"Come in."
The door creaked open, and a man in a frayed suit entered. This was Mr. Graves—the steward, whose face had acquired a permanent pallor over the years from the constant expectation of a shouted insult or a carafe flying at his head. He clutched a thick leather folder convulsively in his hands.
Stopping a few paces from the desk, Graves froze. His gaze flickered to the bottles on the shelf, then to my clean clothes, and finally met my eyes. The steward swallowed, his Adam's apple twitching nervously.
"M-my Lord Hellsworth..."
Graves bowed so low his forehead nearly brushed the carpet.
"I was told you... you wished to see the ledgers."
I silently pointed to the edge of the desk. Graves placed the folder on the dusty surface with a dull thud, instantly recoiling his hands as if the wood were red-hot.
I opened the first page.
The figures were abysmal. Crooked lines, ink blots, and... emptiness.
"The treasury is dry,"
I stated, shifting my gaze to him. My voice sounded hauntingly level, even to my own ears.
Graves began to tremble.
"M-my Lord... you know... the taxes from the western villages never arrived,"
Graves said, dabbing sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.
"And your... ahem... orders from the capital. The wine, the silks, the hounds... The last chest went out a week ago to cover the interest for the moneylenders."
I looked up at him. Graves fell silent instantly.
"So, we are bankrupt. And yet, in these reports, I see inflated expenses for the stables—which, judging by the stench outside, no one is tending to. Where did that money go, Graves?"
The steward turned even paler.
"But my Lord! You signed those bills yourself! I... I was merely following your will..."
I rose slowly. My shadow fell over Graves, forcing him to hunch his shoulders. Rounding the desk, I stopped right in front of the steward. The air in the study seemed to thicken.
"Do not lie to me. I can see the numbers do not add up."
I reached out and delicately straightened the collar of Graves's doublet. He froze, afraid even to blink.
"You have one hour to prepare an honest report. Not the one you shoved under a drunkard's nose, but the truth. If I find a single extra coin in there that went astray..."
I didn't finish the sentence, but my gaze promised Graves a very short future more eloquently than any words.
"I... I'll fix everything, my Lord! I'll recount it all!"
Graves bolted for the door, nearly tripping over his own feet.
Once the door closed behind the steward, I sank back into my chair. Victor hadn't just drunk away money; he had drunk away his children's safety.
Another knock sounded.
"Enter."
The door swung open. My eldest son walked into the study. He stopped before the desk, arms crossed over his chest. His blue eyes scanned the room.
"Why am I here? Have you decided to personally inform me that the estate has been sold for debts?"
"Sit."
Kyle only tightened his jaw further, refusing to budge.
"I'll stand. Tell me why you called. I have a drill with the guards in half an hour—if you even remember that we still have a guard."
I didn't press him. Instead, I turned the open folder Graves had left toward him. My finger tapped the bottom line, heavily underlined in ink.
"The guard? Judging by these figures, in a month's time, your guard will be protecting empty granaries and hollow pockets."
Kyle cast a quick glance at the parchment. His eyes widened as he saw the sheer scale of the debt to the moneylenders. However, the shock was quickly replaced by his usual venomous smirk.
"And whose fault is that?" — he spat, leaning forward and planting his palms on the desk. — "You signed for wine from the southern provinces while the horses in the stables died of starvation. You spent gold on silk sheets while the fortress walls crumbled. And now you call me in just to pronounce our house dead?"
Without so much as blinking, ignoring his verbal barbs, I calmly adjusted the edge of the folder, aligning it with the edge of the desk.
"Your accusations are just, but useless. I need facts. Kyle, you are the only one who has maintained any semblance of order these past two years. Tell me honestly: how much time do we have before the creditors come to take the castle?"
Kyle fell silent, clearly caught off guard by the lack of my usual flare of temper. He searched my face, looking for signs of another drunken joke.
"If Graves hasn't lied in the reports..."
Kyle finally sat down, his shoulders dropping heavily.
"Then by the next new moon, we won't have enough to pay the wages of even a dozen guardsmen."
"Then we have less than a month. First, I am canceling all orders from the capital. The wine, the delicacies, the fabrics—everything not yet delivered must be rescinded. The gold is to be returned to the treasury."
"It won't be enough," — Kyle shook his head. — "It's a drop in the ocean."
"I know. Which is why we will start economizing on everything. Starting with this study and ending with your rations. Excess spending will be punished as treason. And one more thing..."
I stood and walked to the window, looking out at the grey roofs of the outbuildings.
"I need a full inventory of assets we can sell without compromising our defense. Paintings, old furniture, jewelry. Anything that serves no practical purpose must be turned into gold."
Kyle watched me with naked astonishment. The man who used to hoard every bottle was now suggesting they sell off family heirlooms.
"Are you serious?"
"Deadly."
I returned to the desk and picked up a quill.
"Go. Prepare the list."
I watched Kyle leave and turned my eyes back to the map. A fragment from the middle of the novel surfaced in my mind: "The bread riot in Hellsworth began not from a lack of grain, but from the greed of those who hid it."
In the original plot, the peasants were supposed to storm these walls in a week. Victor, in a stupor from cheap ale, had ordered the guard to fire on the crowd. That was the point of no return.
I stood up abruptly, the chair sliding back with a short scrape. If Graves's report was to be believed, the western granaries were empty due to "mold and vermin." But I remembered the scene—those granaries were bursting with grain Graves was prepping for a secret sale abroad.
I stepped out of the study. Servants shrunk into the walls as I passed.
"You."
I pointed at a servant trying to slip by unnoticed.
"Take a torch and follow me to the western warehouses."
"B-but my Lord... Mr. Graves has the keys, he said it was dangerous there..."
He began, stammering in fear.
"I don't care what he said. If the locks don't open willingly, we'll break them."
At the massive main exit, I ran into Kyle, who was giving orders to a couple of guards. He stopped, looking at me in surprise.
"Kyle, take your men and follow me. We're going to find out why our people are starving in front of 'empty' granaries."
Kyle frowned, exchanging looks with his subordinates. In his eyes, I saw a mix of suspicion and curiosity. He gave a silent nod to the guards, and they followed me across the courtyard.
When we reached the heavy doors of the western granary, two men blocked our path. They weren't the usual folk from my estate—they wore high-quality mercenary gear, and new, unnotched swords hung at their belts. They didn't bow as I approached; instead, they demonstratively rested their hands on their hilts.
"Mr. Graves ordered us to let no one in,"
One of them said gruffly, eyeing me from head to toe.
"The grain is infested with ergot, Lord Hellsworth. You've no business in there unless you want to catch the rot."
I stopped two paces from him.
"Repeat that. Who exactly ordered the master of these lands to be barred from his own property?"
The mercenary hesitated for a fraction of a second, but apparently, Graves's gold—or that of his backers—warmed his pocket more than loyalty to a rightful Lord. He didn't budge, blocking the path with his body.
I turned slowly to my son.
"Kyle. Break the lock. If these men interfere, consider it an act of high treason."
The mercenary didn't even finish his retort. As soon as his hand tightened on his hilt, Kyle lunged. He moved with terrifying efficiency.
The first mercenary fell to his knees, clutching a deep gash on his shoulder, while the second had barely drawn his blade before two guards pinned him against the granary wall.
"Get this trash out of my sight. Kyle, the lock."
Kyle didn't keep me waiting. A heavy boot slammed into the lock's shackle, followed by a strike from his sword. The old bronze couldn't take it; the lock flew aside with a pitiful clang. Kyle shoved the door, and it yielded with a groan, revealing a dark interior.
I was the first to step inside. Kyle followed with the torch.
The light carved out endless, orderly rows of sacks from the darkness. I walked to the nearest one and, with a sharp flick of the small knife I had used to clean my nails this morning, sliced open the coarse fabric. A golden waterfall of prime grain spilled onto the dirty floor. Dry, clean, without a single trace of mold or ergot.
Kyle stepped closer. In the torchlight, his face looked as if it were carved from stone. He ran his hand through the spilled grain, and I saw his fingers tremble. He was likely remembering the faces of the peasant children in the villages he passed on patrol.
"There is enough food here for the whole winter."
I looked at Kyle. He stood clutching his sword hilt, his gaze fixed on the shimmering gold grain. He looked from the sacks to me, as if trying to discern whether this was all part of some new, even more sophisticated drunken stunt.
"Kyle."
He flinched, looking at me with his usual wariness.
"Leave three guards here. Let not a soul approach these doors. Take the rest with you."
I stepped out of the stifling room, breathing in the cool evening air.
"Bring Graves to me. Right here. Do it quickly. Tell him I have questions regarding the 'infested' grain and that I am furious it hasn't been destroyed yet. Tell him I've ordered the granaries to be burned immediately to stop the rot from spreading."
Kyle frowned. A spark of protest flickered in his eyes—he clearly thought burning food in the middle of a shortage was madness, even if it was spoiled. But he didn't argue. To him, it was just more proof of my instability.
"Burn it all?"
"To the last grain. And make sure he brings the keys."
Kyle gave a curt nod to his men. Two guards remained at the entrance, grimly still with steel in hand, while the rest, led by Kyle, headed for the manor. I watched them go.
Kyle's shoulders were taut. He was going to carry out the order of a tyrant he despised, never suspecting that he was actually going after the man who had been betraying his family for years.