A WARM WELCOME FROM THE HOUSE OF GRIMOARDS

❝

THE MORNING sun was making its leisurely ascent through the sky as the ship that bore Charlotte and her companions docked at the port of Albiana. The area was more or less desolate, with few passersby on that early hour, and even fewer cared about the newspapers being distributed there describing recent occurrences in Grenswood. 

After a long and grueling journey aboard the ship, Charlotte and her companion stepped off the vessel onto the port of Albiana. Lindice was still with her, having awakened from disembarking from the ship. Amazingly, Saevionh, whom they thought would go alone, insisted on traveling to House Grimoard with them. 

Lindice's greeting was curt and cool. "Oh, it's just you," she said, regarding him with an expression that nearly masked her disdain. 

Saevionh kept her gaze impassible and fixed on Lindice with an equally withering glare; then, he narrowed his regard slightly while briskly adjusting his coat lapel twice—once to the left, then to the right. He repeated the act, slower this time, with a mild sigh through his nose. 

"That is not a good way to greet someone in the morning," he said curtly. "Or, well—it's not something I would call wrong... technically speaking. But it is the context that matters. Tone. Intention. At least one could have said something neutral, 'Good morning' with ease." 

With the customary frosty greeting, Charlotte took her chance to take an observation around, trying to drink in the overwhelming strangeness of Albiana. She was stepping into the Southern Kingdom for the very first time, and the difference was apparent. Here, the air seemed heavy, salty from the sea and tastefully perfumed. Stalls buzzed in unfamiliar tongues; the carriages were sharper lines, the people too well-dressed, every street as though demanding its own performance.

Saevionh stopped short and reached for one of the newspapers passed around by a vendor. As he began unfolding the paper, Charlotte keenly observed how he would intentionally smooth the folds with acute care to line up all the edges, and then, obviously dissatisfied, re-folded it once more with the precision of a practiced hand. His eyes wandered incredulously along the lines, and he mumbled, ''The Grenswood incident is still hot, huh?''

Charlotte turned toward him, taken aback. "Huh? Isn't that more recent?" 

He blinked. Once. Twice. Then his lips parted as if to explain something much longer than necessary-but he caught himself. His jaw tightened, folding the newspaper into thirds, then halves, lining the corners precisely. 

"Ah. Don't mind that. I-I said that oddly," he stammered, clearing his throat. "It's just that I tend to memorize timelines. Events. Patterns. Dates. And sometimes I say... out of sequence. Not wrong, but... misplaced. I track them too precisely. I shouldn't have brought it up like that." 

Charlotte tilted her head, watching him with mild curiosity. 

He exited an embarrassing laugh and brushed through his hair. "Excuse me. Sometimes when I talk, I start needing to finish a thought completely. Or-make it accurate to the point it doesn't matter anymore. It's like trying to smooth a wrinkle that only I can see." 

Some seconds passed. He cast a sheepish glance at her. "That probably sounded strange." 

"That's okay," Charlotte replied gently. "I really don't mind at all." 

He stayed looking at her for a second longer, perhaps trying to read her expression for mockery-but finding none. Something in him relaxed. 

Before the moment could stretch any further, Lindice broke in, clearly irritated, "The carriage is here." 

They turned to see an elderly gentleman with silver hair in a crisp butler's uniform, gesturing toward a waiting carriage. One last readjustment to the newspaper on top, lining up the top fold for symmetry, was given by Saevionh before he slipped the paper carefully under his arm.

The three walked down to the waiting carriage. Their pace was measured—neither hasty nor sluggish—but they seemed to lie heavy in the silence, a kind of weight with each step taken. Their footsteps made a gentle tapping upon the gravel, mingled with the equally mellow breezes that ruffled through the thin alleys of the city. 

Tall and finely dressed, the butler stood next to the polished ebony carriage. Its crest was that of House Grimoard: a silver ring engraving of a raven grasping a quill, wreathed with ivy. As they walked closer, the butler came to attention and graciously offered a gloved hand. 

"Mr. Grimoard. Lady Deloney." He inclined himself deeply, his tones calm, velvety, and sincere. "It is an honor to be your escort through the estate." Somewhere hidden within his subdued demeanor lay an underlying earnestness, as though armor-clad against a nameless peril. At that instant, Charlotte felt that the polite intonation was one of reverence or respect—the weight of familiarity with the names he spoke. 

For the first time, Charlotte was almost taken aback by the grace with which he had spoken. There was something quite unusual for having such utmost courtesy displayed toward her from an outsider to immediate nobility. She hugged her cloak tighter and inclined her head in polite salute, still unsure whether to smile or leap into furious protest.

The butler continued, "The Housekeeper of Grimoards awaits your arrival. Madam Dorothea, however, is presently away on business in Normaine." Charlotte tilted her head, curiosity flickering. "And... who are you, young gentleman?" she softly asked, all wounds bearing traces of caution. The man, faintly smiling, straightened his spectacles with a single, precise motion.

"Apologies, my lady. I am Argentum Jelque, one of the servants of the estate. I have been instructed to see you safely to the Countess' home." His words were weighted, perfectly delivered, as though he rehearsed decorum with all the naturalness of breathing. 

Charlotte studied the butler in silence for a moment. He was an odd sort of thing, this butler. His appearance was immaculate—silvery hair slicked into a perfect style, gloves spotless, shoes polished to a mirror shine—but there were shadows in those eyes, eyes weathered by tiring experiences, eyes that had seen far more than they cared to tell, and perhaps the pride with which he wore them. 

Saevionh next to her remained silent. He seemed withdrawn in his mind, with an inscrutable expression on his face, staring at the Grimoard crest embossed onto the carriage door. Whatever he was thinking behind those clothed eyes never came out. 

With a polished creak, the carriage door was thrown open, and Lindice, about to step in, was stopped midstep. Argentum reached out and grabbed her wrist lightly but firmly to keep her from stepping up.

"Oh good heavens, Lindice!" he muttered, his sharp eyes narrowing upon noticing her uniform. "Your clothes are still stained in dried blood." 

His tone was neither reprimanding nor commanding; he was genuinely concerned, as though he were concerned for one who ought to know better.

As expected, Lindice brushed his hand away with a quick flick. "I know. Don't mind me." Her voice was taut, almost irritated as she climbed into the carriage, casting one last glance at no one and nothing. 

With a frustrated sigh, Argentum made an audible sound, not free from disappointment. His eyes held for some time at the spot where her fingers had touched his. He climbed up to the coachman's seat without saying a word and gave a gentle command to the horses. 

There was a jerk, and the carriage started to move. Its wheels glided over cobbles and were engulfed by the thinning din of the city. 

Charlotte sat inside by the window, her fingers touching the edge of the curtain. She was entranced by the scenery—the tall stone buildings of Albiana giving way to elegant shops, quaint inns, and balconies draping with flowers. A familiar air carried salt from the sea along with the sweetness of burning bread from the nearby bakeries. The market stalls were closing for the day, and the townsfolk were dragging their feet, softened now by the golden haze of the impending evening.

She felt the tension seeping from her shoulders, but not quite all the way. A silence hung in the air, curiously, between her and Saevionh—neither overtly hostile nor genuinely comfortable. It was an unspoken moment. She stole a glance towards him. He sat still, his hands resting properly on his lap, but his right thumb was absently rubbing back and forth against the edge of his ring finger as if trying to erase something that was invisible. 

She said nothing about it. 

The open country had replaced the city as they drove on. Rolling hills beyond the horizon were cloaked in emerald grass and speckled with patches of wildflowers swaying gently in the breeze. Far away, House Grimoard stood tall in silhouette—sprawling gray-stone estate, dark spires—regal yet remote, very much a castle sprung from the pages of a dimly-remembered legend. 

At last, when they arrived, the gates of the estate opened with a creak, revealing the whole grandeur of the Grimoard domain. From the center of this courtyard, a fountain shrouded in refreshing mist danced like pearls in the light. Hedges trimmed to perfection bordered the path, alongside a field of dark crimson roses laid out in neat patterns. The air resonated with the sound of hummingbirds, creating an oddly serene melody to the overture that was otherwise stately.

The carriage came to an idle stop at the mansion's entry. 

Argentum disembarked first and turned toward the door. He opened it with crisp efficiency and offered his hand toward Charlotte. She hesitated—just a breath—then took it and stepped down from the carriage, her footfall into the stone receiving little more than a soft click.

Looking up, she was greeted by the sight of maids and butlers, perfectly lined across the front steps, bowing before her in unison. For her, it was not a mere act of formality. There was something reverent about the gesture, as though much awaited her presence.

"Welcome to the Grimoards."came a warm and composed greeting from a woman with graceful posture and a refined demeanor. She was tall with a pleasant countenance. Her manner was polished and gentle as if hospitality were the second nature. 

"I am Auremdra Tussauds—you may call me Miranda, my lady," she said, extending her hand with an elegant tilt of the wrist, her voice even and smooth. Yet, there was strength she was holding even if warmth radiated from her demeanor. 

"I am very grateful for the welcome, Miranda," was Charlotte's answer, delivering her question with a faint smile, but surprisingly genuine. She could not help, though, feeling that above everything, the difference in the grandness of the place and the people's dignity sat quietly in her chest as if it had been tightened. She probably had not known how tightly coiled she had been until this very moment, standing in the entrance to the Grimoard estate, feeling, for the first time in days, that the air had finally softened its hold on her lungs. Above all, it felt not trustworthy to be under shelter; rather, it was to be under safety. 

The clashing of a carriage door closing cut her thoughts. 

Out stepped Saevionh from the vehicle, holding a suitcase. He put the suitcase down on the ground after positioning the suitcase once, and then in the right direction, then again to the point where the handle faced north--only to change half an inch by turning it back, as if suddenly unsure. He smoothed the front of his coat twice and fine-tuned his lapel, which was with sharp, practiced fingers. Then he tugged at his gloves, tight even though perfectly fitted. 

"It has indeed been a while, Miranda," he casually said, but trained fingers already dusted off the nonexistent dirt on the coat. 

Suddenly, Miranda's smile became wider. "Lord Grimoard! I am glad to have you back." 

A nod of inclination to Saevionh was gently given. His gaze flickered to the entrance, to the coat rack, and to the floral arrangement beside the stairs. He lingered, if only for a moment's glance, on a crooked ribbon around the vase. He twitchily moved his hand-almost corrected it-but changed his mind. 

"Is... is the Countess around today?" he made an attempt to sound casual, though while tapping his knuckles rhythmically against the handle of his suitcase-four taps followed by a pause and then four taps again. 

Miranda shook her head in calm reassurance. "Not at the moment, my lord. She still has business in Normaine and will return, before dusk, don't worry." 

"I see," murmured Saevionh as his mouth corners twitched. He adjusted the suitcase handle again. Then, realizing he'd caught himself doing it too much, he abruptly nodded and moved past them. 

Charlotte had a little glance thrown at him because something was embarrassing her. Miranda continued speaking before she could voice it. 

"Please enter, both of you. There's tea prepared in the sitting room. I am sure you must be very weary from the journey." 

"My Lord?" Charlotte asked, her voice curious and brow raised in confusion, to which Saevionh only laughed at her surprise, his manner more amused than offended or annoyed. He stepped toward her, leaning to whisper in her ear.

"You see, My Lady, I hold a higher rank than that of yours. Thus, it is important you know your stand and act accordingly," he speaks low, with a hint of black anger. Once he was finished, Saevion relinquished Charlotte and strolled into the house; Charlotte was motionless and slightly bewildered with his expressions and words. 

"What is troubling him?" Charlotte's eyes lingered on the figure that had just departed;

Miranda could not suppress the soft chuckle that slipped from her lips but with little real mirth. She cast her head a little to one side and began to reply. "Ah, don't mind him. He was just being himself—hard as flint and just too used to giving orders. Lord Grimoard is the last remaining blood of the Countess, and that gives him some rights, I suppose. But it is a far more complicated affair than it seems. The Countess exerted herself to keep him here after the death of his mother."

"His mother?" Charlotte repeated, now both intrigued and worried. 

Miranda nodded grimly. "Yes. His mother passed away when he was still a little boy. This tragedy left a deep mark on him. The young lord was placed under the care of Madam Dorothea, his aunt, but such wounded feelings are never so easily healed. Even now, he bears the scars of it, though he seldom speaks of his sorrow." A slight pause. "I think that sorrow has made that man what he is today. It has hardened him." 

Charlotte took in this new information in silence, letting her fingers twist a little as she considered what that meant. "So, he has been alone all this while in his suffering?"

Miranda let out a soft breath. "Not exactly. Madam Dorothea has done all she could. However, there are wounds no guardian can heal, no matter how kind, and Lord Grimoard, well... he has never been the one to lean upon others. "

"That is a lot of light shed," Charlotte concluded, now fully understanding.

Bowing slightly, she excused herself from Charlotte's company, a demand that pulled her just back into the grand halls of the manor. The burden of her duties was heavy, hence she could not stay any longer.

But Charlotte remained frozen in her spot, her mind whirling with thought and unanswered questions. There was something about this House—the quiet secrets that lurked beneath its stately walls, the veiled history interwoven in whispered conversations—that sparked her curiosity. They had given her refuge; offered her a chance to freedom in exchange for some case she knew nothing about; yet she knew precious little about them.

The sight of the towering edifice before her was one of a fortress of enigmas she longed to vanquish: who were the real people dwelling within? What were their shadows from the past? Most importantly of all, what had she unknowingly become entangled within?

Meanwhile, Saevionh glided through the dim corridors of the Grimoard residence with customary eloquence; each step was intent upon perfection and measured. His pace was constant, albeit laced with tension, as if he had an awareness of some invisible weight that pressed against him, urging him forward. The mansion, with its tapestry imbibed in the dust of countless years, seemed to prod him forward.

He walked into the study, tossed his satchel over a fainting couch, and began deftly to untie his cravat. Leaving aside the anguish of indiscretion and guilt as he loosed the silk against his throat, the phantom feeling came back. Then a sudden increase in blood flow, claiming his ears and restricting his arrangements for exhaling, arose as if to refuse.

"So," he murmured softly, to himself and the air. "This is the one Madam spoke of." His voice, smooth and controlled, barely revealed the flicker of unease that briefly glided through his chest. The thought of something in this room having the power of his demise—something unspoken, hidden in plain sight—lingers on the edges of his consciousness but is pushed down with a slow blink. 

He made his way toward the desk, his eyes sweeping over the documents strewn about. He stopped considering them as his gaze settled on a single scrap of parchment, but nothing he could concentrate on—not entirely. His mind ran in circles, pummeling through one scenario after another—What if this was the very place where everything would end? Where would his carefully constructed world unravel? What if reading the wrong thing guaranteed his doom? 

He reached for the papers with a trembling hand, almost imperceptible, tremors that felt uncharacteristic. His fingers grazed dangerously along the edge of the desk. For an infinitesimal moment, he contemplated resting there—the edge of the wood, finding solace in its uneven surface, as if might somehow quiet the trepidation from swelling within.

 He chastised himself for having such unwelcome thoughts. "Absurd," he muttered beneath his breath as he straightened one of the papers, "Absurd, Saevionh. There is no reason to—"

The words evaporated from his throat again, lost as dizziness swept over him. He fell prey to a violent spasm of coughing, doubling over, belly clutched by one hand; the other hand braced himself against the desk for support. As momentary loss of vision dimmed his sight briefly, a red haze appeared on the horizon. Blood splattered over his palm. 

In shock, he found himself staring. "Not now," he murmured. "Not now."

It was not the blood that troubled him—it was the thought that he might die in this room. The irrational fear gripped him fiercely. What if this was the moment? What if this was the fatal misstep? Even then, as his body threatened to yield him, his mind, the ever-reliable observer, sought to make order out of disorder. His fingers scrunched around the bloodied fabric of his shirt, pulling it taut with unnatural artistry, pressing till the pain was a relief to the other agony. "Not in this will I yield myself," he muttered again, now a little quieter as though trying to convince himself. He inhales again, holds his breath steady, and feeds his mind with concentration. 

Upward shifted flickering candlelight shadows, then dropped blindfolded to the floor with his hidden face and expression still veiled beneath the veil of his thoughts. 

He spoke out loudly, in an enigma hanging in the air, eyes unseeing. So far back in his mind, though that gray area between terror and uncertainty will remain unmentioned-not yet. 

"When will the false light descend out of the ped upon the stage of the true effulgence?"