To be perfectly honest, Eleanor wasn’t quite sure what she was supposed to tell her employer that couldn’t be gleaned from a quick look around the castle. Considering their mysterious method for getting her messages, they—or another intermediary— had to be capable of getting in. Some of her questions about them had been answered as of late, but most remained frustratingly obscure.
Still, she dutifully compiled the latest gossip every night and added some of her observations, sometimes earning a bit more than she expected.
Lately, the Count had been having more feasts, and she was sure it was to distract himself from the suddenly imminent possibility of Treon being besieged.
Well, not entirely imminent since, as far as she knew, the rebels lacked ships capable of challenging the Royal Navy, thus leaving their access to the sea through the Great Slitherer unimpeded. Still, she hadn’t heard anything about them being so strong as to sweep Locke’s army away, and it looked increasingly like that was what had happened, so she might be wrong. She was just a maid, after all.
At the moment, she was taking a tray of Branderi sweetfruit beverages to the Count’s office, where a meeting with the commanders of the remaining forces would take place. If she was lucky, she wouldn’t be immediately dismissed and could quietly blend into the background and listen. Maybe she’d earn enough for that lovely golden bracelet she had seen the other day, or she could spend some of her stash to buy a magic book…
Eleanor adjusted her grip on the tray, ensuring the goblets remained steady as she approached the Count's second office. Her dress was immaculate and her hair coiffed, rather than free—Luster-Treon was known to prefer long hair, and while hers could fit his taste if she untied it, she had heard horror stories of those girls that were taken in as concubines, only to be spat out into the streets once the man got bored.
The heavy wooden doors were slightly ajar, and she could hear the droning voice of an official inside, discussing the current state of supplies. She took a deep breath, preparing herself for the performance.
Pushing the door open with her hip, Eleanor entered the room with practiced grace. The Count, young and handsome as always, with long blonde hair cascading over his shoulders, lounged lazily on a plush recliner with several of his noble attendants arrayed around him as if holding court. His expression was one of utter boredom, his blue eyes half-lidded as he listened to a young Navy official with enough medals he couldn’t be dismissed out of hand. Not without a cause, at least.
"...the flow of mana crystals has slowed down significantly," the man said, not stopping as she walked over. "We are also starting to stash food supplies in anticipation of potential rationing. We don’t believe our access to the sea will be meaningfully challenged, but Garva has been slow to respond to our requests since there is a swell of barbarians making their way to the Death Pass. If this continues and we really are alone until Count Pollus arrives, we will need to consider alternate plans to ensure the survival of the local nobles and their households.”
The Count, who had been twirling a lock of his golden hair, seemed to perk up at the second part. He sat up slightly, his interest piqued, but not in the way Eleanor thought the officer would have hoped. His eyes narrowed, and a spark of anger flashed across his face.
"Are you suggesting," he began coldly, "that we might lose? That we might need to flee like cowards when faced with peasants and slaves?!”
The official remained stoic despite his young age, likely having been already invited to a party and subjected to Ronald Luster-Treon’s personal brand of hospitality. "My lord, I am merely bringing you the conclusion that wiser men than me have reached— that we prepare for all eventualities. It is prudent to have contingencies in place.”
Eleanor moved closer, setting the tray down on a small table near the Count. As she did so, the Count's face twisted in fury. Without warning, he grabbed one of the goblets from the tray and hurled it. The metal goblet struck the officer’s shoulder, spilling the expensive sweetfruit beverage across his uniform.
"You dare speak of defeat in my presence?" the Count screamed, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "You dare imply that we might fail?” Oily mana pressed down on everyone, though no one dared complain.
The official winced at the blow but did not react further, standing rigidly as the Count's tirade continued. Eleanor stepped back, her heart pounding in her chest. She had seen the Count's temper before, but it never failed to unsettle her.
"We are not going to lose," the Count raged, rising to his feet. His face was flushed with anger, and his long hair whipped around as he gesticulated wildly. "Nobles do not flee like commoners. I am the ruler of this land, and I will stand my ground! Weiss will not bend me!”
The official’s face was a mask of composure as he bowed. "Of course, my lord. I apologize for my lack of faith.” The Count seemed to calm somewhat at the man's submission, though his eyes still blazed with anger. He turned away, waving his hand dismissively. "Leave me. And do not bring such pessimism into my presence again.”
The official bowed again and stiffly exited the room. Eleanor watched him go, sympathy and fear warring within her. The Count collapsed back into his recliner, running a hand through his hair, turning to one of his attendants, “Why do I always have to deal with such idiots?” He asked, just loud enough to be heard through the still-open door.
If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
Eleanor knew just how satisfying he found humiliating others, especially those beholden to him, so she smoothly moved to one of the corners, away from his line of sight but still close enough to be of service should he need it.
Ronald Luster-Treon let out a dramatic sigh, his irritation still evident. His attendants, mostly sons of minor nobles without duties beyond sycophantically following the high noble, quickly moved to soothe him. One of them, a lanky youth named Harland with dark curls, stepped forward with a smarmy smile.
"My lord, it's truly baffling how these officials cannot comprehend your vision," he murmured theatrically. "But rest assured, we, your loyal servants, understand and support your unwavering resolve.” The Count's expression softened slightly at the flattery.
He sipped from the second goblet and leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. "Indeed, my friend. Their lack of faith is infuriating. I cannot wait for the moment Leonard Weiss finally reaches our walls. I shall ride out and challenge him to a duel.”
There was a collective intake of breath from the attendants, though Eleanor doubted any of them believed such a scenario was realistic. Leonard Weiss was rumored to be a Champion, a warrior of unmatched skill and power, while the Count was barely an Expert. Yet, they all nodded vigorously, eager to please.
"Of course, my lord!" round-faced Melos exclaimed. "You will vanquish him and bring glory to Treon!”
"Absolutely, my lord," echoed tall and thin Edmund. "The hero's reputation will crumble before your might.”
Roland basked in their adulation, a smug smile playing on his lips. "Yes, yes. And when Weiss falls, so will the rest of the rebels. They will scatter like leaves in the wind once they understand what they are up against. A real noble, nothing like those dregs they faced so far.”
Melos, ever eager to curry favor, casually steered the conversation away from dangerous waters. "It's quite something, isn't it, my lord? General Locke's loss. Who would have thought he could be so easily bested?”
The Count went with it and chuckled, a low, mocking sound. "I never trusted that man. Too stiff and proper, always prattling on about honor and duty. To lose two battles, have his army annihilated, and disappear like that? It makes me dubious about the earlier achievements to his name.”
The attendants exchanged uneasy glances, each aware of Locke's accomplishments and knowing better than to badmouth the real power in the city directly—even if rumors swirled about his possible death. They also knew their audience and how he’d react to perceived defiance. Instead of expressing any judgment, most just nodded in agreement, their faces carefully neutral.
And with the General gone… It won’t be long before his name is tarnished, and he’s accused of everything under the sun. That’s how Ronald Luster-Treon works, and now that he’s the only authority in the city, it’s his tune that will be sung.
"Indeed, my lord," Melos agreed, his voice strained. "It seems his reputation was undeserved.”
"Clearly," the Count said, dismissing the matter with a wave of his hand. "Now, enough of this talk. Let's focus on more pleasant things.” Which was the cue for the servants to prepare the room for company.
One of the attendants, a fair-haired boy with a mischievous glint in his eye that she might have enjoyed in other circumstances, gestured to Eleanor. "Girl, clean up this mess," he commanded, pointing to the spilled juice.
Eleanor quickly moved to comply, kneeling down to clean the sticky liquid from the floor. As she did, the young nobles jeered and made crude remarks about her body, their laughter echoing in the room. She felt her cheeks burn with humiliation but kept her head down, not giving them the reaction they wanted.
None of the other servants offered her support, not that she expected them to. The only saving grace so far was that the Count was only amused at her humiliation rather than interested. That would have been dangerous.
"Look at her, scrambling like a little mouse," one sneered.
"Careful, you might miss a spot," another taunted, pushing her with his boot and tipping her over.
Eleanor got back up and finished her task as quickly as possible, her hands trembling slightly. She retreated to the corner of the room without making a sound. The Count and his clique paid her no further mind, bored at her lack of response, their attention already shifting to their next topic of conversation.
----------------------------------------
Hours later, Eleanor’s shift finally ended, and she slipped out of the castle as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over Treon. She pulled a hood over her head, concealing her face as she walked through the still-bustling city. The streets were alive with the sounds of commerce, vendors calling out their wares, and people chattering as they hurried to complete their errands before nightfall.
Yet, despite the normalcy of activity, a palpable haze of worry had settled over the city. Conversations were hushed, and glances were furtive. People spoke in low tones about the rumors of the rebels and the recent defeats suffered by General Locke—unsurprisingly since the castle leaked like a sieve on the best days. Even the normally vibrant market stalls seemed subdued, their colors muted in the waning light.
Eleanor moved swiftly, her footsteps barely making a sound as she navigated the crowded streets. She passed a group of children playing a game of tag, their laughter innocent in a way she hadn’t been for a long time. A woman hurried past, clutching a basket of goods tightly to her chest, her eyes darting nervously from side to side.
Eventually, she meandered down a narrow alley, the sounds of the city fading behind her. It was dimly lit, the flickering light from a lone lantern casting eerie shadows on the walls. She stopped before a nondescript door, its surface worn and splintered. A burly young man stepped out of the shadows, blocking her path. His face was rough and scarred, and he spoke gruffly. “Password?”
Eleanor’s heart pounded as she answered, but her voice was steady. “The night is darkest before the dawn.” The man grunted and stepped aside, allowing her to pass.
She pushed open the door and descended a narrow staircase, the air growing cooler, and damper with each step. The stairs led to a large, dimly lit room that buzzed with activity. It was a tavern of sorts, filled with misfits, smugglers, and all manner of unsavory characters. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and spilled ale, and the low hum of conversation mingled with the occasional burst of raucous laughter.
Eleanor kept her hood up, ignoring the jeers and leers from the patrons as she made her way deeper into the tavern. She could feel their eyes on her, but none dared to make a move. Her presence was known here, and while she was not untouchable, the consequences of bothering her were understood.
She reached a door at the far end of the room and knocked three times, the sound barely audible over the din of the tavern. A familiar, smooth voice from within called out, “Enter.”
Eleanor pushed the door open and slipped inside, closing it silently behind her. The room was small and sparsely furnished, with a simple wooden desk and a few chairs. Candles flickered on the desk, casting a warm glow over the room. Sitting behind the desk was a handsome man in priestly robes, his dark hair neatly combed and his piercing eyes filled with warmth.
Eleanor greeted him, her voice soft and respectful. “Vicar Damien.”
His returning smile set her heart on fire.