“I still don’t get how you ended up following me along.” Eleanor complained, and Sigurd carefully kept his placid smile from becoming a smirk. He might enjoy irritating her for her reactions, but too much would likely see him booted out of the castle.

“My wit and charm?” He asked, not able to help himself.

Eleanor groaned in frustration but didn’t try to chase him away this time, which he counted as a win. “No, definitely not those. And if you continue much longer, I’ll forget I need an enchantment expert to crack the protections and do it myself.”

Immediately, Sigurd put on the most cherubic, innocent look in his repertoire, which was saying something. It was so effective that Eleanor had to do a double take, blinking in shock, before she remembered who she was talking to.

Sigurd sniggered internally. He had initially been intrigued by the prospect of another side quest similar to his decoding of Lamprey Port’s Tower’s artifact but had seen it as simply a fun aside from his bard job. Instead, he had been pulled into a complex mission that required all his charm and intimidation abilities. He even needed to dust off his dueling skills once after a particularly daring guardsman-revealed-spy decided to go off in a flare of glory.

And now, the grand finale. Well, after the last obstacle was cleared.

The eastern wing of the castle once housed the innumerable minor lordlings the Count kept at his court and was thus mostly a maze of richly furnished chambers and servant corridors. It was now being used to hold important documents and a few valuable prisoners.

Their last task was currently being held in one of these chambers after a long stint in the dungeons. Eleanor seemed to think this wouldn’t be enough to convince her to sing, and so Sigurd had been called in as an expert.

They stopped before the heavy oak door leading to the small chamber where the former head maid was being held. Eleanor turned to Sigurd, her expression letting him know there wouldn't be any more horsing around. If he fucked this up for her, he’d risk his position in the Revolution.

"Remember, the woman inside knows the Count and his adjutants intimately. She’s not going to be fooled by a shoddy imitation. Keep to the story I gave you and don’t improvise unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

Sigurd smiled reassuringly. "Don’t worry, dear Eleanor. I’m good enough for an old woman. Besides, I’ve done my homework. Trust me.”

Eleanor’s frown didn’t soften, but she stepped aside to let him approach the door. Sigurd took a deep breath and muttered an incantation, casting a glamour over himself. In an instant, his features began to shift. His lean, angular face became rounder, his nose broader, and his eyes took on a slight upward slant. His hair lightened to a sandy blond, and his posture subtly altered, becoming a little more hunched, a little more eager. He was now the spitting image of Melos Huster, son of Baron Huster of Huster’s Nest—a young noble known for his desperate attempts to curry favor with Ronald Luster-Treon and for being one of the few the Count had kept in his confidence through the years.

Melos was the perfect choice. His reputation as a sycophant who would engage in any dangerous or unsavory task for the Count’s approval made it believable that he’d risk sneaking back into Treon to retrieve something valuable. The real Melos was far away, licking his wounds in Garva after the Revolution's swift takeover and likely clinging to the Count’s skirts, so there was little chance of the ruse being exposed, especially because the old maid was aware that several young nobles had been left behind and was unlikely to know the specifics of who.

Satisfied with his transformation and having earned an imperious nod from Eleanor, Sigurd softly opened the door before entering. The room was dimly lit, with only a single candle flickering on a table by the bed where the head maid sat and an open window that let in some fresh air. Her eyes were weary and suspicious, likely still not adjusted to her changed environment and waiting for the other shoe to drop. Eleanor had been smart enough to let her understand she was being shown how good she could have it if she gave up her last secret, but also never letting her know she wasn’t working alone.

Acting like an overly ambitious maid comes very easy for her.

Sigurd quietly closed the door behind him and padded over to the window, where he quickly drew the curtains. He acted as if he was being exceedingly careful, his movements furtive and nervous.

Geraldine’s eyes widened in surprise, her hand flying to her mouth as if to scream. But she stopped when she recognized the intruder. “Lord Melos?” she whispered in shock.

Sigurd gave her a quick, conspiratorial smile and rushed over to her side. “Shh, yes, it’s me,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Keep your voice down; it was already difficult enough getting here. Listen, the Count needs me—he needs us.”

Her gaze sharpened, suspicion returning. “What are you doing here? You should be in Garva with the others. Surely you weren’t left behind?”

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Sigurd leaned in closer, dropping his voice to a whisper. “It was too risky to all go there. Besides, the Count gave me a mission to retrieve something very important—something that cannot fall into the rebels’ hands.” The same smarmy smile he had seen in Eleanor’s memories reappeared on his current face, and Sigurd visibly saw the woman relax her shoulders at the sight.

People always forget about body language when they impersonate someone. A good glamour is never good enough on its own.

"But I can’t get to it—the new owners have taken over the wards and changed the setting, and the inner protections only allow those the castle considers allies.”

Though she wasn’t about to scream—honestly, what did she think would happen if he was really an impostor and thus belonged to the Revolution?—Geraldine was still not entirely convinced.

She narrowed her eyes, clearly skeptical. “Why should I believe you? These devils are certainly capable of using illusions.” Sigurd doubted she actually believed him to be a rebel, or she wouldn’t have entertained him at all. Likely, she wanted to be convinced he really was who he said he was out of paranoia borne of spending days in the dungeons.

He was ready for this. Leaning back slightly, his expression became pained as if he didn’t want to share what he was about to. “Do you remember when we had to cover for the Count when that Hammerfest Ambassador’s vase was broken? I was the one who blamed it on the butler—remember? And what about the Silverstar Merchant’s daughter? The Count and I pressured her with that contract until she had no choice but to entertain him. You were there. You helped us.” The maid’s breath caught, her eyes widening with recognition.

Those were secrets she thought no one else knew—which went to show just how important it was to do your own research. Her posture relaxed slightly, though her eyes still held a trace of wariness. “How could you...?” she began but then shook her head. “No, no one else would know. It has to be you, Lord Melos. But why would the Count send you alone? And why me?”

Sigurd sighed as if irritated to still have to talk—little Melos wasn’t known to be patient with the servants. “The Count is in a difficult position. He couldn’t risk sending anyone with an important position in the household for fear they’d attract too much attention from the servants, and you know we nobles are considered apart from House Luster-Treon. But you, you’re staff. The castle should still recognize you as loyal. You might be our only chance to retrieve the artifact.”

The maid hesitated, her fingers twisting nervously in her lap. “And you’re sure the Count wants us to take the Eye out? I was always told to avoid drawing attention to it in case the castle fell…”

Jackpot! The Eye… It must be some sensory artifact, but for it to be this secret, it must be quite something. At least this validates Eleanor’s theory. There actually is something important hidden in the castle that the soldiers and diviners somehow missed.

“Of course,” Sigurd lied smoothly. “He knows you’re one of the few he can still trust. But we have to be careful. There’s a girl who’s been snooping around, asking too many questions. We need to move quickly and quietly. We cannot risk anyone learning about the Eye.”

The maid glanced towards the door and then back at Sigurd. After a moment, she nodded slowly. “Alright. Alright. It must not fall into these bastards’ hands.” She growled with surprising firmness.

Sigurd hid his satisfaction, keeping Melos' nervous energy as he followed the maid. She moved out of the room with a surprising swiftness, barely glancing at the sleeping guard on the floor, clearly familiar with every hidden passage and servant’s corridor in the castle. Sigurd matched her pace, though he took care to maintain the appearance of someone who was out of his element but determined.

They passed through narrow hallways lined with faded tapestries and forgotten dust, the kind of passages that nobles rarely, if ever, tread. Despite her age, Geraldine was quick on her feet, but every so often she’d glance back to ensure Sigurd was following, her face tight with anxiety.

Eleanor’s decision to go to the leadership and ask them to avoid cleaning up these corridors is turning out smarter than I expected. I thought it was too paranoid, but the old bitch would have suspected something if she had seen them clean.

At one point, she stopped abruptly, holding up a hand. Sigurd halted just in time to hear the heavy footfalls of a patrol passing by on the main corridor just ahead. The maid quickly pulled him into a nearby cleaning closet, the scent of lye and damp wood filling the confined space.

They stood in silence, Geraldine’s breathing shallow and rapid, while Sigurd forced himself to fidget, glancing towards the door as the steps echoed past them.

Once the sound of the patrol faded, the maid exhaled slowly and nodded towards the door, apologizing quietly for having to grab him. Sigurd grumbled under his breath like a lordling would but followed her lead as they continued their journey, descending deeper into the castle’s bowels. The air grew cooler and more stagnant, the stone walls slick with moisture from the nearby river.

They finally reached the kitchen’s cold room through a series of corridors Sigurd was pretty sure had no reason to exist.

It was a windowless chamber, large and barely illuminated, with slabs of meat hanging from hooks and barrels of preserved goods lining the walls. The magical cold bit into Sigurd’s skin, but he barely noticed it. His focus was entirely on the maid, who seemed to know exactly where to go.

She led him to a seemingly inconspicuous corner, past stacks of crates full of dried meats. Sigurd watched her closely, using every small clue from her body language to guide his next steps. When she hesitated, her eyes flicking toward a particular direction, he moved there first as if he had known the way all along. This display of confidence finally allowed Geraldine to let her guard down, convincing her that Melos truly had been given this mission. No one but the Count or his most loyal household servants would know the way, after all.

They reached a small, empty section of the cold room, dominated only by a butcher’s table and a few scattered utensils. Sigurd’s eyes flitted over the area, searching for any hidden mechanism or clue, but it was Geraldine who acted.

She stepped forward, her hands clasped tightly together, and murmured a phrase in a voice barely above a whisper. “Look into the Truth without Fear.”

As soon as the words left her lips, the butcher's table began to shift, sinking into the floor with a soft rumble. A staircase was revealed, spiraling down into darkness.

Geraldine looked back at him with faint relief. “The Eye is down there,” she said, her voice steady now that they were close. “We must get it out and smuggle it to the emergency corridors. They’re just a few hundred feet away from here, and we’ll be able to slip out unnoticed.” They descended the staircase, their steps echoing off the stone walls.

The air grew even colder, now well beyond freezing, and the shadows deeper until they finally emerged into a chamber that seemed to belong to a different world altogether. The room was perfectly preserved despite the path’s disuse, its walls carved with intricate runes that glowed faintly with stored mana. Mana crystals in the ceiling illuminated the room in a soft, bluish glow, giving it an almost otherworldly feel.

In the center of the chamber stood an ornate mirror, its surface rippling with a strange, liquid-like texture that seemed to shimmer with every movement. The frame was made of dark, polished wood, etched with runes Sigurd had never seen before in his long life.

Geraldine sighed in relief, the tension in her shoulders visibly easing. “The Eye,” she murmured, stepping closer to the mirror.

Sigurd was about to tell her to step away when he caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. Before he could react, Eleanor appeared from the darkness and moved with lightning speed. She swung a broom, striking the maid on the back of the head with a sickening thud.

Geraldine crumpled to the floor, unconscious before she even hit the ground.