The morning air in Border Town was a cold, sharp blade that sliced through the thin curtains of the Prince's bedroom. When Roland opened his eyes, the first thing he noticed was the silence—a specific, heavy kind of silence that usually preceded a storm. Tyre, the maid who had been as consistent as the sunrise, was absent. In her place, a much older woman with a face like crumpled parchment was silently attending to the hearth, her movements slow and mechanical.
The absence was a loud, ringing alarm in Roland's mind. As he crossed the threshold of his bedroom, still adjusting the heavy wool of his tunic, he nearly collided with Chief Knight Carter Lannis. The Knight was already waiting in the corridor, standing as rigid as a statue of polished steel, his expression more solemn than Roland had ever seen it.
— "Your Highness, I bring unfortunate news before the sun has even fully cleared the horizon," Carter announced, his voice a low rumble. "Your governess, Tyre, was found lifeless in the courtyard last night."
— "What?" Roland forced a look of wide-eyed shock, his heart performing a guilty lurch even though he had been the one to set the invisible hounds on her trail. "How is that possible? She was perfectly fine yesterday."
— "The guards found her at the base of the tower. It appears she fell from the balcony of her private quarters," the Knight reported, his keen eyes searching Roland's face for a slip in the mask. "We found no signs of a struggle within the room, and my men guarantee that no one breached the castle perimeter. Everything points to an accidental fall in the dark. A tragic fatality."
Roland caught the subtle, inquisitive glint in Carter's gaze. In the Kingdom of Graycastle, the Prince's "interest" in Tyre was a matter of public record, a piece of gossip that had followed him from the capital. In an era where nights were long and diversions were few, a dalliance between a bored noble and his staff was considered par for the course.
But as Cheng Yan, Roland felt nothing but a hollow, cold weight. Since he had assumed this identity, he hadn't sought the typical carnal pleasures of his status. The other maids held no attraction for him, and his mind was far too exhausted by the looming threat of the Months of Demons and the complex logistics of his agricultural reforms. He hadn't yet allowed himself to indulge in the decadence expected of a Wimbledon, and that restraint was beginning to make him an enigma to his own men.
— "It is a lamentable loss," Roland declared, masking his unease with a practiced, mournful countenance. He looked down at his boots, avoiding Carter's scrutiny. "As for the arrangements... order the maid who attended to me this morning to handle the funeral. She will assume the post of governess for the time being. I want the castle routine restored immediately."
Carter nodded with a formal, shallow bow and retreated down the corridor, the metallic clinking of his armor fading into the distance.
Roland didn't wait. He moved quickly to his office, the heavy mahogany doors groaning as he pushed them open. He didn't need to look to know she was there. Nightingale was already settled at his desk, her silhouette a dark blotch against the grey morning light streaming through the window.
— "Did you manage to extract a name before the end?" Roland asked, rounding the desk and reclaiming his seat.
— "Nothing. The girl was a fanatic, Roland. She took her own life the moment she realized I had cornered her," Nightingale reported, her voice laced with a rare, sharp frustration. "It was a lightning-fast act; she didn't waver for a single second. I have seen seasoned soldiers show more hesitation when facing a blade."
— "And you didn't move a finger to stop her?" Roland's voice carried a hint of an engineer's cold logic. "I thought witches were supposed to be faster than common folk."
— "I kept her immobilized," Nightingale said, leaning forward into the light, her silver-blonde hair shimmering. "But I underestimated her resolve. She carried a concentrated poison capsule hidden within a hollow tooth. By the time I realized what she was doing, the convulsion had already started. I had to stage the fall from the balcony to ensure the guards wouldn't go looking for 'ghosts' in the castle."
— "I thought I was dealing with an elite professional of the Association," Roland countered, his irritation bubbling to the surface. "Do you still expect to be rewarded for a performance that ended in a silent corpse?"
— "Now, don't be so harsh, Your Highness. Though her mouth has closed forever, it doesn't mean I returned from the shadows empty-handed." With a faint, knowing smirk, Nightingale slid a folded piece of damp parchment across the desk. "I recovered this from a hidden lining in her mattress before the guards locked the room."
Roland unfolded the sheet with trembling fingers. The handwriting was elegant, almost delicate. The text was from someone referring to Tyre as "older sister," and at a glance, it seemed to be nothing more than a casual exchange of family pleasantries. However, as Roland scanned the lines, a pattern emerged—a deliberate repetition. The author mentioned the ocean in nearly every paragraph—describing a deep fascination with the endless horizon, the scent of brine on the wind, and the habit of watching the sun dip into the waves from the sand. The letter ended with a nostalgic, almost desperate plea for Tyre's return.
Roland's mind raced through the geography of Graycastle, mapping the domains of his treacherous siblings.
— "Garcia," he whispered, the name tasting like copper. "Princess Garcia Wimbledon. The Port of Clearwater."
— "It's the only logical conclusion," Nightingale agreed, her eyes narrowing. "The sea is a distant myth for your other two brothers' inland domains. I suspect your sister took Tyre's actual family hostage years ago, turning a simple maid into a long-term undercover pawn. Given the absolute coldness with which she chose suicide over interrogation, this wasn't an improvisation. She must have undergone years of rigorous psychological conditioning before she was ever sent to your side in the capital."
Roland let out a heavy, jagged sigh, leaning back in his chair until the wood creaked. This was the definitive proof he had feared. The Royal Decree for the throne's succession would not be a game of merit or industrial progress; it was a war of shadows, poison, and blood.
— "And what about the others?" Roland asked, his voice low. "Arthur and William. Did you manage to find anything in their quarters while they were at the training grounds?"
— "Unfortunately not, Your Highness. They keep their 'strange' belongings on their persons at all times, and their conversation is... baffling. They speak in a dialect I cannot decipher, filled with terms like 'NPCs' and 'save states.' And speaking of our guests..." Nightingale paused, her head tilting toward the door. "It seems we have company. I'd better take my leave of the light."
In a blur of monochrome mist, Nightingale vanished before Roland's eyes, leaving only the faint scent of ozone behind. A heartbeat later, a firm, familiar knock echoed at the heavy office door.
— "Roland! It's me, William. You decent, bro?"
Roland massaged his temples, a dull ache beginning to throb behind his eyes. — "Come in, William. And for the love of the ancestors, learn to use a title once in a while."
The door swung open, and William stepped in with his usual, effortless swagger. He looked energized, his black t-shirt damp with sweat from an early morning training session.
— "Morning, boss. Two things on the agenda for today," William said, pulling up a chair and sitting backward on it, ignoring every rule of royal protocol. "First, I want to select a few more 'key characters'—I mean, capable subjects—for the First Army. If we're going to hold that wall against the demonic tide, I need a vanguard that doesn't shiver every time a hybrid growls. And second... Art told me we have a new witch in the vicinity. I'm pretty sure she's in this room right now. Do you mind if I have a quick word with her?"
Roland froze. He looked at William, then at the empty, shadowed corner where Nightingale had been standing seconds before. William's informality was a constant friction, a bizarre reflection of a culture Cheng Yan knew from his past life, but hearing it in this medieval setting felt like a dangerous glitch in the reality of Graycastle.
— "You're never going to learn the concept of a 'Prince,' are you?" Roland let out a dry, exhausted chuckle. He gestured toward the maps and the half-finished steam engine blueprints scattered on the desk.
— "Regarding the recruits, Iron Axe is already under your command. If you believe we need more specialized men to hold the line, you have my permission to conscript them. But ensure their loyalty is absolute, William. We just discovered this morning that betrayal can be served alongside the morning tea."
Roland hesitated for a second, his gaze lingering on the shadows. He knew Nightingale was still there, a silent sentinel watching the exchange.
— "As for this 'new witch'... you and Arthur seem to possess a sense of intuition that puts my own Chief Knight to shame," Roland commented, his voice dropping into a suspicious, inquisitive tone. "How can you be so certain she is here? My guards haven't seen a shadow out of place."
William let out a short, confident laugh, leaning against the stone wall with a posture that exuded what Arthur always called his "unbearable protagonist syndrome."
— "Let's just say the 'system' doesn't fail us, Roland. It's hard to miss the signs if you know what to look for," William lied with a shameless, practiced ease. He knew the truth was much simpler: he had read the book three times. He turned his head slightly toward the empty air near the window and spoke in a louder, more directed tone.
— "You can stop holding your breath, Nightingale. The 'hidden in plain sight' trick is great, but we're all on the same team here. Or should I call you by the name on your birth certificate... Veronica?"
The silence that followed was absolute. The fire in the hearth seemed to stop crackling. Roland's jaw dropped as he looked at William, then at the empty air. For the first time, he saw a ripple in the Mist World that wasn't caused by a breeze.
The "scholar" hadn't just identified a witch; he had just dropped a tactical nuke on her identity.