"You walk through verdure, dear Sun—you breathe, you rot, you bloom, and the garden smiles, knowing all that it buries."

  The carriage rumbled through the iron gates of House Veranth as the morning sun struck the stone walls and glided down across the roofs, finally illuminating the sprawling courtyard in pale gold. The verdure cypress stood tall as looming spires. The young knight of the noble house, Mattheos, stepped out first, adjusting the leather straps of his armor.

  Behind him, Sol followed quietly with scarf tucked around him. His golden hued eyes gazed around to take in the grand entrance of the House of Veranth, and how the servants hurriedly approached with practiced ease, equal efficiency. They bowed in harmony, murmuring polite greetings to the young lord. None to Sol, just as no questions were asked about him either, the boy who was dressed in plain but neat clothes of the archive, blending into the background as the carriage door swung close behind them. He was invisible, unimportant besides the young master of the house, just as Silvanus had said he was to be.

  "Welcome back, Young master, Mattheos," the head butler with greying hair and plain grey suit, greeted, stepping forward. His voice was deferential. "Your rooms have been prepared, and your quarters in the western wing are ready for your stay."

  Mattheos nodded. "Thank you. It seems things have been kept in order under the Lord. How is he faring?"

  "Excellent, young master." Eventually, the older man's eyes flicked briefly to Sol, but the glance was fleeting, almost missed by any ordinary person. "And your companion?" He asked politely, as though Sol were merely an attendant or visitor.

  Sol's shoulders tensed at the word, but he did not answer. Instead, Mattheos did not let the confusion linger, he introduced him as a new servant boy assigned to a western ward, and the older man did not investigate further the young master's words in the slightest, much to the young boy's surprise.

  "Then, you shall be assigned duties," the butler continued. "Nothing beyond your station, of course, until further instructions. For now, you will act as a junior attendant in the western hall, where young master, too, resides."

  Sol's eyes narrowed briefly—attendant. It wasn't a role he had sought with an ounce vigor, but it was enough to place him inside the household. "I understand," he answered quietly, and followed the butler's nod towards the main hall.

  Mattheos walked beside him, in his own confident steps, though his eyes scanned the exterior with the discipline of a knight. "I trust we shall remain unobtrusive," he murmured.

  "Of course," Sol replied, recalling what Silvanus had instructed him, already noticing the subtle hierarchies among the servants when the maid stepped aside to let the butler pass, the quiet efficiency of their movements for they would have gone unnoticed with the way they silently communicated with the exchange of gazes, and the faint undertone of unease in the air that didn't yet touch him directly, but remained present even if they hadn't entered the house just yet.

  By the time they reached the entrance of the estate, Mattheos paused. "Remember, Sol," he said in a low voice, "for now, the role is simple. Observe. Learn. Wait for orders. Don't run into danger headfirst." He repeated the instructions ingrained into him, and Sol had to stop from letting out an exasperated sigh.

  "I have no idea why he is sending a damn kid to investigate rather than a proper personnel." Mattheos, the young knight, had groaned out the complaint a hundred times upon hearing of SIlvanus' decision to let a boy be sent to investigate the happenings of the noble estate. The instructions were as simple as an orphanage's rules he had been told. To do as he is told, to blend amongst the others, and observe any anomalies present.

  Sol was good at observing, he was excellent, or so he believed.

  Sol inclined his head, he payed no heed to the knight's words, letting them slip out the other ear. The doors opened with a tired groan, and the bustling life of House Veranth welcomed him into it's warm embrace and polished wood, the striking wall clock in the center of all grabbing onto his attention.

  The next was the faint hum of activity that drifted from the kitchens and courtyards as a sigh of life. Sol moved through it all like an extension of his shadow, silently absorbing everything that allowed the house of Veranth to function.

  The butler led them through a series of long corridors, each more opulent than the last. Richly woven tapestries softened the stone walls, their depictions of harvests and duel victories were illuminated by shafts of sunlight streaming through clear glass. Veranth family was known for their strength, for their captains who lead and ruled. And they were excellent leaders of their time.

  He watched how servants moved around, carrying trays of food or dusting the edges of polished furniture. Sol's eyes followed them, noting their quiet respect for Mattheos's presence. And he was to be the excellent leader of his time.

  Finally, they arrived at a small chamber near the western wing. The butler gestured to a simple set of shelves and a writing desk, and a cot within the room, their was another on the opposite wall. Perhaps, he was to share a room with someone but their was no sign of it being lived in, and so, Sol didn't ask.

  "This will be your station, Sol. Your duties will begin tomorrow morning, but you may familiarize yourself with the layout today. House of Veranth trusts those who show diligence and discretion."

  Sol gave a brief nod, glancing at Mattheos. The knight offered a reassuring smile (which was less smile than a smirk), but the boy was simply speechless he had followed him to the servant quarters.

  "Don't be too surprised," he said as if reading his mind, "I am a knight before I am a noble. You get used to the ordinary when your life depends on them."

  Whatever.

  The butler nodded once again before retreating alongside the young lord, leaving the newly assigned servant alone in the quiet chamber. The servant boy waited until the sound of retreating footsteps on creaky wood faded beyond the corridor before he moved. Then, he set down the satchel Mattheos had brought for him and looked around. The room was modest compared to the rest of the manor, albeit functional, but lacking the grandeur that surrounded the rest of the house. In a way, it suited his purpose. Sol could move here without drawing attention.

  As long as he didn't get an unwanted roommate.

  Silvanus had told him how the noble houses maintained sealed histories, private rites, and guarded bloodlines; if corruption had seeped into them, it would show in small fractures. He hadn't specified what or how. The man simply said he needed someone insignificant enough to pass below their notice, and someone with the same aim as him—someone who could act if the house itself was rotted enough—before throwing him into the noble estate without another word. (Much to Mattheos' disagreements.)

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  He crouched near the modest cot by the window and began his quiet survey. He pressed a hand against one board, then another, tracing the subtle inconsistencies in each wood, before knocking each with his knuckles. A dull thunk answered his knuckle on the third plank near the wall. He tested the edge with the tip of a dagger he was lent, prying it loose with a careful twist. Beneath, the faint outline of a shallow compartment revealed itself, and Sol grinned in victory.

  He replaced the board silently and moved to the desk, pulling open each drawer with slow deliberation. Nothing of note, and only parchment, an inkpot, and a few blunt quills.

  A quick press along the brickwork throughout the room led him beside the window. It drew a soft echo. He leaned closer, brushing his fingertips across the mortar, feeling for temperature differences. So the western wing has heating channels. Useful, if the ventilation shafts were large enough, they could carry a person through.

  In the underground city, in the orphanage he was raised, heat meant coal dust that coated your throat and the deafening clank of iron furnaces that shook the concrete even. But here? The machinery was hidden, buried deep beneath the concrete. The air in the manor was filtered, smelling of lavender and incense rather than stinging sulfur. It was the ultimate display of Veranth's wealth: not just the golden tapestries on the walls, or their strength, but the ability to silence the very machines that kept them warm. It made Sol uneasy, he had learned to find comfort in the noise.

  Letting his palm slip off the warm wall, he moved away from the corner of the room.

  Outside, the sun dipped lower behind the horizon, casting long shadows across the manor's courtyards. Sol stared out the window, noticing the Cathedral's barely visible spire in the distance, and it's faint threads of corruption shimmering in the evening air. Tomorrow, he would begin his duties. Tomorrow, he would step fully into his role as observer, servant, and silent agent of disruption.

  And as promised, Sol began his life as a servant the very next day. A timid girl introduced him to the tasks, and Sol did not find them difficult. The orphanage life had taught him enough. All it consisted of was fetching water, other menial tasks she briefed him over, and especially listening while overlooked. The very menial work would become the perfect disguise for observation—his main assignment.

  It wasn't until the kitchens, while hauling a basket of onions from the cellar steps, that he fell into easy company with the others. They had welcomed him with open arms, such that they would to a smaller, younger sibling. Sol hadn't expected such warmth in a noble house.

  One was Clara, a young girl with twin-braids, and a bright smile who liked to chatter with everyone and hum odd tunes. Then there was Thomas, the kitchen boy, freckled, and with hair the color of light-chestnut. Sol could call him Clara's shadow, for they did all their tasks together, and were talkative in the way only those used to long hours of drudgery could be. They joked about the steward's sour temper, about how the butcher's meat was half bone, about how the rats in the cellar were smarter than most squires. But gossip always wandered. It always did, and Sol was sure to take advantage of it when the opportunity arose.

  His duties for the day were simple: sweep the western hall, polish the wooden railings, and carry wine from the cellars to the kitchen table. The boring kind, or the kind meant to keep new servants too busy to wander around aimlessly, lost. Just as they intended, he did it quietly, without drawing attention, smiling at every passing worker to make sure they did not find him strange. At the afternoon, he ate in the servant's hall, located by the kitchen quarters. The lunch was a porridge too thin to fill the belly, watered down to stretch another night, or the chef was just uninterested in making something decent for the servants. No one spoke much besides Clara and Thomas who did whisper a bit amongst themselves.

  By the late evening, he was tired out of his mind.

  What he disliked was how the nobles themselves remained unseen. Once or twice, Sol caught a glimpse of their cloaks sweeping down a stairwell or a voice echoing behind a half-closed, if not completely shut, door but never more than that.

  That night, Sol stared at the ceiling. Uneventful, yes. But there was something in the silence of this house, not the emptiness of peace, but the hush of something waiting. Or it was his paranoia. He was not sure, and he did not question it too much, just yet.

  The next day, the senior butler found him first as soon as he left the servant quarters. It was not the timid girl who debriefed him for the tasks ahead, but the man who welcomed him into the house alongside Mattheos. He listed down each task verbally, and Sol had to pay extra attention to it. He did not waste time wandering and immediately began restocking the pantries, and grabbing wine from the cellar.

  Later, he slipped down the halls for cleaning duties. Sol's route took him through the Eastern corridor, the one Thomas had muttered about the day before resided somebody. Sol couldn't recall what he said, he hadn't paid much mind then, but as his feet carried him past its polished stretch, something about it prickled the back of his neck.

  At the far end, the senior butler was sweeping with a kind of attention that went beyond simple cleaning. Do these people have some hold dread of dirt? Sol wondered. Each stroke of the broom traced the edges of the floor in neat, precise lines. Sol caught the faint sheen of ash being gathered, though he hadn't seen a hearth lit anywhere nearby. None here. There wouldn't be one in the hallway, not were any windows opened, how could it get so dusty inside?

  The butler didn't look up to see him looming the corner, understandably so. He was too focused over his mundane task. Seeing that, Sol dipped his head, stepped away from the corridor and made his quick way towards the kitchen quarters where the air was thick with heat and the smell of stewed cabbage.

  In the kitchen, Clara scolded Thomas for dropping a ladle into the pot, but the boy only grinned sheepishly, wiping his hands on his stained apron.

  "You're settling in, eh?" Thomas asked, tossing Sol a chunk of fresh bread. Then, Thomas leaned closer, lowering his voice. "A word of advice. If you're ever sent further from the west wing, don't linger too long unless you wish to know why the air tastes of copper." The same Eastern wing he had passed moments before?

  Clara snorted. "Don't fill his head with nonsense! He's here to work, not to listen to your spooky stories."

  "Hey! I was just warning him beforehand!"

  "That's nonsense!" She repeated.

  Sol tore his bread in silence, chewing slowly. The warmth of the kitchen didn't quite banish the chill he'd felt elsewhere. And so, Sol took his first chance.

  "The senior butler takes care of the Eastern wing, then?" Sol asked, playing the part of the dim-witted drudge. He felt Clara, and Thomas still at the mention for a split-est second—Sol noticed more than others, but he chose to not speak.

  "That's where Lady resides," Thomas whispered later. He pointed with a crust of bread toward the further building from the kitchen window.

  So that's who it was! The lady! Lady Veranth...?

  "They say she's unwell, so we are not allowed," Clara added in a hush. "Her meals are taken by the senior butler assigned to her."

  "Unwell?" Sol echoed, keeping his voice casual. Tell me more!

  "Mm," Thomas said quickly. "And maybe..." He leaned closer, eyes wide, half-grinning in the way boys did when trying to frighten one another. "...maybe that illness—it's contagious."

  Clara smacked the back of his head with her ladle. "Nonsense, again. Lord Veranth has the most influential doctors coin can buy. It must be no dire illness!"

  But Sol wasn't scared, exactly. He noted it away mentally. An unwell Lady. A sealed corridor. Ash. He had to let Silvanus know.

  That night, as he lay on his bed again, he tried not to think of it. Sol rolled around, trying to shake off his curiosity. Giving up on attempting to sleep anymore, the boy sat up, pulling his satchel closer and untying the worn leather cord that bound his things. There wasn't much packed in it besides some necessities. From within, he drew a folded strip of parchment and a slender piece of charcoal. No candle was lit—he didn't dare risk being seen awake—the faint moonlight spilling from the glass panel was enough for him.

  Then, he began writing, and it was past the hours of midnight, nearing dawn that he finally slept a dreamless sleep. Somewhere in the eastern wing, a door creaked faintly enough to let it echo through the corridor across, or perhaps he only imagined it.