Linden. Perched at the bottom of the hill, the town bustled with life as dozens of soldiers marched down its streets, mingling naturally with the townspeople.

So it is true, after all - the rumors of the heroes' return. I'd dismissed it as bored people making up fantastic stories, but if even the Lords are seriously considering it... Count Christoff even mentioned that he'd seen the heroine himself.

She adjusted her glasses.

The heroine... I wonder what kind of person she is...

If she was given a noble title... I wonder if I could find a way to get into her good graces somehow. Maybe then, I wouldn't need to bother myself with scum like the Lord of this town. She sighed. As if. Something so convenient couldn't possibly exist. Not in this world.

As she approached the local stables, a hand suddenly fell on her shoulder.

"Miss, that pretty face of yours is wasted with a sigh." The voice of a young man entered her ears. It was a familiar voice she's heard before, but not often.

At that same moment, her sharp eyes turned to her side, glaring at the man in the red bandana standing beside her.

"Wah, as unfriendly as ever..."

"Only to people who act too friendly, no matter how many times I tell them to stop it."

"Heheheh..." With a crooked grin on his face, he scratched his head. "Sorry, sorry. I can't help it, see?"

"What do you want, Albert? I told you don't want any stolen junk anymore."

"I told you those weren't stolen!" Cranking himself back, he then cleared his throat and said, "No, no, that's not what I'm selling you this time."

Her eye twitched. "This time?"

"A-he-hem!" he loudly said, without pretending that he was just clearing his throat anymore, "I know you travel a lot, Miss Secretary, and boy, have I got just the item for you!"

"I'm not buying stolen goods."

"Let's leave that already!" His voice took a high pitched squeal as he turned around and pulled from his cart a large, rectangular case with a lock and handle. "Look!"

"A briefcase...? Pass. I already have one of those."

Though she already resumed walking, the man chased after her and squawked, "Wait! This isn't just any ordinary briefcase!"

She sighed. "Stop pestering me."

"Just hear me out! I swear you'll regret it if you miss out on this!"

She clicked her tongue. "I already regret taking this street on my way back."

"So you have nothing to lose, right!? Just hear me out."

"You're too desperate, it's disgusting."

"Look, I'm doing you a favor, right?" He said with a wink. "Just a couple of minutes. I swear you'll love this."

She gurgled as her irritation finally overflowed her tolerance. But rather than blow her top, she took in a deep breath and calmed herself down. It'll probably be faster to just hear him and then blow him off than to continue this charade... With crossed arms, she finally faced him and said, with a nasty look in her eyes, "You have exactly two minutes."

He pumped his fist inwards.

Immediately, he pulled the briefcase in front of him and gave it a tap. "Alright - real quick. What isn't this? Well, this isn't your ordinary briefcase. Watch." He then opened it up, unlatching the two metal locks on either side of the handle. Then, he pulled it open and showed the inside to the secretary. "Lotsa space. Extendable. This baby can fit more things than you think it could."

When she took a look inside, however, there appeared to be an orb that gave off a mellow blue glow. "What's that? Is that yours?"

"Ah! Sharp. As expected. That's exactly why I thought you'd be the perfect match."

She rolled her eyes. Oh, please.

"See, this isn't your ordinary briefcase, ma'am." He then flipped a couple of latches on the lower sides of the case. "Boom. Here comes the magic. I swear, this will blow your mind." He then took her hand and pulled her along. "Please take a seat right here."

"Hey! What do you think you're doing!?"

"You need to see it to believe it, I swear!"

He sat her down on a chair beside his cart and then put the briefcase on her lap.

"What the hell are you making me do?"

"Magic, Miss Secretary, nothing less than magic." He then produced a crumpled piece of paper, a bottle of ink and a quill from his waist pouch. "I knew you could write, and I knew you travelled a lot. One plus one makes two, and you plus this briefcase, Miss Secretary, makes magic!"

She winced. "What are you talking about...?"

"Boom." He placed all of them on top of the brief case and switched back the latches on the sides of the case. "Please. Go ahead."

"Huh...?"

"Try writing on it."

She furled her brows. "Are you kidding me? I can do this with any flat case."

"A-a-ah." He waved his finger at her. "Just try it."

Heaving a sigh, she finally gave up and scribbled random words on the paper. Yeah, that's paper, alright.

"How is it, Miss Secretary?"

She replied in a monotone, "Yeah, I can write on paper on a flat surface."

"Ohoho." His lips curled up. "But did you know I've been shaking the briefcase since you started?"

She flinched. "Huh?"

"Heheh. Please excuse me." He then lifted the briefcase up, his hands slung underneath. "You see, this is not just any ordinary briefcase. It's a briefcase made for a busy woman such as yourself." With his hands, he wobbled the briefcase from underneath, but despite his movements, the top half remained level, the utensils she left on it - the quill, the paper and the bottle of ink - remaining completely undisturbed throughout.

Her eyes widened.

"You read a lot. You write a lot. As a secretary, that's life, right? But at the same time, you travel a lot. As expected of a successful woman such as yourself. But you very well can't do all of them at the same time." He smirked. "Well, now you can. With this. The stabilized case and worktable. Brought to you exclusively by Albert's Roving Tradepost." After completing his demonstration, he set the case back down onto the woman's lap. Not a single drop of ink was spilled.

Amazing...

It's amazing, but... She sharpened her gaze at him. "How did you obtain something like this?"

He flinched.

I thought so. She sighed. "How much?"

"A-aaah! Hahaha, for you, Miss Secretary, I'm offering it at a low, low price of just fifty shillings!"

"Hmph." She smirked. Putting down the case on the ground beside her, she then stood up, ran her finger from his neck up to his chin, and leaned in to his ear. "How much?"

"E-e-eeeh? F-for..."

With a sultry grin, she whispered, "You know what the penalty for fencing is in Londinium, right?"

He swallowed his breath. And with a weak, trembling voice, he whimpered, "thir-"

"How. Much?"

His eyes glazed over. "T-twenty shillings, ma'am..."

The corners of her mouth curled up. "I'll take it."

Taking the magic briefcase, the quill and the bottle of ink with her, the woman happily bid goodbye to the merchant and boarded the next wagon out of Linden. Though her account was many silver coins in the red, she felt light at heart. In that small wagon, where she sat shoulder to shoulder with strangers riding the same way, she set her newest toy on her lap. As she closed her eyes, she allowed a tiny smile to settle upon her lips. She soon drifted off, in spite of the turbulent ride, amused at the strange feeling on her forearms draped over the case, seemingly floating in midair.