The day had been plodding, all thanks to the chores bleeding one into another: sweeping courtyards, hauling linen, mindless cleaning, then helping Clara peel onions in the kitchen until his eyes stung and his nose ran. Sol had been born ready to bleed into the numb rhythm of it when Thomas nudged him with a grin.

  "Your turn, friend. Lord Veranth wants tea sent up to his study. Clara says I've burned my fingers one too many times, so it's your turn this time!"

  Sol scowled. "Me? You know I'm not really supposed to—" He retorted. He was a newcomer, would Lord Veranth really allow him into the study? Sol wondered. He did not intend to be kicked out before he made any progress in the investigation, for if Lord Veranth did not kill him after connecting the dots, Silvanus would be sure to. His face was known around Solthar, for the Sun's sake! And so, Sol pushed the tray away.

  "Better you than me. I don't want to embarrass myself in front of an honored guest." Thomas chirped and shoved the tray back into his hands. Sol watched the steam curling from the porcelain kettle, and the glimmer from the porcelain cups. "Go on. Don't dawdle. They're waiting, you know?"

  Reluctance clawed his gut, but opportunity sounded more appealing. He had come here under false pretenses, and to refuse would draw eyes without a doubt. Giving in, Sol lifted the tray carefully, balanced it against his ribs, and followed the long climb to the second floor. It felt longer the more he stepped forward, and with each step his heart thudded in anxiety. What if he was recognized? Sol shook his head.

  The door to Lord Veranth's office loomed tall, lacquered wood veined with faint gold ivy running over it as a symbol of the Veranth house. Voices already leaked through, and one was sharp with anger.

  "...everywhere," a man hissed inside. "House Cindral is everywhere. How did they secure every shipment before the Festival?"

  "It's seems like they are sacrificing sleep over this." Another voice that was weary with calculation yet calm, responded. "Now with Bishop Samael backing them, they aren’t playing for profit anymore." A chuckle resounded.

  Sol froze before the door, tray trembling in his grip. He heard the scrape of boots, then a low thump of a fist against a desk.

  "They're hoarding, then they'll starve us all out." The guest, no doubt, continued to spat. "And when the streets are rioting, who will the people turn to? They'll kneel not to Ashvale or us, but the Cindral, or whoever reaches them first with provisions."

  Lord Veranth's voice followed, "You think I haven't accounted for that? You underestimate the loyalty of Solthar's people, and it's houses. You underestimate the weight of a name. Ashvale may have the mines, and Cindral may have the markets, but House Veranth is the Sun’s own shadow. We are a symbol of power and influence that neither of them has yet."

  Silence returned, broken by the scrape of a chair. "Loyalty doesn't fill a stomach," the guest countered. "And the Sun hasn't shown its face in a hundred years. If we don't break Cindral's blockade, the only thing-"

  Sol's chest tightened. He couldn't stand outside forever. He tapped the door with his knuckles, and the voices stilled. The conversation died.

  "Enter," came a command.

  Sol stepped in, head bowed, eyes lowered in the stance of a servant. The office smelled of ink and spiced smoke, shelves crammed with ledgers and rolls of parchment. Lord Veranth sat behind a broad desk. He was an aged man with hair already grey, the color of winter fog, slicked back from a forehead. The veins on his hands stood out faintly as he rested them against each other over the wood, unmoving. He had the unfamiliarity to him, eyes hardened with time, no spark present. Sol imagined him as the mirror of Mattheos, the man who seemed to be the very image of Veranth with his blazing red hair and equally fiery eyes.

  This man was what was left behind after ffire had died out. This man was strange.

  Across from him, a man in travel-worn black leaned forward, his face partially shadowed by the firelight of the room. He wore no noble crest, only a small, silver pin.

  The two studied him, silent, as he placed the tray carefully on the corner of the desk. His heart hammered against his ribs.

  "Tea, my lord," Sol said evenly.

  Veranth gave him a thin nod, already turning his attention back to his guest. "Thank you. That will be all."

  But as Sol turned to leave, the guest's eyes followed him, a flicker of suspicion cast in them, and narrowing as though the stranger saw more than a someone should. He ignored it, and stepped back into the hall, the door clicking shut behind him. He walked away quickly, with the words replaying in his head.

  House Cindral's hoarding of shipments... That seems useless. Hmm... that guest, who was he? Sol scratched his head, by the time he reached the kitchen to see Thomas already waiting.

  "Thank you, Sol." He grinned, and the boy sighed at that.

  "Don't make me go there, ever again." He continued. "That was nerve-wrecking!"

  He had to go there again. Sol hoped not.

  Thomas chuckled. "What, the old lord scare you?"

  "Not really... It wasn't that statue in the suit..." Sol leaned against the counter, hearing Thomas cackle, "The other guest, maybe. Who was he?"

  That caught Thomas's attention. The boy's grin faltered a little in thought. "Oh... him?"

  "You know who he is?"

  "Hmm... Not exactly. Sir Almarin, well, he comes with news sometimes. Not a noble, exactly, but... close enough... More of a rich merchant with lots of luck?" He continued. Sol wanted to press.

  "Either way, people keep their distance. He's often arguing with the Lord," Thomas shrugged. "We would rather not get on bad terms with our master…"

  Not one of us. Sol turned the phrase over in his mind. Then, a spy or an envoy... either fits.

  He nodded faintly, pretending disinterest as he reached for a cloth. "I see. Best not to talk about him then!"

  Thomas grinned again, relieved to drop the subject. "Exactly! Let's get these plates cleaned up before our grumpy old man finally comes down to lash his anger out on someone!"

  Seriously? That's how he sees the butler?

  This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  The night, after dinner, he wrote the second letter directed to Silvanus. When the ink dried, he folded the letter neatly and lifted the loose floorboard beneath his cot, the same hollow he had found his first night. He slid the parchment into the narrow gap beside a disassembled piece of his firearm coated in unlit runes—sleeping a quiet sleep. The two lied together in the dust, he made sure. And then, he dropped the floorboard back into place until it was indistinguishable from the rest.

  And that concluded his day.

  The next morning came pale and cool, even early, since it was closer to Midsummer than ever before. The house of Veranth stirred before dawn in a quiet flurry of footsteps and murmured tasks. Sol slipped into the corridor, broom in hand, and ready to begin his tasks. He had not seen the timid girl that would debrief him each morning. But Sol decided not to think too much, and began his cleaning duty for the day. He knew what he was usually ordered to do. He had gotten used to of the menial labor into another, and another.

  As he passed through the northern hall, his eye caught on a narrow door left half open, with wooden steps leading into shadow. There, he paused to listen, making sure to keep cleaning. Attic? Or the cellar? he wondered. The steps were steep, disappearing into the dark like a narrow throat of a abyssal beast. He memorized its position from the eastern hall. It was certainly at a distance, he wouldn't come here normally under the scrutiny of any senior servant. The grumpy old man as Thomas called him.

  By midday, he was back to his duties of sweeping the upper corridors, wiping clean the railings, refilling lamps of the halls with oil, and restocking wine.

  With routine, repetition, and eerie silence, the days began to fold into one another; the same meals, the same orders, the same measured rhythm of House Veranth. A week passed since the day he met Lord Veranth, and nothing changed—atleast outwardly. But Sol had lived long enough to know that quiet was never harmless.

  Noise was safer.

  Soon, a carriage arrived at House Veranth's gates. It's lacquered wood gleamed faintly beneath the overcast sky, the crest etched in green and gold catching what little light the day in Solthar allowed.

  Mattheos stepped down, his boots striking the wet cobblestone with the certainty and confidence of a knight. He straightened his cloak, adjusting the clasp that bore the crest of the Sun, and fixed the senior butler with the kind of look that silent authority.

  "I am here to see Lord Veranth," he said in a sharp voice.

  The butler bowed low, responding with, "Of course, young master. Please, this way."

  The servants scattered like mice before them as Mattheos crossed the threshold, the butler leading him deeper into the halls where only family and favored guests were allowed. From the far corridor, Sol lingered in the shadow of a column, a broom leaning idly against his shoulder.

  He squinted at the scene, jaw tight. Damn this guy... he thought, watching the way the servants bent their heads as Mattheos passed. He struts in here, no questions asked, while I'm breaking my back to scrub floors and haul tea trays!

  When Mattheos disappeared into the study, and the footsteps echoed away, Sol exhaled through his teeth, letting the broom clatter lightly back against the wall. He should've been carrying linens to the wash by now, but instead he ducked his head and followed the drifting current of gossip in the kitchens at the sight of the young lord.

  That was when he learned about it.

  "They say the House is preparing a gathering." He heard Clara as she kneaded dough at the counter. "Not a dinner, no—it's bigger than that! Guests from other Houses, maybe even Lady Myrrin!" She tried to keep he voice casual but her tone expressed her excitement, and Sol smiled to himself.

  Thomas rolled his eyes, but his hands worked quick with chopping herbs. "You and your rumors. What gathering? We don't host banquets in the middle of shortages!" He whisper-yelled at the girl.

  "Then why's the cellar been cleared out for newer wine?" Clara shot back. "Why did the seamstress bring in bolts of gold-threaded cloth? And why was the butler ordering incense in crates, when we've got smoke clogging the city already?" She argued with the boy.

  Thomas rolled his eyes, but his hands worked quick with chopping herbs. He glanced at Sol from the corner of his eyes. "Hope you ate an extra of that remaining stew last night, Sol. I swear the butcher cuts the mutton thinner every time, just to prove a point."

  "Maybe the Lord thinks we'll develop noble appetites if he starves us properly." Sol gave a faint, shared grimace. He leaned against the doorframe with his arms folded, keeping that expression of feigned disinterest. Seriously? A gathering? Inside, a chill crept up his spine as he thought of the invites of the other nobles.

  A gathering always meant something was stirring up... He had to pull himself out of his thoughts before he delved into the unlikeable memories of the past.

  "You. Come here."

  The chatter around him stopped dead. Clara's eyes widened, and Thomas mouthed something like I told you he'd get in trouble with all his daydreaming someday!

  Sol's pulse jumped. He wiped his sweaty hands against his servant's tunic quickly and stepped forward, forcing his face into a mask of dull obedience.

  For a moment, Sol thought he was about to be dragged into the basement and questioned, or something worse. I am dead. I am caught. Forgive me, Inquisitor Silas, but this was the worst decision ever! His worries did not come to reality,instead, the old man extended a stack of sealed envelopes, the wax gleaming faintly in the afternoon sunlight.

  "Our house messenger has been quite busy of late," the older man spoke. "So under young master's instruction, you are assigned to deliver these invites over the week."

  He placed a small stack of letters in Sol's hands, each bearing the emerald seal of House Veranth. Sol blinked, unsure whether to sigh in relief or curse his luck.

  Is that why Mattheos arrived this morning?

  "Deliver them promptly, and without error," the butler continued. "Any mistake will be reflected on your head alone. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, sir," Sol answered quickly, his voice steady despite the pounding adrenaline in his ribs. The butler studied him for a long moment, as if searching for cracks in the mask, then dismissed him with a flick of the hand, uninterested in further chat.

  As Sol turned to leave, the weight of the letters settled against his palm like a promise. Invitations. A gathering of nobles. If these were truly what they seemed, then he now held the threads connecting House Veranth to the other houses—the very network Silvanus had sent him to uncover.

  Standing in the hallway, Sol allowed himself the smallest curl of a smile. A gathering... perfect!

  Sol was still turning the sealed letters in his hands when a flour-dusted finger jabbed him in the side. Clara and Thomas had exited into the halls, dropping their work just to interrogate their newest addition.

  "So," Clara said, leaning close, her sleeves rolled up to the elbows for ease, "what did he want from you? You look like you saw a ghost."

  Thomas snorted beside him. "More like the ghost saw him. You went pale as a walls when he called you out." He jabbed the boy from the other side.

  Sol blinked at them, then let out a faint sigh. "Apparently, I'm delivering invitations." He answered.

  Clara's eyes widened, her voice dropping to a dramatic whisper. "Invitations? To the gathering?" She gasped, letting flour covered hands up to her mouth.

  Thomas groaned. "There you go again—rumors, rumors! He's probably delivering accounts of trades or something dull, so boring. The butler wouldn't hand out fancy letters to us, you know? He seems to have no faith in us."

  But Clara had already leaned over to peer at the green wax crest. "That's House Veranth's seal," she breathed, delighted. "You're actually going out? Past the gates?"

  One thing Sol had learned was the servants never really left the house, nor were they allowed to without a formal request, and approved by hands they would never meet. Requests to leave required reasons that had to be justified. Then again, those chosen to serve the house of Veranth had no reason to leave. The corridors were their world. The air within, their life.

  Sol shrugged, feigning indifference. "Seems so." Damn right, I am!

  "Lucky bastard. Some of us haven't seen daylight past the courtyard in weeks."

  "You'd only get lost," Clara teased, swatting him lightly with her apron.

  "Would not!"

  "Would too."

  Their bickering carried on, and Sol listened quietly with the faintest trace of a smile flickering across his face before fading. He tucked the letters safely beneath his arm. "I'll be back before dusk."

  He raised a hand in a vague farewell, their laughter following him beyond the hall.