The morning air in the capital was crisp, but inside the Prince's wing, the atmosphere was clinical. I had transformed the dusty vanity table into a war room. Scraps of parchment, ledgers I'd "borrowed" from the archives, and Sarah's first secret reports were spread out like a jigsaw puzzle of corruption.
"You've been staring at those numbers for three hours, Elara," Bastian said, leaning against the doorframe. He was dressed in a simple training tunic, his hair damp from a morning sword session. "I've seen men stare at maps of enemy territory with less intensity."
"This is enemy territory, Bastian," I replied, not looking up from a list of grain shipments. "Your brother, the Crown Prince, has a 'perfect' reputation. He's the people's champion. He's the brave soldier. But nobody is that perfect without a very expensive PR department."
"A what?"
"A team of people paid to lie for him," I clarified, finally tapping a finger on a specific entry. "Look at this. Three years ago, the Southern Province suffered a drought. The King sent fifty thousand gold dragons for relief. The Crown Prince was in charge of the distribution."
Bastian walked over, looking at the ledger. "I remember. He was hailed as a hero for saving the farmers. They even built a statue of him in the capital square."
"The numbers don't add up," I said, a predatory smirk touching my lips. "According to the transport logs, only thirty thousand dragons' worth of grain actually arrived. The other twenty thousand? It vanished into a 'charity foundation' run by a man named Baron Vane."
Bastian's eyes narrowed. "Baron Vane is my brother's closest friend. He's also the man who buys his horses and... his mistresses."
"Exactly," I said, standing up and smoothing my apron. "Your brother didn't save the farmers. He taxed the King's generosity and used the change to fund his private lifestyle. This isn't just a mistake, Bastian. This is embezzlement. In my world, this is how you take down a CEO without ever firing a single shot."
"You want to expose him?" Bastian asked, a hint of hesitation in his voice. "The King won't believe a maid. And if I bring it up, it will look like I'm just a jealous brother trying to claw my way back to favor."
"I don't want you to say a word," I said, walking toward him. "I want Sarah to 'accidentally' leave a copy of these logs in the Empress's sewing room. And I want you to start visiting the South stables again. Talk to the grooms. Ask them how the horses are doing. Mention how 'lucky' the Southern farmers were to get at least half of the King's aid."
Bastian stared at me, a slow, dark realization dawning on his face. "You're planting seeds. You're letting the gossip do the work for us."
"Exactly. Gossip is the most efficient marketing tool in existence. By the time the King hears about the missing money, it won't be from you. It will be a 'common rumor' that everyone already knows. The King will be forced to audit the Crown Prince just to save his own face."
I reached out and straightened the collar of his tunic. "This is the 'Trial of the Three Sons,' Bastian. You don't win by being the strongest. You win by being the only one left standing when the dust clears."
Bastian caught my hand, his grip warm and steady. "And what happens to the maid who orchestrated the fall of the Golden Prince? If they find out it was you..."
"They won't," I said, my voice dropping to a whisper. "I've spent my life being the 'Ghost in the Machine.' I don't need the credit, Bastian. I just need the results."
He didn't let go of my hand. Instead, he pulled me a fraction closer. The smell of cedarwood and cold morning air clung to him. "You're a dangerous woman, Elara. I'm starting to think the Empress is the one who should be afraid of you."
"She should be," I smiled. "Now, go. You have a reputation to ruin, and I have a kitchen to 'clean' while Sarah delivers our little surprise."
Bastian left, his stride more confident than I'd ever seen it. I turned back to the table, my heart racing. This was the biggest gamble I'd ever taken. If the Baron found out I was digging into his books, I wouldn't just be fired—I'd be silenced.
I gathered the papers, hiding them in the secret compartment I'd carved into the floorboards under the bed. As I stood up, a sharp knock sounded at the door.
It wasn't Sarah. It wasn't Bastian.
I opened the door to find a tall man in a dark grey suit, carrying a silver tray. He wasn't a servant, and he wasn't a guard. He had the cold, sharp look of a Palace Investigator.
"Elara?" he asked, his voice like dry parchment.
"Yes?" I asked, my corporate mask sliding perfectly into place.
"The King's Chief Secretary requires your presence in the East Wing. Immediately."
My blood turned to ice. Did we move too fast? Did Sarah get caught?
"May I ask what this is regarding?" I asked, my voice steady despite the hammer in my chest.
The man looked at me, his eyes unreadable. "It concerns a 'contractual matter.' It seems your work in the Prince's wing has been... noticed."
He turned and began to walk away, expecting me to follow.
I took a deep breath, straightened my spine, and stepped out into the hallway. Notice? I thought. Good. Let them notice. I'm just getting started.