As they climbed back up the spiral staircase, Silas paused. "Bonereghard, we need to talk about Diog."

The skeletal butler turned, monocle catching the flickering lamplight. "Ah. You've realized the issue."

"He's still E-ranked," Silas said. "Even when he recovers, he's just a cub. Against what we just saw in those archives..."

"Indeed." Bonereghard led them to Silas's study. "Mythic potential is not the same as mythic power. The Fenrir cub, while impressive for his rank, is currently no match for what's coming."

Inside the study, they found Silas Junior attempting to devour a leather-bound tome. Bonereghard plucked the slug-rat away with obvious distaste.

"And this," he said, holding Silas Junior at arm's length, "will certainly not suffice as protection. Charming as his appetite for literature may be."

"How long until Diog reaches his next form?"

"Months, at minimum. Perhaps longer." Bonereghard set Silas Junior down with a wet plop. "Growth cannot be rushed, even for mythic creatures. Each form must be mastered before the next can emerge."

Silas slumped in his chair. "We don't have months. Not with Kelso moving against us."

"Precisely why we need to consider alternatives." Bonereghard began pacing, his skeletal frame casting strange shadows. "The archives contain several entities that could serve as temporary guardians while Diog develops."

"Something that won't demand my soul as payment?"

"There are... less costly options." Bonereghard's tone suggested this was a relative term. "The Bronze Guardian, for instance, requires only weekly offerings of iron ore. The Storm Hawk accepts payment in weather - a day of rain for a day of service."

"And they're strong enough to handle threats like those men from last night?"

"The Bronze Guardian is B-ranked. More than capable of dealing with common thugs." Bonereghard paused. "Though its personality can be... challenging. It has rather strong opinions about proper etiquette."

Silas thought about it. "What about Diog's training? How do we speed up his development?"

"Carefully," Bonereghard emphasized. "Rushing a mythic creature's growth can have catastrophic consequences. However..." He adjusted his monocle thoughtfully. "There are methods to accelerate his combat experience. The training grounds contain several enchanted scenarios that could help."

"But it won't be enough, will it? Not soon enough."

"No," Bonereghard admitted. "Which is why I suggest a two-part solution. First, we activate one of the archive's guardians for immediate protection. Second, we begin Diog's intensive training regimen. The combination should give us the security we need while preparing for the future."

They were interrupted by a knock at the door. One of the Gemini entered.

It made a series of gestures that Bonereghard translated with a nod.

"It seems we have a visitor," he announced. "A junior clerk from the tax office, looking rather nervous."

"Perfect timing," Silas muttered. "We're not exactly in a position to handle threats right now."

"On the contrary," Bonereghard replied. "This could be an opportunity. Information is its own form of protection." He straightened his immaculate suit. "Though perhaps we should present a more... unified front. Would you prefer me in butler form or floating skull?"

"Stay as you are," Silas decided. "But first - tell me more about these guardians. Which would you recommend?"

"The Bronze Guardian is most practical, despite its quirks. B-ranked power, minimal upkeep costs, and already familiar with the estate's layout." Bonereghard's skull tilted. "Though we should also consider the Storm Hawk. Aerial surveillance would be invaluable."

"And Diog's training?"

"Will require significant resources. Mana crystals for power enhancement, combat scenarios for experience, specialized food to fuel his growth." Bonereghard listed each requirement with precise gestures. "All of which costs gold we technically don't have."

Silas rubbed his temples. "So we need money for training, protection while he trains, and somehow have to deal with Kelso's pressure through the tax office."

"An accurate summary of our predicament." Bonereghard seemed almost pleased. "Though I do have some ideas about creative financing solutions."

"Let me guess - more tax fraud?"

"Creative accounting," Bonereghard corrected. "And possibly some minor money laundering. Nothing too ambitious."

Before Silas could respond, another knock echoed through the halls. The tax clerk was getting impatient.

"We should handle this first," Silas decided. "But afterward, we're discussing those guardians in detail. I want something in place before Kelso makes his next move."

"A wise choice," Bonereghard approved. "Though do try to look more authoritative. It helps if they believe you're actually in charge."

"As opposed to taking advice from my skeletal butler about tax evasion and summoning ancient guardians?"

"Precisely." Bonereghard's monocle twinkled. "Now then, shall we see what our nervous friend from the tax office has to share? These spontaneous visits often prove most illuminating."

They headed for the entrance hall, leaving Silas Junior contentedly oozing over what remained of the leather-bound tome. The slug-rat's happy gurgling followed them out, a reminder of just how desperately they needed better protection.

"One more thing," Bonereghard added as they walked. "Remember - knowledge of the archives must remain absolutely secret. Even a hint of their existence could bring far worse than Kelso to our doors."

Silas nodded grimly. The weight of his inheritance felt heavier with each passing moment, but at least now they had a plan. Or the beginning of one.

First, deal with the tax clerk. Then find a guardian. And somehow, through it all, keep Diog safe while he grew into his power.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

It wasn't much of a plan, but it was better than nothing.

And maybe, just maybe, it would be enough to keep them alive until Diog could become the mythic creature he was meant to be.

For now though, they had a nervous tax clerk to interrogate and ancient guardians to awaken. Just another day at the Beckham estate.

At least Bonereghard seemed to be enjoying himself.

Soon, they were standing at the entrance.

The clerk stood near the doorway, a thin man with ink-stained fingers who kept glancing over his shoulder as if expecting pursuit.

"Welcome to the Beckham estate," Silas said, trying to project authority despite his concerns. "What brings a tax official to our door so late?"

The clerk jumped slightly at their approach. His eyes widened at the sight of Bonereghard but he seemed too focused on his purpose to flee.

"My name is Edwin Marsh," he said in a rushed whisper. "Junior assessor, third class. I... I have information about Kelso Whitmire."

Bonereghard's skull tilted with interest. "Indeed? Do come in, Mr. Marsh. Perhaps somewhere more private?"

They led the nervous clerk to a small study, where he practically collapsed into a chair. His hands shook as he pulled documents from his worn satchel.

"He ruined me," Marsh said without preamble. "Fifteen years of service to the tax office, perfect record, until I questioned one of his 'special assessments.'" His bitter laugh held no humor. "Did you know he's done this before? To other estates?"

"Tell us," Silas said quietly.

"Three other noble properties in the past decade. All with significant magical assets, all suddenly hit with impossible tax burdens." Marsh spread papers across the desk. "The patterns are there if you know where to look. Assessment inflation, manufactured late fees, compound interest applied retroactively..."

"All technically legal," Bonereghard observed.

"Legal but wrong." Marsh's voice cracked. "The Van Holt estate last year - centuries of history, gone because they couldn't pay the 'adjusted' taxes. And the artifacts they were forced to surrender as payment? All went straight to Kelso's department."

Silas examined the documents. The numbers told a clear story of systematic manipulation.

"When I raised concerns," Marsh continued, "Kelso had me demoted, then transferred to processing dock import fees. My pension was 'recalculated.' My wife's healing treatments suddenly weren't covered by the office's medical provisions."

"A petty man's revenge," Bonereghard said softly.

"But thorough," Marsh agreed. "I lost everything. And now..." He squared his shoulders. "Now I want him to lose something too."

"Just tell me plainly," Silas said. "How exactly can you help us?"

Marsh straightened, suddenly all business. "Three immediate ways. First, I know which judges handle tax appeals. Two of them hate Kelso - Judge Blackwood and Judge Karina. File with them specifically."

"And they'll help?" Silas asked.

"They'll actually read the appeals instead of rubber-stamping Kelso's assessments. That buys you six months minimum while they 'review' the case."

Bonereghard's monocle glinted. "Continue."

"Second, I know which forms to 'misfile.' Tax Form 47-B, the primary assessment document? If it gets filed under municipal waste management instead of property taxes, it'll take months to locate. Do that three or four times..."

"More delays," Silas nodded.

"Exactly. And they can't collect while the paperwork is 'lost.' Third," Marsh pulled out more documents, "I have proof of similar schemes against other estates. Present these patterns to the right authorities, suggest an investigation into systematic corruption..."

"That could take years," Bonereghard observed.

"Precisely." Marsh's smile was thin. "Years during which all current collections would be suspended pending review. And I know exactly who to talk to in the Inspector General's office to launch that investigation."

"What else?" Silas pressed.

"Property value reassessment appeals. Agricultural land exemptions - you must have some gardens that could qualify. Historical building preservation credits. I know every delay tactic and exemption in the code. Use them all at once, overwhelm the system."

"And this is all legal?" Silas asked.

"Completely. Just like Kelso's schemes, but used against him. The system works slowly when you know which wheels to jam."

Bonereghard made a sound of approval. "How long could all this buy us?"

"Two years at minimum. More if we're clever about it." Marsh's eyes had a fierce look. "Long enough for statute of limitations to expire on some of his earlier manipulations. Long enough for a thorough investigation. Long enough for everything to unravel."

"Two years?" Silas shook his head. "No. Kelso's already shown he won't wait for legal channels. Those men he sent weren't filing paperwork."

Marsh's face fell slightly. "But the appeals process—"

"Will buy us six months, maybe nine," Bonereghard interrupted. "And that's assuming Kelso plays by the rules, which he won't. The man just sent armed thugs into an estate protected by ancient magic. He's beyond caring about proper procedures."

"He's desperate," Silas added. "Whatever he wants from the estate, he wants it soon. We need immediate solutions."

Marsh swallowed hard. "The fastest options would be the misfiled Form 47-B and an emergency appeal to Judge Blackwood. That could freeze collections for three months. Four if we're lucky."

"Better," Bonereghard said. "What else? Think practical, immediate."

"There's..." Marsh hesitated. "There's a provision for emergency estate protection during audit disputes. If you can prove active business operations or ongoing magical research, it prevents asset seizure while under review."

"How long to file that?"

"A week. Maybe less with the right documentation. But Kelso will fight it."

"Of course he will," Silas said grimly. "Because this isn't about taxes. The legal delays are just to give us breathing room while we handle the real threats."

"The men he sent weren't tax collectors," Bonereghard agreed. "And the next ones won't be either. Still, three months of protection is better than none."

"Start with Judge Blackwood," Silas decided. "Then the emergency protection filing. We'll use whatever time that buys us to prepare for less... official approaches."

Marsh looked between them, realization dawning on his face. "This is bigger than tax fraud, isn't it?"

"Mr. Marsh," Bonereghard said quietly, "I suggest you focus on the legal aspects. The less you know about other matters, the safer you'll be."

The clerk nodded quickly, turning back to his papers. "Right. Let me show you exactly how to file these appeals. And which clerks to avoid - some of them report directly to Kelso."

"One moment," Bonereghard's voice cut through the discussion of legal procedures. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. "Mr. Marsh, a rather important question occurs to me."

The clerk looked up from his papers, sensing the shift in atmosphere.

"How exactly," Bonereghard continued, his skeletal form straightening to its full height, "did you determine it was... safe to approach us with this information?"

Marsh's face went pale. "I... I don't understand—"

"Oh, I think you do." Bonereghard's eye sockets began to glow with an inner red light. "You see, just last night we dealt rather definitively with several uninvited guests. Yet here you are, walking straight to our door, carrying sensitive documents about a man who's proven quite willing to eliminate problems."

Silas watched silently as Bonereghard moved closer to Marsh's chair.

"So tell me," the skeletal butler's voice carried an edge that could cut steel, "why shouldn't I assume you're another of Kelso's agents? Perhaps sent to identify our vulnerabilities under the guise of offering help?"

"I'm not—" Marsh started to protest.

"Seven men died on these grounds yesterday," Bonereghard interrupted casually. "Their bodies haven't even been found yet. Well, not all the pieces anyway." His bony fingers tapped rhythmically on the desk. "I so rarely get to indulge in creative problem-solving these days. It would be a shame to waste the opportunity if you're not being entirely truthful."

Marsh was shaking now, ink-stained hands gripping the arms of his chair. "The Van Holts," he whispered. "I was their assessor too. Before... before everything happened."

"Go on." Bonereghard's tone suggested Marsh's continued breathing depended on his next words.

"I watched what Kelso did to them. Watched their children lose everything. And when I finally spoke up..." Marsh's voice cracked. "My wife died because we couldn't afford the treatments after my demotion. I've spent two years gathering evidence, waiting for my chance to get revenge."

"And how did you know about us specifically?"

"The pattern was the same. Exactly the same. When I heard about the inflated assessments on the Beckham estate..." Marsh met Bonereghard's glowing gaze. "I also heard a rumor that those who wrong the Beckhams are taken care of."

Silence filled the room. Bonereghard's eye sockets flared brighter for a moment, then dimmed to their usual glow.

"If you're lying," he said softly, "if any of this information leads to further complications.I want you to understand something very clearly." He leaned forward until his skull was inches from Marsh's face. "There are far, far worse things than death."

Marsh swallowed hard but held his ground. "I understand. But I'm not lying. I just... I just want Kelso to lose something too."

Bonereghard straightened, adjusting his monocle. "Very well. Continue with your explanation of the appeals process. But do remember, we'll be watching very carefully how this unfolds."