"You won’t do nothing," I counter, keeping my voice steady. "You will act like a leader should, by organizing a proper response instead of blindly charging into the unknown. We do not even know what happened yet. For all we know, their wagon may have simply broken down."

  Lord Griswald looks down at me, his brow twitching as he wrestles with the decision to push past me. I hold my ground, meeting his gaze with unwavering defiance, while Daphne and Abigail cling to him in a futile attempt to hold him back. His eyes flicker to the small hands gripping at him, and his expression softens, not because they are stopping him, but because their effort, however hopeless, is endearing.

  The only reason any of us dare to stand against him, to speak so boldly, is because we know he will never strike us down for it. To him, we are not mere property, we are treasured loved ones. He protects us, fights for us, and would lay down his life without hesitation for us. And so, we would do the same for him. Not just out of love, but because we know that no other noble would ever grant us the freedom and kindness he does. Losing him would mean losing the only home where we are more than slaves.

  He exhales heavily, his tense muscles gradually relaxing as reason wins over impulse. Just as the tension in the room begins to settle, the door to the dining hall swings open. Aeris, the black-haired half-elf maid, bursts in, concern etched across her face. She stops abruptly at the sight of the three of us restraining Griswald.

  “I heard a commotion,” she says, scanning the room in confusion.

  Griswald sighs, running a hand down his face. “I’m fine, ladies,” he mutters before turning his gaze back to me. “You are right, as always, Silfy.”

  I let out a quiet breath of relief. Griswald may not be like other nobles, but he is still a noble. He is used to getting what he wants and not at all used to being told no. That makes moments like these victories.

  “Thank you, Master. Then shall we discuss our plan of action in your study?” I ask, stepping back and returning to a poised, respectful stance with a slight bow of my head.

  “Very well,” Griswald agrees, and as he finally ceases his struggle, Abigail and Daphne release him as well. Daphne immediately wraps her arms around herself, shivering as she suddenly becomes acutely aware of the morning chill against her bare skin.

  “Aeris, please inform Sir Nix outside that the master needs to speak with him,” I say, shifting into business mode. “Stephoney, your shift is over—head to bed. Abigail, please assist Mira in preparing breakfast. And Daphne…” I glance at the still-naked elf, “get yourself dressed, then go entertain the master in his study.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the others respond in unison, except for Daphne, who blinks in confusion.

  “In… that order?” she asks hesitantly.

  I roll my eyes in exasperation. “Goodness, girl, the house is about to be swarming with solicitors and retainers needing to speak with the master. His servants need to be presentable.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Daphne nods.

  With each of the girls heading off to complete their assignments, I gesture for Griswald to lead the way. Now the real work begins.

  Lord Griswald crosses the parlor to his study in a few long, hurried strides, and I follow close behind. He pushes the door open with more force than necessary, sending it swinging into a bookshelf before it rebounds. I barely slip in behind him, narrowly avoiding the door as it slams shut.

  By the time I glance over, Griswald is already at his desk, moving with sharp, aggressive motions. He tosses his staff against the bookshelf behind him, barely sparing it a glance as he yanks open a drawer, the force sending its contents clattering. His hand finds a sheet of parchment, and he snatches up a pen, gripping it so tightly it looks ready to snap. As the nib scrapes across the page, he presses down with such force it seems less like writing and more like carving his message into the paper.

  With one final slash of his pen he abruptly lifts the parchment, shoves it toward me, and grunts, “Give this to the guild for Master Shadow.”

  I take the note from his hand but don’t immediately turn to leave. Instead, I unfold it and skim the contents, my lips pressing into a thin line as I read.

  "Master…" I begin, glancing up at him with a look of mild exasperation.

  "What?" he snaps, already reaching for another sheet of parchment, as if ready to write another order.

  I inhale, keeping my voice measured. “We’ve discussed this before.”

  “The payment?” He gives me a sharp look. “They’re worth it.”

  I sigh, folding the parchment neatly. "Yes, but you shouldn't agree to an open-ended payment for an unspecified number of bandits. What if they end up slaying a thousand?"

  "Then my domain would be rid of a thousand bandits," he states with a shrug, as though it is the most obvious answer in the world.

  I raise an eyebrow. "And you would be bankrupt by the time you finished paying for it."

  Griswald lets out a low growl of frustration, running a hand through his thick beard. He glares at the desk for a moment before exhaling through his nose, visibly forcing himself to calm down. While undeniably a brute, no military commander reaches his station through strength alone. He knows when to heed the wise counsel of his trusted advisors.

  "Fine," he mutters, rubbing his temple. "What do you suggest?"

  “Offer a fixed sum for their assistance, or a bounty with a reasonable cap.” I tap the note lightly against my palm. “I’ll have Sir Loxly deliver this to the guild, but in the meantime, we should focus on more immediate actions.”

  Griswald folds his arms and nods once. “Sir Nix will mobilize the city garrison for a search. I’ll also have the city guard monitor the roads and gates in case Diana and the others arrive.”

  "Good," I say approvingly. "And we should also notify the Royal Guard in the capital. Captain Gavin may be able to assist."

  Without hesitation, Griswald reaches back into his desk drawer and pulls out a gold plate with a round green crystal set into an ornate bracket at a precise 45-degree angle. The plate is embedded with a complex array of glowing runes, their faint pulsing light proof of the arcane network that powers the two-way communication device, directly linked to an identical crystal in the capital.

  He places it on the desk with a dull thud, already reaching to activate it as I turn to leave.

  “Silfy,” Griswald calls just before I step through the door.

  I pause, glancing back. He is looking at me with a small, affectionate smile, his hand lingering over the base of the communication crystal.

  “Thank you, I—”

  “It’s alright, say no more,” I interrupt gently, offering him a knowing smile and a nod before continuing out the door.

  I don’t need to hear the words. I already know. I know he is grateful—for me, for all of us. I know he relies on us more than he cares to admit. And I know he loves me, in his own way, even if he struggles to say it. He is a man of few words, but his actions speak volumes, and his deeds sing ballads.

  This man does not have the power to grant us true freedom—not in a world like this. But if he could, he would. Of that, I am certain. In the confines of our reality, he has given us as much freedom as any commoner in his domain, as much comfort as a slave could ever know.

  With purpose, I hurry out through the heavy wooden double doors of the manor, stepping into the brisk winter air. The chill bites at my skin, and I instinctively hug my arms to my chest against the cold.

  The sun is rising as I make my way down the cobblestone road toward the guardhouse at the estate’s front gate. A golden glow spills over the valley, casting long shadows through the morning fog that clings to the earth. The first rays of light strike the keep perched on its lonely hill, overlooking the city of Stonebrook in the distance, its banners catching the dawn breeze.

  As I approach the guardhouse, I’m greeted by friendly nods and easy smiles from the stationed guards. One leans lazily against his spear, while the other lounges atop the wooden lift gate they use to control entry.

  The man perched above waves at me. I recognize him immediately as Sir Loxly, the officer in charge of the morning watch.

  I hand Loxly the note with firm instructions to deliver it to the Adventurer’s Guild immediately. Without hesitation, he mounts his horse and takes off toward the town center, disappearing into the morning mist.

  With that task handled, I turn back toward the manor, picking up my pace. My breath escapes in puffs of white, curling into the crisp winter air as I rush back up the road. By the time I reach the front entrance, I am winded and shivering. Bursting through the heavy wooden doors, I slam them shut behind me, welcoming the embrace of the manor’s warmth. The chill clings to my skin, but I ignore it, rubbing my arms as I make my way toward the dining hall.

  As I walk, I pull my chronologue from my pocket and flip open the cover out of habit. The glowing hands indicate that it is half past the seventh hour. I snap the device shut with a click and quicken my steps. By now, Mira should be serving breakfast, and that means the master will be in the dining hall.

  Stepping through the doorway, I take in the long room. The right wall is lined with tall windows, morning light slipping through the narrow gaps in the bright blue drapes. Down the center of the room stretches a grand rustic wooden table, reaching nearly the full length of the chamber aside from a few meters on either end. At the farthest end, seated at the head of the table, is Lord Griswald.

  Abigail, the foxkin with fiery red fur and twitching ears, sits to Griswald’s right, idly poking at her food. To his left, Daphne, now properly dressed, sits with a distant look in her eyes. Beside her, Mira, the towering bonivekin with curved horns, maintains her usual poised demeanor, though there is a noticeable tension in her shoulders. Aeris, the short-eared half-elf, sits next to Abigail, stirring her drink absentmindedly, lost in thought.

  The table is laid out with trays of eggs, sausages, buttered toast, and an assortment of fruits, along with a decanter of fruit juice, no doubt prepared by Mira. I take my place beside Griswald, where a plate has already been set for me, and begin filling it.

  The clinking of utensils is the only sound in the room. No conversation, no idle chatter, just the heavy silence of shared unease. A single glance around the table makes it clear we are all thinking about our missing friends.

  As I take a bite, I reflect on how strange this scene would seem to most in the kingdom. Servants do not share a table with their masters. Even commoners would rarely sit and dine with elves and beastkin. In this kingdom, we are considered lesser. No matter how skilled, how intelligent, how devoted—we are always seen as something other, something beneath even the lowest human. A scene like this, where we sit as equals, where we are family, is only possible in Griswald’s domain.

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  “I shouldn’t have sent her…” Griswald mutters under his breath.

  “This isn't your fault,” I correct him firmly.

  “What’s the alternative?” Abigail asks after a moment of silence. “Not letting any of us leave?”

  Of course, Abigail would ask that. We all value the long leash Griswald has given us, but none more than her. She pounces at every chance to visit the capital—to visit Sir Gavin. Should Griswald take that away, it would devastate her.

  Her words strike Griswald like a blow. His fork clatters onto his plate as he stares down at it as though it had just betrayed him. The table falls silent, all eyes on him as he wrestles with something unspoken.

  “I-I’m sorry,” Abigail stammers, suddenly unsure if she had crossed a line.

  “It’s fine,” Griswald mutters before abruptly standing. His towering presence looms over us for a moment before he pushes back his chair. The screech of wood against stone grates through the air as he strides away, frustration radiating off him in waves.

  “Bring me my ale,” he orders, his voice a rumbling command.

  “Yes, master!” Daphne chirps, jumping to her feet and hurrying toward the cellar.

  “One bottle,” I call after her.

  “Lots of ale,” Griswald counters just before the study door slams behind him.

  “Two bottles,” I sigh.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Daphne calls back.

  With Griswald sequestered in his study and Daphne fetching his drink, the rest of us are left to eat in tense silence. We know he isn’t angry at us. When faced with stress, he turns to alcohol and the comfort of his women, habits that may dull the weight on his shoulders but never truly lift it. While we can provide both with ease, neither offers a real solution to what troubles him.

  The rest of us finish our breakfast quickly. Then we bring the dishes to the kitchen, where Aeris immediately sets to scrubbing them clean. Mira ties on her apron and moves to the pantry to begin preparations for the next meal while Abigail sets off to begin the monumental task of cleaning the mansion.

  Even with the help of the night shift maids, maintaining a house of this size is an endless battle. The mansion spans two stories, covering nearly three thousand square meters, and every room, corridor, and furnishing requires daily attention.

  It doesn’t help that one maid is always preoccupied with tending to Griswald’s personal needs.

  I had been looking forward to the new servants Diana was meant to bring back. I had hoped at least one of them would decide to stay. Few freed slaves wish to remain at the manor, and even fewer prove loyal enough to be trusted with a permanent role in Griswald’s household.

  With the kitchen now in order, I make my way to the master’s study to prepare for the day’s business. Diana and I hold unique positions within the household. While the others tend to the estate itself, we manage the affairs of the domain. I handle administration, reviewing requests from citizens, negotiating agreements, overseeing immigration, and ensuring the continued development of the territory. Diana, meanwhile, manages the finances, tracking tax revenue, overseeing trade, and maintaining the domain’s budget. But with her missing, I am left to take on both roles.

  Like most nobles, Griswald depends on a court of trusted advisors to manage his lands and people. What sets him apart, however, is that he never sought the title, it was thrust upon him, earned through martial merit rather than ambition.

  He was granted this domain not for his skill in governance, but for his prowess in war. When he returned from the battlefield, he was not the man he once was. He had seen enough bloodshed to last a lifetime and had no interest in politics or rulership. Leadership was forced on him, and though he bears the weight of it well, he would never be able to do so alone. That is why I am here.

  As I step into the study, I find Griswald seated in his massive, high-backed chair. The dark wood and rich blue upholstery seem almost delicate beneath his hulking frame. Daphne, draped across his lap, nuzzles against his chest, her fingers idly tracing the exposed skin where she has unfastened the buttons of his shirt. Griswald, for his part, is making a valiant effort to drown his frustrations in ale, though his legendary resistance to poison makes it an uphill battle.

  I settle into my desk, a modest piece compared to the imposing grandeur of Griswald’s. Opening a drawer, I retrieve the stack of documents detailing the day’s business and begin skimming through the first report.

  “What do we have today?” Griswald asks, broadly as Daphne's hand begins to venture lower.

  “A pest control request,” I reply, flipping the page without much thought.

  Griswald exhales heavily. “I assume you mean actual pests this time, not political ones?”

  I smirk slightly. “Unfortunately, yes. Nothing so interesting.”

  Turning to the next item, my expression lightens. “Oh, and Mr. Theodore is back from Hyperion.”

  “That’s good news.” Griswald nods, reaching for his tankard but stopping short when he realizes it is empty. Daphney notices and takes a break from her exploration to hurriedly refill his drink.

  I scan through the next few pages. “We also have an update on the construction progress, and a visit from Mr. Locke.” I pause as my eyes land on the last entry, my brow furrowing slightly. “And… a representative from Cromwell’s domain.”

  Griswald, who had been leaning back in his chair, straightens slightly. “Cromwell?” The name alone seems to sober him up a little. He turns his gaze to me, wary. “That could be trouble.”

  I understand his concern. Lord Cromwell has always despised Griswald, and the enmity between them runs deep. He rules the neighboring territory to the west and has never hidden his disdain for Griswald’s unorthodox rule, especially his compassion toward "lesser creatures" like myself.

  “Get me if he so much as raises his tone to you,” Griswald growls.

  “Yes, sir,” I respond with a nod, already making a mental note to tread carefully. My attention shifts to a request from a man by the name of Foster. “It appears he wants to discuss a shipment of mithril arming swords.”

  “What’s the issue?” Griswald asks, his fingers drumming idly on his desk.

  “Well…” I pull another report from the pile and scan its contents. “Our mithril supplier was unable to fulfill our total order, so we delivered two swords short of the fifty they originally requested.”

  I glance at Griswald and hold up the report. “But we refunded them for the missing swords.”

  Griswald lets out a long, weary sigh, rubbing with his free hand. “He’s definitely coming to complain. This is why I hate dealing with the Cromwells.”

  I spent the next few hours meticulously reviewing the details of today's meetings, ensuring that I would be fully prepared to provide our visitors with the answers and decisions they required. Griswald assisted me for a short while at the beginning, but before long, he fell under the influence of two potent distractions, alcohol and Daphne, which rendered him significantly less productive. Still, at the very least, he no longer seemed as weighed down by his earlier gloom.

  As the chronologue marked the end of the twelfth hour, I made my way to the parlor, where we met with solicitors and petitioners. Seated at a two-meter square table, I maintained a composed and formal posture, my hands folded neatly atop the table, the stack of files arranged beside me. Presentation was important, especially when representing my master’s household.

  Sir Loxly soon entered, ushering in the first visitor of the day, a middle-aged man clad in a simple tan and red tunic, trousers, and a thick cloak. His unruly brown hair matched the bushy beard on his face, both looking as though he had attempted, and failed, to tame them. His clothes were frayed at the edges, smudged with dirt, and showed signs of heavy use. A commoner, clearly, and based on the schedule before me, he is Mr. Tucker, a farmer tending a sizable portion of land to the north of Stonebrook.

  Once seated, he wastes no time explaining his predicament. His crops were being ravaged by a growing population of horned rabbits, the pests have been breeding like… well like rabbits actually.

  He finished by requesting Griswald to sponsor a quest through the Adventurers’ Guild to cull their numbers before they could do further harm.

  It was a reasonable request, and one I had no hesitation in approving. I immediately drafted a formal quest offer, collected the required payment, and handed both to one of the estate guards to be delivered to the guild.

  Sponsoring quests to deal with threats and pests within Griswald’s domain was a common practice. Griswald understood that it cost far less to pay adventurers to cull monsters than it did to repair the damage those monsters would cause to his tax-paying farmers.

  Before Mr. Tucker left, he mentioned that his farm was still short-staffed and requested that we direct any new arrivals to Stonebrook in need of work to him. I made a note of it, ensuring that any immigrants or freed slaves seeking employment would be informed of the opportunity.

  The next visitor to walk through the door was impossible to ignore. A young man dressed in a garish ensemble of fiery reds, oranges, and whites, his tailored coat and silk trousers glimmered with golden threads. His thick, red traveler’s cloak, embroidered in gold, completed the look, making him an unavoidable spectacle.

  Mr. Rodric, Griswald’s merchant retainer.

  He strode in with an air of practiced confidence, flashing a bright, sharp-angled smile as he bypassed the chair at the far end of the table—where visitors were meant to sit. Instead, he pulled out a chair much closer to me, turned it around, and sat on it backward, resting his arms lazily on the chair’s back.

  “Silfy, my girl!” he greeted with his usual overfamiliarity.

  “I am not YOUR girl,” I replied flatly.

  “Aww, don’t be like that,” he teases, reaching into his satchel. “I come bearing gifts.”

  With a dramatic flourish, he pulled out a sizable coin pouch and tossed it onto the table with a heavy thud.

  “I sold all the wheat at a twenty percent markup.”

  I loosen the tie on the pouch and look inside, confirming its contents. “It’s not a gift. It was Diana’s plan, to store the wheat tax until winter and sell it to the Kingdom of Hyperion when their food stores were lowest,” I corrected, dismissively. “All you did was make the exchange.”

  Rodric grinned smugly. “And Griswald hired me because this pretty face and silver tongue got them to agree to a twenty percent markup over the ten percent they originally offered.”

  That is entirely true, and unfortunately, I have no clever retort. I settled for a shrug.

  Diana had observed over the past eight years that our northern neighbor, Hyperion, had been struggling to produce enough food to sustain its people. Each year, they were forced to import grain during the harvest season at standard market prices. She reasoned that if we withheld the wheat collected through taxes until winter, when their food stores would be critically low, they would be willing to pay a significantly higher price out of necessity.

  It was no small endeavor. Rodric had led five separate two-day-long trips with a ten-wagon caravan, transporting 150 tons of wheat. The result? A profit of 200 gold and 400 silver coins.

  He is a manipulative, money-grubbing opportunist, but he is Griswald’s manipulative, money-grubbing opportunist. And unlike many others, he has consistently maximized his master’s income.

  Of course, he benefited from a generous commission.

  I made sure to count and record the earnings before sending him off with his payment and a self-satisfied smile stretching from ear to ear.

  Our next visitor is Griswald’s Master Builder, Faber, who provided a list of materials required for the continued construction of homes in Stonebrook. The builders had been completing ten homes per arc, yet it still isn’t enough to match the demand of those wanting to immigrate. He also informed me that we currently had only one vacant home remaining.

  Once he left, I drafted a note for the city guard, informing them that they could approve the immigration of one family, provided they were willing to take a job working for Mr. Tucker. I handed the note off to one of the mansion’s guards to deliver to the Stonebrook city guard.

  Next to arrive is Rowen Locke, Griswald’s head tax collector. A quiet, calculating man, he is a former Arcadian soldier. Though he dressed plainly, there is something about the cold indifference on his face, the scar along his right cheek, and the twin daggers on his hip that gave those he dealt with an unmistakable chill.

  Without a word, he sets a hefty coin pouch and two pieces of parchment on the table before me. I retrieve an ornate scale from a nearby cabinet, a finely crafted device that could easily be mistaken for decoration but is in fact an essential tool for managing the Lord’s accounts. It features a single weighing plate and three slender indicator arms—one bronze, one silver, and one gold—each corresponding to the type of coin it measures. The arms arc over a half-circle number plate, calibrated for accurate counting.

  As I place the pouch onto the scale, the arms shift smoothly into place. The bronze arm stops at 150, the silver at 453, and the gold at 9, confirming the precise contents of the pouch.

  Satisfied, I remove the pouch, return the scale to its place, and turn my attention to the parchments. The first is a manifest detailing all assets collected as taxes, already delivered to the Keep that houses the city’s garrison.

  Taxes in Stonebrook were only paid by landowners and businesses, with the option of paying either in coin or a portion of their goods.

  The second parchment detailed four immigrant families who had failed to make payments on the homes they had been provided. Griswald, as lord of the land and the rightful owner of those homes until they were fully paid for, is required to decide whether to evict them. According to Rowen, all four families either had jobs and refused to pay or were offered work and turned it down. With so many eager to work for the opportunity to live here, I had no issue signing the eviction orders.

  Though, the way in which Rowen smiles as I hand him the signed orders is unsettling. I am very glad he is on our side.

  It looks like there are about to be four more vacancies in Stonebrook…

  As Rowen departs, I glance down at the schedule and see the next visitor listed, Cromwell’s emissary. Suppressing a sigh, I rise from my seat and head to find Abigail, who is in the middle of mopping the hallways.

  “Is it lunchtime yet?” Abigail asks hopefully, wiping sweat from her brow and pausing her work.

  “Mira should have it ready by now,” I reply, “But I need your help with something first.”

  “What do you need?” she asks, though her disappointment at the delay is clear as she leans her mop against the wall.

  “I just need you to be present for this next solicitor. If he starts acting up, go get the master,” I explain as we both hurry back toward the parlor.

  Before we even reach the door, a furious voice echoes down the hall.

  “WHERE IS HE?!”

  Stepping inside, I find a red-faced man in an expensive purple ensemble, frilled and overly embellished in a gaudy display of wealth. The stark contrast between his attire and the more practical styles common to Stonebrook’s nobility makes him look even more absurd. He stands just inside the parlor, fists clenched at his sides, his face contorted in barely contained rage.

  This is Lord Foster, a minor noble from Lord Cromwell’s domain—a baronet, the lowest rank of nobility, granted to those who serve in minor administrative roles under a baron’s supervision. Their status is entirely dependent on pleasing their superiors, reducing them to little more than errand boys for the true power they serve.

  The Cromwells are one of the twelve most powerful noble families in Arcadia, and their long-standing enmity with Griswald is well known. So when I see a baronet from their domain standing before me, I already know, he's here to cause trouble.