Location: Oslo, Unknown
Time: Day 392 After Alec's Arrival
She rode without torchlight.
The night wrapped itself around her like a secret.
The road twisted through the pines, narrow and slick with mist, but her horse didn't stumble. It didn't need guiding. It knew the route — old, hidden, repeated enough times now that even shadows held memory.
Her cloak was plain. Brown wool, frayed at the hem. Her saddlebag bore no crest, no seal. Only mending tools, folded linen, a tin of rosewater pressed between cloth bundles — the scent used not for perfume, but for disguise.
No ink.No sigils.No trace.
Only memory.
For three years she'd walked the corridors of Oslo Keep.
Watched. Listened. Stitched hems and replaced torn sleeves and picked up gossip like loose threads.
No one noticed the seamstress.
And that's why she survived.
Even Alec Alenia's purge had passed her over — not out of error, but design.
He had looked at her.
But not seen her.
His gaze was too focused on commanders and captains, on maps and metal and lies wrapped in noble titles.
Men like him rarely looked down.
Which made them vulnerable in the soft spaces beneath.
The manor loomed ahead.
Dain's estate stood like a wound stitched into the forest ridge, its lanterns flickering in uneven intervals — never bright enough to signal welcome, never dim enough to mask the watching.
The gates didn't resist her approach.
They opened on silent hinges, like a mouth that already knew what it would swallow.
Inside, the halls were low-lit and quiet. The air tasted of smoke and sugared wine.
Above, somewhere, music played. A lone harpist — off-key, slow. The soundtrack of a man who collected broken things: half-sober nobles, blackmailed cousins, spies bought with memory instead of coin.
She was led without words.
No announcement.
No ceremony.
Just silent feet and expectation.
North Tower – Study
He was already there.
Dain.
Seated at the hearth's edge. One hand curled around a half-empty glass of amber wine. His coat unbuttoned. His boots still laced. Hair slightly disheveled, as though sleep had been offered and violently refused.
The fire cracked. Dim. Barely alive.
He didn't look at her when she entered.
Didn't greet.
Only lifted one hand. A subtle motion.
Show me.
She stepped forward, pulled down the hood.
No scroll.No inked report.Only her voice.
Her mind.
"You were right," she said, tone level. Calm as the flame behind her. "He doesn't lead like a soldier. Or a lord. He builds. Quietly. Relentlessly. He shifts patterns — rearranges workflow, reassigns authority. And the strangest thing… no one resists it. It's like they begin marching to his rhythm before they even realize he's set it."
Dain's jaw tightened. His eyes — shadowed with exhaustion — flicked toward her now.
"And the Countess?" he asked, voice low.
"She's not slipping in title," the spy replied. "But she's… yielding. Subtly. Slowly."
"How?"
"She walks slower beside him. Listens longer when he speaks. Adjusts her words after he's spoken. They eat together now — but never with the court. And last week… she gave him her full evening itinerary without even noticing she'd done it."
Dain's mouth curled into something that resembled a smile — sharp, tight, cruel around the edges.
And then, calmly: "And the child?"
The spy paused. A breath.
"You told me not to touch her."
"I said not to harm her."
His voice was glass over stone.
"But observe? Yes. Always."
The spy stepped closer, voice lower.
"She shadows him. The child. Follows him from a distance but never loses sight. The guards call him 'Teacher Alec' behind closed doors. They say she mimics his walk. The kitchen staff say she repeats his phrases."
Dain's smile vanished.
His whole face changed.
What replaced it wasn't anger.
It was something colder.
Something possessive.
"They've become a family," he said. Flatly.
The spy nodded. "A new one. And the old guard knows it. Some talk as if it's already arranged — that Alec will marry her. That Elira favors it. That even Midgard might endorse the match."
Dain stood.
Not quickly.
But like someone remembering his own shadow.
He moved to the window. Looked out into the dark trees.
"Would she?" he asked. "Would Elira give herself to him?"
The spy tilted her head, measuring the weight of her answer.
"…Yes," she said. "If not in name, then in trust. She's changing. And it started with him."
Dain's hand gripped the back of his chair.
Tight.
Knuckles pale.
He turned, slow, and murmured:
"She was mine."
The spy said nothing.
She didn't need to.
It wasn't a confession. It was a vow.
"Did he see you?" Dain asked, suddenly sharp again.
"No," she said. "Not really."
He stepped closer. Narrowed his eyes.
"Don't lie to me."
"I wore gloves. I spoke only when spoken to. I mended Annarella's riding cloak last week. Alec thanked me. Nothing more."
Dain stared for another beat.
Then exhaled.
"You're still valuable."
He turned to the fire. Tossed in a twisted length of dried vine. Watched it burn.
"I want more," he said. "No more rotas. No troop counts. I want words. I want the private ones. The ones whispered when no one's meant to hear."
"I'll need more time," she said.
"You'll have it."
He poured another glass.
Didn't drink.
Just turned — and for the first time that night, truly looked at her.
His voice, too soft now:
"If he means to replace me — I want to know what he'll take first. Her body? Her loyalty? Or her child?"
The spy's stomach turned — not with fear.
With certainty.
That this man would not hesitate to salt the earth if it meant robbing Alec of every seed.
She bowed her head.
"I'll return in six days."
He nodded.
But as she reached the door—
"Wait."
She paused.
"If you find a moment where they're alone," Dain said, voice like stone cracking, "and she touches him first—"
She waited.
"Tell me."
"…And if he touches her?"
Dain's eyes went dead quiet.
"Then there will be no keep left to rebuild."
-----
Outside, the spy mounted her horse beneath a moonless sky.
The road ahead was darker now.
But her thoughts were lit. Razor-sharp.
She had watched Alec step between flame and child like it was instinct.
She had watched Elira lean toward him — not in strategy, but in surrender.
And now she had fed that truth to a man who would rather break kingdoms than lose one woman.
The next time she rode this path...
Someone would bleed