Lindy stirred before the light. The warmth of the blanket wrapped tightly around her shoulders couldn't soothe the ache in her limbs, the dull weight in her skull that had settled like a hammer stacked on top of it.
She didn't want to open her eyes. The thoughts behind her eyelids was far kinder than the one waiting for her outside the silk sheets.
A gentle voice pulled her back.
"Good morning, Milady," came the soft, gravel-edged voice beside her. It was Frieda, one of her senior attendants-- already dipping a brush into translucent powder, her tone smooth, unassuming.
"We let you sleep an extra hour. You seemed… tired."
"I still am…" Lindy groaned, voice husky, barely audible. Her head tilted back slightly as the maid dabbed at her cheekbones with delicate fingers, the puff of powder cool against her skin.
"Rosalinda said you barely stopped working even after the board meeting with the shareholders the other day."
"Rosalinda says a lot of things." She cracked one eye open.
"She's rarely wrong," There was no sarcasm in the old maid's voice, only the honesty of someone who had also seen her stumble through too many long nights for years.
She sighed and sat up slowly, still draped in the folds of the blanket. Her limbs moved. Her eyes, framed now by soft touches of eyeliner, wandered toward the heavy drapes where sunlight was trying to slip in.
"Not your kind of sleep, I'm afraid. You sleep with one hand still reaching for paper works," Frieda said softly, her steady gaze never leaving Lindy's face.
"That obvious?" Lindy asked, exhaling a tired laughter.
"I've watched your Father wake with more peace than you before," she said, brushing along Lindy's jawline with fingers calloused. "Now hush or you'll bite the brush."
Lindy obeyed, eyes half-closed. The scent of rose water lingered around Frieda, faint but familiar.
"Schedule," she murmured, stretching slightly. "What's on the agenda today?"
The maid glanced down at the parchment folded neatly on the dressing table. Her dark eyes narrowed slightly as she spoke.
"You've got a ten o'clock with Minister Farr. Luncheon with the Hoffmans. More correspondence from the Monarchy's liaison on the Kilo incident. And…" She hesitated briefly, "It's the twins' first day at the Academy."
The words hung in the air between them. Lindy blinked. She rubbed her temple, feeling the faint ache that had settled deeper than before.
"Oh… Right. The school thing."
Frieda nodded slowly, her scarred cheek dimpling slightly with the movement. She brushed along Lindy's jaw again.
"You said you wanted Max to take them early. That you'd see them off."
"Mmm," Lindy murmured, eyes closing again. "It's fine. Rosalinda's probably handled it. They're… independent."
Frieda said nothing, letting the silence fill the room.
And that silence,
More than any words,
It woke Lindy. Her eyes snapped open.
"Wait…" she said, sitting up straighter, the red robe slipping from one shoulder. "Wait, what time is it?"
"Just past eight," Frieda answered, stepping back as she watched the panic bloom across Lindy's face.
"Eight? Eight?! They're already--" Lindy's breath hitched, heart racing.
"Why didn't anyone wake me?! I said I'd-- I said I'd walk them to the car. I promised Liberty I'd braid her hair!"
Frieda folded her hands quietly, the faint sound of her nails tapping the smooth fabric of her apron. "You've been sick with exhaustion, Milady. Rosalinda insisted you rest--"
"I rested through their first day of school," Lindy snapped, voice sharper than intended. Her chest rose and fell unevenly.
Frieda's dark eyes held Lindy's gaze, calm and unshaken. "I know. But they're not kids anymore--"
Lindy clutched the edge of the dressing table, knuckles pale. Her reflection stared back with her half-done makeup, flushed cheeks, and panic widening her eyes.
She didn't wait. She stood so quickly her chair toppled behind her. The half-finished brush of makeup was forgotten. She was already pulling her robe tighter, then flinging it off and reaching for the nearest coat on the hook-- a deep navy sheer jacket, mismatched with the rest of her sleepwear.
"No heels, just slippers. I don't care," she muttered, stumbling into soft flats as she pushed past the velvet drapes. Her dark red was still a tousled mess.
"Max should still be at the east portico. But--"
Too late. Lindy was already gone.
She hurried through the polished marble halls of the estate, her breath ragged in her throat. Her pace quickened past the sitting room, past the silent chandeliers swaying faintly overhead. Her eyes, wide with urgency, darted toward the window. The limousine hadn't left. It was still there. Still waiting.
"Thank God," she whispered, the knot in her chest loosening just a little.
But then she noticed the atmosphere. It wasn't just quiet, something was off.
The mansion's usual rhythm had shifted. There was no clinking of silverware from the morning staff. No idle chatter among the soldiers. The guards by the main gate, usually stoic but alert, stood in tense silence, their eyes downcast.
A pair of attendants carrying linens glanced her way, both paused, nodded, offered no smiles, but worried faces. Even the soldiers near the courtyard, men who usually straightened with pride at her presence, seemed weakened, their uniforms oddly disheveled.
But it didn't stop her, her eyes locked on the east portico.
There, beyond the marble columns, stood the black limousine, doors open, polished and waiting. The twins were being ushered toward it-- Liberty clutched her small leather bag with both hands, her school uniform crisp and pressed; Lincoln walked beside her with quiet steps, his collar slightly crooked, his expression still unreadable.
Rosalinda, her statuesque figure, stood beside them. The faint scar on her tanned cheek caught the rising light as she gently adjusted Liberty's collar. Beside her, Natasha, with soft curls and a ready smile, brushed a bit of lint from Lincoln's sleeve before glancing towards him.
Lindy didn't wait.
Her feet hit the gravel with a sound too sudden for the stillness around them.
"Liberty!" she called out, her voice cracking. Liberty turned sharply, her blue eyes wide with surprise. A heartbeat passed. Then Lincoln, calm as ever, reached out and tugged his sister's sleeve.
Liberty beamed and ran to her, arms flung wide. "Good morning, Mom!" she shouted, throwing herself against Lindy's torso. The hug nearly knocked Lindy off balance.
Her arms wrapped tightly around her daughter, eyes prickling with tears she didn't even try to hide. She pulled back slightly, brushing Liberty's hair aside with trembling fingers.
"If there are any problems, don't hesitate to call me. I'll be sure to head there right away, alright?" Liberty nodded earnestly.
"Of course, Mom! But we'll also try and not create any problems!"
Lindy let out a small laugh. "Such a good girl."
She reached toward Lincoln, who had approached with his usual quiet. She curled one arm around his neck and pulled him in, cradling him against her shoulder.
"You two be safe. And remember, don't go home until Max arrives to get you. Understood?"
"Yes, Mom!" they both chimed in unison.
"Also… have you checked your books? Snacks? Lunch? A few credits… hmm…" she muttered aloud, tapping her finger against Liberty's school bag, accounting every minute detail.
Behind them, Rosalinda exchanged a soft smile with Natasha.
"They're ready, Milady,"
Lindy smiled wide, though her eyes still shone with tears.
"Alright, chop chop!" she said with forced cheer. "You're going to be late now!"
The guards beside them moved forward, escorting the twins into the back of the limousine. Liberty gave one last wave from the window, and Lincoln offered a nod-- small, but enough to say he saw her.
The limousine door closed with a soft click. And then it began to roll forward. Lindy stood frozen in place, watching as her children disappeared behind tinted glass. Only after the car turned the corner and vanished from view did she finally exhale. She turned to Rosalinda with eyebrows raised.
"You told them not to wake me," her voice low but loud with accusation.
Rosalinda, smirked.
"They're at the age where they should practice independence," she said nonchalantly. "If you hovered any more, they'd start rolling their eyes."
"They already roll their eyes!" Lindy snapped.
"And if you saw them off every morning like it was the last time, they'd hate you for it by next week."
Lindy frowned. A long, deep frown. "I might've… overreacted again."
Rosalinda gave a small sigh, then a grin. "God, she's really taking it seriously," she muttered under her breath, just loud enough for Lindy to hear.
"I heard that," Lindy grumbled, crossing her arms.
Still smiling, Rosalinda bowed her head slightly in mock apology.
As Lindy turned to head back inside, her eyes lifted toward the second floor. Something caught her eye.
"Wait…" she squinted. "That chandelier in the second hallway, it somehow looks off, or maybe I am just seeing things..."
Rosalinda tilted her head, but said nothing. Lindy stepped forward slightly, her eyes narrowing.
"Yeah, that's not the original one. Did you change it?"
"Something unexpected happened the other night," she said, brushing invisible dust from her apron. "It's not your concern, Milady. The replacements are already on their way."
Rosalinda didn't blink. After a brief pause, Lindy sighed, too tired to press further.
"Fine. Just make sure they match next time."
"Of course." she gave her a subtle and calm nod.
Lindy took one last glance toward the upper windows.
Then she stepped inside, along with Natasha.
Rosalinda remained alone on the steps.
Her posture still, arms crossed loosely under the swell of her chest, the wind brushing against her ponytail. The smile that had curled faintly on her lips moments ago was gone.
Eyes narrowed, expression locked in stillness. She watched the limousine grow smaller and smaller, rolling down the gravel road toward the iron gates of the mansion.
The humming of the limousine was soft, steady. Morning sunlight trickled through the windows, catching on the pressed folds of Liberty's blazer as she stared wide-eyed at the passing trees.
Liberty's feet kicked gently in the air, her voice bubbling with excitement. "Do you think they'll let me join the art club today? Or maybe literature? Oh! I hope the uniforms aren't itchy. Brother, do you think they'll let us sit together in class?"
Lincoln, seated beside her, glanced up from a small book tucked between his hands.
"Doubt it," he murmured, half-focused. "They probably split new kids into different groups."
Liberty frowned, then brightened again almost instantly. "Well, at least I'll still see you during breaks. And we'll eat lunch together! I packed those egg sandwiches Natasha made! D-do you think that'll be okay?"
At the wheel, Maximilian, his graying hair tucked beneath a black cap, drove in silence. His gloved hands gripped the steering wheel firmly, but his eyes occasionally flicked to the rearview mirror.
Watching them.
Their voices blended into the hum of the road. Innocent. Ordinary. Almost enough to forget.
But he couldn't.
The night before.
His quarters were tucked in a quiet wing of the estate, where no one came knocking unless summoned. The walls were lined with old weathered books, his father's military medals behind dusty glass, and a quiet desk lamp illuminating a mug of lukewarm coffee beside his tablet.
He scrolled through the latest news bulletin, eyes sharp despite the hour. The headline burned across the screen:
"Two Bodies Found Mutilated in Abandoned Shack - Sullivan Police Investigating Red Skull Links"
"The bodies were found late last night by a forest ranger in a remote shack deep within the swamps of Brellington, just a few miles outside the city. One of the victims was identified as Bernard Jorgen, a known associate of the far-right terrorist group, the Red Skull. His body had been dismembered, and forensic experts believe the chainsaw found beside him was used in the process. Lying next to him was the body of an unidentified woman, believed to be the primary suspect. Her throat had been violently slashed. There were no signs of a struggle or physical restraint. Authorities are currently leaning toward suicide as the cause of her death, and possibly revenge as the suspect's motive. Ropes were also identified in the crime--"
His thumb hovered over the screen as he scrolled further, until the tablet dimmed into black. He pushed back from the desk with a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. Outside, the wind rustled the trees. Distant and quiet.
Then, his phone rang.
Sharp. Sudden.
Maximilian stared at it for a second. No caller ID. No ringtone, just the standard default buzz, vibrating against the wooden table.
He answered.
Silence.
Then--
A little girl's voice, like silk dragged over glass-- playful, sharp-edged, and unmistakably familiar.
"Maxi~milian. You're getting old. You didn't recognize me?"
"Yuan." his eyes narrowed.
"Mmmhmm~ there it is. That heavy voice. All gruff and stern."
He sat down slowly in his desk, "It's been three years. I thought you were still embedded in the Northern Zone."
"Tsk-tsk. What kind of old friend doesn't keep tabs on me? I left the Zone ages ago. Bureau rotation. Besides, I'm in the fun part of the game now-- ratting out terrorists and cutting deals in the name of His Royal Highness."
"You're still the most useful thing as ever, no wonder he hasn't killed you, yet."
"Aww... you flatter me."
He glanced toward his tablet, the Red Skull headline still glowing. The chainsaw. The slit neck.
"Bernard Jorgen," he muttered. "That your doing?"
"What gave it away?" she cooed. "The chainsaw or the poetic suicide? I mean, I was just helping a damsel in distress exacting her revenge."
"Yuan," he said, voice low, "you could've turned him over to High-Rise"
"He was already dried out, only death awaits him at High-Rise, and I was just too generous to offer him an alternative"
A short chuckle followed.
"What can I say? Bernard was generous. Gave me names. Cracked faster than a soggy biscuit once I played nice. You boys really can't handle pressure, huh?"
"What's the name?"
"Gawain."
Max's fingers drummed the desk. "Shit..."
"Mmm. Now that name made you flinch,"
A pause.
"Yes. Gawain of the Royal Knights-- or rather, formerly of the Royal Knights, if we're being precise. The King's right-hand man. Charming, of course. Apparently, he's back in the game. Bernard said he's gathering contractors. Freelancers. Defectors. A proper buffet, if you ask me."
"If Gawain resurfaces, the SMITH will send Control into a full lockdown."
"He already has. Why do you think I called you?"
Silence passed between them like a blade.
"Anyway~" she continued, voice sing-song, "my lead right now is a woman. Lael Rivers. Does that name mean anything to you?"
He frowned. "No."
"Too bad. She's interesting. Quiet. Calculated. Slimy bitch. Got herself wrapped around some royal family assets too. I wanted to check your little database for anything, but the Central Ministry locked me out, so, can you tell Fiona my regards for me, please?"
"You were infiltrating the system?"
"Pfft. Don't be dramatic. Just browsing." She sighed. "Anyway, I'll find her. She smells like guilt and cheap perfume."
Then, her tone shifted, just a breath. Still playful, but darker
"By the way. Just a friendly warning, Max. I don't know if it's tonight or tomorrow. But there's going to be a breach."
"Where?"
"Your end. Someone's testing the perimeter of Villabosque through a vetted channel. Small at first. Quiet. But it'll escalate if no one's watching."
He turned to the window, the shadows of the trees swaying beyond the glass.
"The Monarchy... shit, I left the radio at the barracks,"
"Still clumsy as ever," she chuckled. "But don't worry too much. I'm sure you've gathered a few useful tools-- ones more than capable of bloodlust. Just don't go dying on me later~"
"Yuan--" he started.
But the line clicked.
Gone.
The call ended, the signal cut like a whisper into static.
The cold wind bit at her cheeks. Yuan stood atop a towering government archive building, one of the last places in the city where the lights still flickered on all night, where the secrets of the nation hid behind reinforced glass and high-security servers humming beneath the floor.
Her hood was drawn low over her head, the cloth rippling around her slender frame. Underneath, locks of ashen hair spilled down that danced with the wind. Her bloodshot-eyes, half-lidded, were fixed on the cityscape below.
Concrete and neon. Streets like arteries. Towers and buildings like bones. Sulliva called it order. She called it decay.
As she inhaled deeply, the iron scent of the air mixed inside her nostrils with the faraway hum of the cars and the faint distant music. Her fingers twitched at her side which often preceded blood, if she let them. But tonight, she was calm.
A smile crawled across her face.
"Let us see, what the twins are truly capable of."
END OF CHAPTER FIVE, PART ONE