Song vibe: Filter — Jimin

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  LYSANDER

  The Lord's Study, Firestone

  Lysander leaned back in Nocturne’s chair, his lithe frame folding into it with an easy grace.

  Over the last month, he had made the study his own—papers in neat stacks, ledgers marked and filed away, his investigation into Firestone’s finances finally circling toward its end.

  Lysander, the flirty one. The one with a bow, always standing behind someone’s shield. The one no one takes seriously. He calculated the sum again in his head, fingers tapping out the answer. Nocturne has trusted me with Firestone. And by extension—Saphira.

  I can show them all. I’m more than what they see; more than some farm boy with a cursed bow—who learned to shoot and never miss.

  With Quintus suddenly taking ill and locking himself away, Lysander had raided the last of the records needed from the elderly castellan’s study. Blessedly, Gorda’s shrill voice had also vanished from Firestone’s corridors—for once, the keep sighed with relief at the absence of both vultures.

  Of course, we sent Felix to check on Quintus, to make sure he's really locked in there. Can never be too careful.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  “The petitioners are here to see you, Sir,” Maxine called.

  “A moment,” Lysander replied, not looking up from his work.

  Under the desk, Dusty lifted her head. The hell leopard blinked up at him—one eye still swollen from the attack, the other bright and assessing. Lysander reached down and rubbed the soft spot beneath her chin until her tail thumped against the floorboards.

  “Nearly back to full terror,” he whispered. “Give it another week and you’ll be mauling Rell’s cloak again.”

  He reached into his pocket and fed Dusty a softened piece of meat from his palm. In all the chaos of her injury, it had taken a few days for anyone to notice the broken milk tooth. With well-practised care, Lysander had carefully worked it loose and pulled it free; ever since, the hell leopard had chosen to rest by his side when Saphira was busy.

  Cubs don’t break a milk tooth unless they’ve bitten down hard—in panic or defence. Seeing as Rell said the assassin he fought was uninjured, it must have been that mysterious mage. He scratched her head again. Brave girl—before, the intruders could be anyone. Now, all we need to do is check for bite marks.

  Lysander dipped his quill and wrote down the final figure. With Edwin’s information cross-checked against the old books, he finally had it—the total sum of gold missing from Firestone’s coffers.

  "Fye." He stared at the number. “Quintus, you bastard.”

  Dusty huffed, unimpressed.

  That’s a pit full of missing gold. Lysander pulled the wooden pin from his hair and shook out his long blonde braid. The next question is—where did it go? You can’t hide that much under a floorboard. Did he smuggle it out? Spend it? How did no one notice?

  A second knock.

  “Bring them in, Maxine,” Lysander said, folding the books shut and pinning up his hair.

  They entered in a trickle of complaints—a building permit, inheritance grievances, livestock going missing in Hart Village—and then the more serious matters: an elderly man had left Hart Village two nights ago and not come home. Lysander arranged an investigation, but the report settled in his stomach like a stone.

  Their eyes drifted to Dusty with varying degrees of suspicion. Lysander pretended not to see it as he ordered the night patrols doubled.

  “We need to get you trained, not-so-little one.” He scratched Dusty’s head. “Not that you’d ever hurt a human—but it’d put the villagers’ minds at ease.”

  I used to hunt deer with dogs—trained each bitch up myself—but in all my 28 years, I've never seen a hell leopard hunt. An interesting challenge to train—and deadly, if she can be taught to take down nightspawn.

  As Maxine closed the door, her hand hesitated.

  “What is it, Maxine?” Lysander asked.

  She stepped back inside and shut the door. Her gaze flicked over him briefly—his braid, his sharp cheekbones, the bowman’s build beneath his shirt—before she masked the glance with a demure tilt of her chin.

  Lysander studied her back with hunter’s eyes—her dark, glossy hair, elegant hands, dusky eyes that gave nothing away. Beautiful, yes. But there’s a precision I rarely see in servants.

  “I don’t mean to cause trouble. But…” she bit her lip “…yesterday was payday, and with Quintus sick—”

  “Of course. I’ll arrange for staff wages to be paid immediately.”

  Maxine hesitated—then stepped closer, her movements as fluid as a dancer.

  Interesting, Lysander thought. And strangely familiar.

  He rose from his chair and came around the desk, choosing to stand beside it rather than behind it.

  “What’s really on your mind, darling?”

  “I know I’ve no right to complain, being new to the keep,” she said, shoulders lifting in a nervous shrug, “but I noticed some of the older girls are getting paid far more than me. We’re doing the same work. I’d expect a little difference, sure, but this is… a lot. More than what their experience merits. And it’s not just the staff. The guards, too.”

  The books say they’re all on the same wages. Lysander hid his shock with a wink at Maxine. This isn’t a complaint. This is a warning.

  “I’ll look into it,” he promised softly.

  “Thank you, Sir—”

  “One last thing, darling.” Lysander closed the space between them, leaning a palm against the doorframe beside her. He was not the tallest of the knights, but he knew how to use his presence—leaning in just close enough for her to feel the heat of him without intimidating her.

  Let's test my suspicion—Nox told Saphira he had sent a "shadow" to Firestone. Who is she really?

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

  Above: Lysander approaches Maxine.

  “I’ve got good news and bad news for you,” he murmured. “Which first?”

  “The good.” Her cheeks flushed a perfect pink.

  “The good news—I want you to save me a dance at the Sowing Festival.” He caught a loose lock of her dark hair between his fingers. “The bad news: I know you’re a Sunfire, and it’d be a scandal if we were closely related. Who's your father?”

  “I didn’t grow up in the mountains, Sir." Maxine slipped a necklace from beneath her neckline. The Sunfire crest gleamed in gold and ruby. "This is all I have of him. A spawnslayer. My mother said she was married to him in every way that mattered—just not the Mountain ways.”

  “She was a camp wife, then,” Lysander said gently, touching the pendant. “But treasured. This is real gold.”

  “No wine, no sword, no flames—no marriage,” Maxine whispered, her voice trembling. “It’s cruel, isn’t it?”

  "Aye, cruel to make a beautiful woman suffer." Lysander took her hand and lifted her palm to his lips. “I’ll be looking for you on the dance floor. Don’t leave me lonely.”

  “I wouldn’t dream.” She smiled; the perfume of lilies lingered in the air.

  He watched her close the door quietly, thinking, You're one to watch, darling. And not because of that coy little smile.

  As he sat back down, he rubbed a hand over his braid as he turned back to the ledgers. Bloated wages. Guards overpaid. Servants mysteriously enriched.

  Then, it clicked together.

  If Quintus is paying extra wages, then that's an obligation; he'd need regular access to the gold. He'd need it close. His hazel eyes widened. Fye. The gold never left Firestone.

  Lysander crossed to the bookshelf and pulled free the bundle of documents he had filed earlier: the original sketches of Firestone. Beside them, he laid out the old ledgers—repairs supposedly made in Nocturne’s first year as Count.

  I noted it down as a bookkeeping error: repairs that never happened. But the work was paid for and the craftsmen’s presence noted in the visitor logs.

  He grinned. Work was carried out, just not the work described in the ledger.

  “Maxine,” he called, raising his voice, “please bring August and Rell here—now.”

  Soon, the two stood in Nocturne’s office. Lysander crossed one leg over the other and held up the scroll of Firestone’s architectural plans.

  “You both walked every step of Firestone,” he said. “Warded it, cleared it out. I think there’s a hidden room somewhere—a place where Quintus is hiding Nox’s gold. He's been accessing it regularly to buy the servants' loyalty." He let the revelation sit for a moment before asking, "If there was a hidden room, where would it be?”

  “Show me the designs,” August said at once. “Quintus is a control freak. My money’s on somewhere close—his chambers or his study.”

  “It’s too obvious, Gramps,” Rell replied, “He’s got it in the old latrine shafts—like the shit sniffer he is.”

  Lysander barely managed a huff of laughter; his thoughts speeding ahead. “Saphira is meeting with Nox tonight,” he said quietly. “Whoever was intercepting our messages thinks we’re meeting on the Yule Mountain. Quintus is locked in his chambers. If we’re going to do this quietly, it’s gotta be tonight—while we know the keep is ours. Before they catch on to us and move it."

  They spread the old sketches across the desk. Rell leaned over one shoulder, August over the other, both muttering, correcting, arguing. Sunlight bled gold across the parchment as the afternoon slipped toward dusk.

  But nothing stood out—no suspicious measurements; no rooms which did not match their original design. Just the same stones, the same halls, the same courtyard—all that they had walked over hundreds of times.

  Rell and August have already searched the walls and halls, inside and out. Lysander sat back, frustration buzzing beneath his skin. If Quintus has altered any part of Firestone's keep, he has done so perfectly; it'd take months to find. But we don't have the time to spare.

  "There must be a way to make him tell," Lysander muttered.

  “What are you thinking?” August straightened, flexing his hand. "Truthstone?"

  "Saphira gave orders—not to let them know we know, until we have the full picture." Lysander closed the ledger in front of him, his pulse a rapid thrum.

  You can do this, Lye. Quintus thinks you’re harmless—the smallest of the seven, air-headed, too soft. His thoughts landed harder than he liked. The farm boy who should have stayed hunting game. He drew a slow breath and then tucked the ledger under his arm. Good. Let him think that. Let him underestimate me.

  “If we can’t find the room on the maps,” he murmured, straightening his shoulders. “There’s one person who knows exactly where it is.”

  Rell’s brows rose. “Lye—”

  “Trust me,” he said, already moving for the door.

  He reached the old castellan’s chambers and heard it before he touched the handle: a wet, racking cough—violent enough that Lysander almost felt a flicker of pity.

  So, the old vulture really is ill.

  He lifted his hand and knocked.

  “I said: go away,” croaked the castellan.

  “It’s Sir Lysander. I have a question about the ledgers.”

  There was silence. Then, a rustle of blankets. The latch clicked softly.

  Lysander stepped into Quintus’ private chambers. The room was sparse but immaculate—the stones polished, the velvet drapes new, the furniture heavy mahogany. Lysander did not so much as glance at it, but rather, focused his attention fully on Quintus.

  The elderly castellan sat propped in his bed, skin pale and drawn, legs buried beneath thick blankets.

  If you have so much as a scratch on you, I’ll bring Dusty in to sniff out the truth.

  “How is your health, sir?” Lysander asked, pulling up a chair.

  "It's all this damn cleaning, stirring up the mould." Quintus let out a wet, hacking cough that seemed to rattle through his ribs. He had thrown a robe across his shoulders, smoothed down the stray threads of white hair clinging to his scalp, but even so, he looked thin, frail—almost pitiful. “I know you didn’t come here to chat, my boy. Now. The ledgers?”

  “Just can’t seem to make sense of them,” Lysander said lightly, scratching the back of his head as if embarrassed.

  “Struggling with the books, are you?” Quintus rasped. “Your grandfather was just the same. Marrek the Merry, we called him. Not a numbers man. But a straight shot—hands made for the bow. You’ve his look about you.”

  “Aye—and I never forget his fire in my blood,” Lysander affirmed, seeing the castellan’s wrinkled lips quirk into a smile at the words. He sighed, “I hate to ask this, but I need your advice.”

  Quintus’ pale eyes narrowed.

  “Firestone is bleeding funds,” Lysander said softly. “And with repairs happening… with Nocturne gone… I’m worried there’ll be nothing left. I’m looking for a place to store what we have. Somewhere it can’t be touched.”

  “Lady Saphira,” Quintus muttered. “Did she speak of spending what little remains?”

  “She…” Lysander hesitated, lowering his gaze. “It’s not my place to say. But there are discrepancies in the ledgers—ever since she arrived. I’m afraid that’s where it went—”

  “—jewellery, cosmetics… and that feral creature trailing after her,” Quintus hissed, dissolving into another throat-tearing cough. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

  “Just... don’t tell anyone.” Lysander leaned in, hand to his heart, playing the part with Lucian’s flair and Felix’s earnestness. “I just need a place Saphira wouldn’t think to look. Somewhere to keep a little aside until Nocturne returns.”

  Quintus hesitated.

  “Please,” Lysander murmured, lowering his eyes. “It’s for the good of Firestone.”

  “Firestone stands so Sunfire can thrive,” Quintus acquiesced sagely. “Show me what you’ve got.”

  “I was thinking of putting it in a place no one goes.” Lysander unfolded the map of Firestone. “The dungeons came to mind.”

  “And when they see you slinking down that way?" Quintus let out a harsh snort. "You’ve no business in the dungeons. Pick a place you're expected to be seen in. Give it here.” He snatched the map and spread it over his lap.

  Watch his eyes. Watch them.

  Quintus’ gaze travelled over the map—his office, his chambers, the great hall—every familiar stone. But Lysander caught it: the subtle flinch, the way the castellan’s eyes skittered past one section without daring to rest.

  Not the kitchens. Not the guest wings. Not the barracks or armoury.

  The courtyard.

  Above: Quintus examines the map, while Lysander observes.

  “The library,” Quintus said suddenly, tapping the map. “Once a place full of our history—now gutted. Easy enough to fit a false wall behind a new bookshelf. The fund could go there. For a rainy day, yes?”

  “For a rainy day,” Lysander echoed, rising from his chair. “Thank you. Please…keep this quiet until Nocturne returns.”

  “Naturally, my boy.”

  His hand was on the door when Quintus spoke again.

  “Lysander—” the old man’s voice softened “—it’s good to know the Sunfire blood still burns in you. Your grandfather would be proud.”

  Lysander forced a swallow, nodding as though the words warmed him. Then he stepped out and closed the door behind him.

  The moment the latch clicked, his expression shuttered into stillness.

  He had seen it—the flicker, the place Quintus dared not look.

  The courtyard. He’s hiding something there.

  That sly old vulture—if I wasn't concerned with you catching on, I'd check you for Dusty's bites.

  He paced back to the study, where August and Rell waited. Time to go hunting.

  Who has been your favourite POV so far? And would you like an August POV?