The Unassuming Servant

"I'm losing patience with this," Kord groaned, slumping dramatically in his chair. He popped another sweet from his pocket into his mouth. "This whole infiltration nonsense is dull, dreary work. They don't even offer sweets."

Lock, seated at the edge of the room with his arm wrapped in bandages, raised a brow at him. "Simple, but honest work," he muttered, the corners of his lips twitching with irritation. "More than what we deserve." His words faltered as he hissed in pain, jerking his shoulder away from Min, who was stitching the torn fabric of his tunic. "Min, there's no need to tug so hard."

Min huffed and turned her nose up at him. "Perhaps if you sat still, I wouldn't have to."

Mirak chuckled softly from where he sat, flipping through a thick tome. "Kord, this is the perfect mission for you. At least here, you're out of trouble. No breaking things, no scaring people in the streets." He glanced up briefly. "And if you stay quiet, no one will even know we've added another 'brother' to the Fell household."

Kord tilted his head, feigning offense. "I'm deeply wounded, Mirak. Do I look like someone who causes problems?"

Lock snorted. "You look like someone who is a problem."

The cover story for Kord was simple: he was Lock and Mirak's brother, recently brought in as an additional servant to House Fell. After a brief meeting with Min and a carefully staged introduction, rumors about the "newest Publici" had spread like wildfire among the staff. It was a perfect fit—Kord's presence drew attention, allowing Lock and Mirak to remain in the background, observing and gathering information unnoticed.

Mirak felt a faint, ghostly brush against his mind—fingers, like tendrils of smoke, reaching for his thoughts. He glanced at Kord, who was casually leaning back in his chair. The tendrils withdrew as Kord's voice drifted into Mirak's mind, smooth and teasing.

"The girl hasn't looked at us even once," Kord said silently, the faintest hum of amusement in his tone.

"She's sweet on Lock," Mirak thought back, knowing Kord would hear.

The tendrils faded completely, and the connection was gone, leaving Mirak with an uncomfortable shiver. Augur. That was what Czenth had called Kord. The idea that someone could enter another's mind so easily still unsettled him. Mirak knew there were limits—an Augur needed resin and permission to access a person's thoughts—but even so, the thought of someone moving through his mind, uninvited, was enough to make his skin crawl.

Lock hissed again as Min tightened the final stitch. "Enough mothering, Min," he snapped, flexing his arm with a wince. "I was hit by a wagon, not mauled by a karnen."

Min folded her arms and tossed her hair, turning away from him with a huff. "Next time, I'll let your arm fall off."

Mirak ignored their bickering and returned to the book in his lap. It was a dense, flowery text from Sanni herself, an instruction from his noble mistress that he couldn't ignore, no matter how tedious he found it. The book detailed the faith of the Pureblood Elves, written in the cryptic language of the Kavish. Six chapters in, Mirak was still slogging through the creation myth, the translation offering little clarity:

"Upon the ebbing and flowing of the maligned corrosive chaos flickered petaled seams plunging itself throughout all and none… Crotas, in glory with both of his blistering hands of gold, placed themselves onto the bed and Lorian formed. It was a beginning or perhaps a catalyst…"

Mirak blew out a frustrated breath. Even translated, the words seemed purposefully obtuse. Why had Sanni insisted he read this? What did it have to do with her goals—or his own?

Kord's voice broke through his concentration. "Read anything interesting?"

"No," Mirak said, closing the book with a sigh. "Just flowery nonsense."

Kord grinned. "Then how about we take a break? Let's go see what kind of information we can dig up."

Mirak nodded, eager for an excuse to leave the servants' quarters. "Agreed."

The two made their way down the hall, the colors of House Fell decorating the ancient stone walls. Voices drifted from the kitchen as they passed—a pair of servants gossiping loudly over the clatter of dishes.

"No, you're joking! Gerish Omen is proposing to a commoner?" one hissed.

The other giggled. "You're just annoyed it wasn't you. He looked your way once or twice, didn't he?"

"Oh, hush. He said it wouldn't work. And besides, I heard something even better—Lady Serav's been spotted at the brothels!"

Kord's voice slipped into Mirak's mind again, laced with laughter. "A fascinating conversation, don't you think?"

Mirak scowled. "Get out of my head, Kord. The servants always chatter about relationships. It's hardly useful."

"If you didn't let me in so easily, I wouldn't keep trying," Kord said smugly.

Before Mirak could respond, Kord approached the gossiping servants with his usual charm. He casually pulled a sweet from his pocket, popping it into his mouth as he revealed a few flakes of resin in his other hand.

"Anything else going around the manor?" he asked, his voice light and disarming.

The servants looked at him warily. "Nothing you wouldn't already know," one of them said.

Kord sighed dramatically. "A shame. I even had a rumor about Lock and Min."

That caught their attention. "Are they a couple?" one of the servants asked eagerly.

Kord shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not. It all depends on whether you've got something worth my while."

Mirak watched as Kord's tendrils brushed against his mind again. He let them in this time, and Kord's voice echoed softly: "Offer the resin. A little push, and they'll tell us everything."

Mirak obliged, holding out the flakes. The servants' eyes lit up. The first one spoke hesitantly. "There've been whispers about House Fell pulling out of their contracts at the port."

Kord tossed her a single flake. "Not very useful."

The second servant leaned closer. "The lord of the house was found in a compromising position with a… lady of the night. During a meeting with another noble."

Kord grinned and flicked her a larger portion. "Now that's more interesting. But surely there's more?"

The first servant hesitated, rubbing her temple. "Forgive me, but I seem to have a headache. I need to lie down."

Kord handed the remaining resin to the other servant. "Make sure she gets some rest. We'll cover for you."

The servants quickly exited, murmuring their thanks. As the door closed behind them, Mirak turned to Kord. "Were those the rumors you were after?"

Kord's grin widened. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Apparently, the Lady of House Fell hosts late-night parties in the underground halls. The next one is in a few weeks. I imagine the entire manor will be empty for such an occasion."

Mirak frowned. "And how do you know it's true? I haven't heard a word about this."

"That's where you come in." Kord smirked. "The servants think Lady Sanni might attend—and they expect her one-handed servant to accompany her. Lucky for me, you've already made yourself quite the topic of gossip."

"Rumors and half-truths," Mirak said dismissively. "This would do little to harm House Fell."

Kord's eyes gleamed. "Not directly, no. But imagine if the Revenant left a note where the high lady—or her daughter—could find it. Paranoia would spread like wildfire. They'd turn on each other without us lifting a finger."

Mirak rubbed the edge of his eyes, fatigue creeping in. "We'll see if I'm invited."

"I'll keep digging through the servants' minds," Kord said, a mischievous glint in his eye. "They're easy enough to bypass."

Mirak sighed, already dreading the chaos Kord might cause. "Your abilities may accelerate things."

"They always do," Kord replied with a smirk.

And with that, the two returned to the quiet hum of the kitchen, preparing for the storm that would soon follow.