Smuggling in Bellacia is not solely the craft of desperate brigands or black-market thieves. In truth, the most profitable operations run through noble houses themselves—sheltered by titles, enabled by greedy officials, and legitimized through false trade routes. A sealed cart bearing the crest of a noble house draws fewer questions than a thousand merchant wagons.
The most common smuggled goods are not gold or weapons, but contraband thaumaturgy—devices whose functions are unregistered, unstable, or banned by Warden decree. These objects change hands through coded letters, forged manifests, and the silence of well-paid merchants.
Those caught are rarely the ones who benefit most. A servant disappears. A ledger burns. A rival is blamed. Meanwhile, the house that profits keeps its halls clean, its hands folded, and its name unblemished—pretending nothing ever happened at all.
Siegfried wandered the summit halls in aimless silence, his thoughts drifting in time with his footsteps. The air in this part of the keep was stale with age, and every door he passed looked like it hadn't seen proper use in years. Daylight filtered in through narrow windows, painting long shadows across the stone floors.
The summit had begun only yesterday, and already he was weary of it. Nobles sniping at the clergy. Clergy veiling insults within doctrine. Layer upon layer of posturing and false claims, all while the truth remained buried somewhere beneath it all.
Yesterday's revelation regarding the Verdant Hand still hung heavily on his mind. Extremists, yes—but organized ones. Coordinated enough to plant bombs, spread propaganda, and vanish without a trace. Who gave them that reach? Who funded them?
His brow furrowed.
Could the Whitlocks—proud and desperate—truly consort with such people?
A quiet cough behind him pulled Siegfried from his thoughts.
He turned to see a young woman in the plain garb of a servant, her clothes well-kept. Her posture was straight, her eyes lowered.
"Pardon the interruption, sir," she said softly, "but Steward Elias Whitlock requests your presence for a noontime meal."
Siegfried's mouth tightened as he studied the girl for a moment, before glancing past her to the end of the corridor.
"Did he offer any explanation as to why?"
"No, sir. Only that he'd be honored if you joined him." Her tone was polite and practiced, clearly tailored for the ears of nobility.
He lifted an eyebrow, not missing the implications. The timing wasn't lost on him—barely a day into the summit, and already the nobles were making moves.
Still, he nodded. "Very well—lead on."
The eastern wing of the summit hall was quieter, with more care taken in its presentation. The stone beneath their feet was smoother, the sconces well-oiled and burning with steady flame.The servant guided him through a rounded arch and into a cozy, well-appointed dining room.
A fire crackled in a modest hearth on the far wall, the scent of seasoned wood mingling with the aroma of roasted meat and fresh bread. A long, finely carved table dominated the room, its legs sculpted with twin wolves frozen in mid-prowl. Several polished silver dishes were already set out—nothing ostentatious, but unmistakably noble in make. Colorful tapestries hung in gentle folds across the stone walls, depicting scenes of rural Wesmere—dense forests and narrow rivers glinting under moonlight.
Elias Whitlock sat not at the head, but along the table's long side, as though to make himself seem less imposing. His posture was relaxed, one hand cupped around a goblet, the other resting on the table near an untouched plate.
"Siegfried Albrecht," Elias greeted, offering a faint smile as he stood up from his seat. "I am pleased you came. Please—be seated. I thought it might be pleasant to converse away from the glares and intrigues of the main hall."
Siegfried's boots echoed softly against the stone as he approached the table. He hadn't introduced himself—not during the summit or otherwise—but it appeared Elias knew exactly who he was and which family he belonged to. He stopped a few paces from the chair across from the young noble and returned the greeting with a shallow nod.
"Steward Whitlock," he replied evenly.
A maid approached swiftly, already moving to prepare him a plate, but Siegfried gave a slight swipe of his fingers, a quiet dismissal. She hesitated, then looked to Elias, who offered a small nod, sending her back to her place by the wall.
His gaze passed over the room, quiet and thorough, before settling at last on Elias—who remained standing, his posture guarded.
"Let us not pretend this is merely a luncheon," he said flatly. "You did not summon me here to admire the weave of your tapestries."
Elias's smile remained, though a faint glimmer of amusement now danced at its edge. "Of course not," he said smoothly. "But a touch of civility between countrymen never did any harm, did it?"
Siegfried said nothing.
Elias, unbothered, seated himself, leaning back in his seat and resting his hands on the carved arms of his chair. "Did you know this building predates Bellacia itself?" he asked, his gaze drifting briefly toward the ancient stone archways. "Long before it became a summit hall, it served as Wesmere's town hall. In fact, the entire township once belonged solely to my family."
That earned Siegfried's attention. His eyes flicked toward Elias, skeptical. "Were that the case, the Whitlocks would hold far greater esteem among the aristocracy."
Elias nodded in agreement. "Indeed. But history is a murky affair—particularly between the Whitlocks and the Apfords. Land, marriage, betrayal... the usual noble entanglements. To recount the entire tale would take hours, and I daresay you'd tire of my voice well before we reached the halfway mark."
Siegfried's frown deepened. He remained standing, posture rigid. "Then do not squander my time with idle reminiscence. If you've summoned me, speak plainly and be done with it."
Elias's smile faded, the vestiges of politeness peeling away. "Very well. Let's drop the courtesies."
He sat up straighter, resting both hands flat against the table.
"House Apford seeks to eradicate the Whitlocks—utterly. She desires our holdings, our lands, and our name consigned to the dust of Wesmere's forgotten past."
Elias paused to see if Siegfried would respond, but he just crossed his arms.
"She has Lord Oster in her pocket—and has for years. He launders her coin, moves goods along his trade routes. And I would not be the least surprised if the bomb discovered in our holding was one of his. Misplaced, perhaps... or planted deliberately."
A subtle shift passed through Siegfried's features. "That is a bold accusation. Upon what grounds do you make such a claim?"
Elias met his gaze, with a steely resolve. "My father kept meticulous records—ledgers, letters, correspondence from a former merchant who once managed shipments through Oster's territory. After the attack on Brelith, I combed through his private collection in search of answers. What I found was sufficient to stir deep curiosity about House Apford's recent dealings."
A pause.
"I can show you—provided you are willing to hear me out."
"Why not approach the Wardens directly with this information," Siegfried replied.
"No offense intended, but I do not know the lady Warden who accompanied you. You, however—I know. Or at the very least, I know the esteemed name of your house."
Siegfried didn't move. "If your evidence is as compelling as you claim, then present it. Deliver it to Geoffrey—our coachman. I shall review it myself later this evening."
Elias tilted his head, considering the request. "Geoffrey," he echoed, then nodded once. "Very well. I'll see to it that the documents are delivered before sundown."
The silence stretched a little longer between them, filled only by the low crackling of the hearth. Elias leaned back, resting one arm along the back of his chair.
"I am grateful for your willingness to hear it," he said. "I do not expect you to take my side—but I would far rather see you informed than misled by another's narrative."
Siegfried's expression didn't shift. "If you speak the truth, the evidence shall speak for itself."
He turned to leave, but paused just long enough to glance over his shoulder.
"And if you are lying—I shall know."
Siegfried sat under the thaumic light, the forged ledger resting open on his lap as the carriage rocked gently from the wind outside. The yellowing parchment held lines of elegant script—too deliberate in its execution to be natural. Siegfried had seen his fair share of merchant records, and these were far too uniform. Entire entries had been added by a different hand, and though done with skill, it hadn't escaped his notice.
But by whose hand? That remained the question.
A part of him wanted to believe Elias. The Whitlock name had once meant something, and it was easy to see how a man might cling to fading glory like a lantern in a storm. But legacy could be a mask as much as a truth, and desperate men often knew how to wear it well. If this was a lie, then the ledger wasn't a lead—it was a move in a game Elias had already begun.
He flipped the page, something in the ink drawing his focus—until a knock broke the stillness. Three short taps echoed against the carriage door, then a pause.
Siegfried closed the ledger with a quiet snap. It seemed he had a visitor.
The door creaked open to reveal Geoffrey, ever composed, standing in the evening mist. He bowed his head slightly, the lantern above the carriage casting soft light across his silver-streaked hair.
"Apologies, sir," he said with quiet deference. "Lady Apford requests your presence. She's waiting just ahead, near the fountain."
Siegfried blinked. "The Lady herself?"
Geoffrey nodded once. "Alone, sir."
That was unusual. Siegfried had expected a summons, perhaps a servant bearing a perfumed letter, not a matron of noble blood braving the night air for a conversation.
He exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose before stepping down onto the cobblestone below. The night air was crisp, the scent of distant rain still clinging to the breeze. Another noble trying to pull him into their current, no doubt. He had little appetite for whatever Apford's angle might be—but denial wouldn't change the rules. Better to stay alert than pretend the pieces weren't already in motion.
He followed Geoffrey's gesture, his boots tapping softly along the stone path. Lamplight shimmered across the ripples of a small fountain ahead—it's quiet burble the only sound in the courtyard. And there, standing with her back straight and her hands clasped before her, was Lady Apford.
Siegfried paused and took a calming breath. This wasn't going to be a friendly chat. Either she had recognized him, or someone reported to her that he had been summoned by Elias for a private conversation.
Lady Apford turned at the sound of his approach. Her pale hair was tied back in a braided crown, her posture impeccable—an image sculpted for diplomacy.
"Siegfried Albrecht," she said without preamble, clearly unconcerned with any need for embellishment.
She knew who he was.
Siegfried offered a shallow bow, masking the tension that crawled across his shoulders.
"Lady Apford."
"You carry yourself with the bearing of one well-versed in courtly etiquette, though I imagine all of the central nobility do" she observed, motioning gracefully toward the bench beside the fountain. "Might you sit with me? There is something I believe you ought to see."
Siegfried hesitated—then nodded. He lowered himself onto the cool stone as she produced a folded document from within her cloak.
"It's a letter," she said, voice low. "Intercepted by one of my men two nights past. It was intended for a contact in Aldinia, yet its origin lies here—in Wesmere. The seal, if I am not mistaken, bears the mark of House Whitlock."
She handed it to him.
The paper was rough, hastily folded, the wax seal cracked from being opened. The contents were written in coded phrases—it was the kind of oblique language used by smugglers, insurgents, or spies. One phrase in particular stood out:
"The gardeners have come and gone. Their parcel was left in the cellar, just as discussed. The remainder is to follow the old root path eastward. Ensure the gate is clear this time—we cannot afford another delay."
He looked up slowly.
"I do not expect you to rely solely upon my word," Lady Apford said, her gaze unwavering. "But I believe you have already spoken today with someone who would take great interest in where this letter may lead."
She didn't have to name Elias.
Siegfried studied the letter again, his mind turning. Either this was real… or Apford was playing an even deeper game than the Whitlocks. One pointed accusation after another, and all signs conveniently damning one side.
It was like chasing a shadow through the fog.
"Why show this to me?" he asked. "Why not present it openly at the summit?"
"I intend to," she replied. "But I wished for you to see it first—unfiltered. You strike me as someone still in the midst of forming his own conclusions. I admire that. And I thought it only fair that you witness the weight on both sides of the scale before the next gathering."
Her tone was gracious, though the subtle pressure in her voice was clear.
Siegfried remained silent, his gaze dropping once more to the letter.
He turned the letter over once more in his hands before slipping it carefully into his coat. "I shall hold on to this," he said. "It seems only fitting that I present it to the summit myself."
For the briefest instant, Lady Apford's expression faltered—a flicker of something taut behind the eyes. But it vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by the composed poise expected of a noble.
"Of course," she said smoothly, offering a graceful incline of her head. "I trust you shall regard it with the gravity it warrants."
With that, she stood and strode back toward the summit hall, her silhouette vanishing into the dim lamplight. Siegfried watched her go, the folded letter growing heavier in his pocket with every step she took.
Siegfried sat opposite Mia, his arms folded, the envelope from Lady Apford resting on his knee.
Mia broke the silence first, her voice steady, as though she already knew the answer. "Did any of the nobles reach out to you while I was away?"
Siegfried gave a slow nod. "They did. Both Lady Apford and Elias Whitlock approached me independently—each armed with evidence of their own. Documents, accusations, convenient narratives." He paused, studying her carefully before continuing. "May I ask something in return?"
Mia raised a brow but said nothing, waiting.
"Why did you bring me into the summit hall in full view of everyone?" he asked, his tone measured. "I could have just as easily remained on the periphery—observing without becoming part of the spectacle."
Mia responded in turn. "Because I used you as bait," she said plainly, confirming what he'd already begun to suspect. "I knew the nobles would reach out to one of their own. Dangle something familiar before them, and they'll bite. Just like fishing."
Siegfried exhaled sharply through his nose, clearly unamused. "Charming."
She shrugged lightly. "Effective."
Mia leaned forward slightly. "So—what do you make of the evidence? Any inclinations? Suspicions?"
Siegfried's jaw tightened. "The ledger and the letter could just as easily be forgeries—crafted to serve whomever stands to gain most from a timely scandal." He exhaled, frustration creeping into his voice. "I trust none of them."
"Then you'll love this," she said, her tone turning sardonic. "I was ambushed at the holding."
Siegfried's eyes flicked up at her in surprise, but his gaze quickly swept over her—unscathed, unruffled. Not even a scratch on her armor. Unsurprising, considering her skill as a combatant.
"And?" he asked. "Any identifying marks?"
She allowed herself a brief chuckle. "As it happens, the attackers were all in the employ of House Whitlock. Not locals—mercenaries, most likely. One of them carried a contract that conveniently implied as much."
Siegfried met her gaze, his expression flat. "And why did you not bring one in for interrogation?"
"I did try," Mia replied evenly. "But he died shortly after capture. Poison, by the looks of it. Seems they took something just before making their move—a clean way to keep mouths shut."
Silence returned for a moment, the weight of politics, betrayals, and uncertainty settling thick between them once more.
Siegfried leaned back slightly, the weight of the day pressing against his thoughts. "So," he said at last, his voice quieter now, less edged. "What's our next move? How do you intend to maneuver through this mess?"
Mia didn't answer right away. She gazed out the window, watching the silhouettes of Wesmere's rooftops drift by in the dark. "We're surrounded by noise," she noted. "Whispers, false leads, half-truths."
She turned back to him, expression unreadable. "But we start with what we do know. You've spoken with two of the noble houses—we may as well check in with House Oster next."
Siegfried nodded. "Elias claims that Lord Oster is smuggling under Lady Apford's command," he added. "But what of Elias himself?"
"We confront him," Mia said flatly. "Press him on the assailants—the mercenaries bearing his house's name. Let him squirm. Whether he's pulling the strings or being used, the confrontation will force something to the surface."
Siegfried lightly tapped the scabbard of his sword, considering her words. "Are those our only leads?"
Mia shook her head. "Reverend Harland has been awfully quiet, wouldn't you say? He positioned himself as the one who pushed for this summit… yet hasn't lifted a finger since. Just enough to appear dutiful—perhaps to avoid scrutiny."
"You think he's involved?"
"I think he's waiting," she said. "And I've little trust for anyone who sits idle while the rest of us fight to uncover the truth."
Siegfried nodded, the pieces swirling, still incomplete. "So—Oster, Elias, and eyes on Harland."
"For now," Mia agreed. "We keep pressing where stories bend—sooner or later, someone will break."