Chapter 22: Whispers of the Forgotten

The night in Galaza was eerily quiet, the slums bathed in the silver glow of the full moon. Shadows stretched and slithered along the cracked cobblestone streets, their forms distorted by the dim lanterns flickering in doorways. The scent of damp earth and the faint stench of decay clung to the air, an ever-present reminder of the city's neglect.

A young girl, no older than twelve, moved briskly down the alleyway, clutching a small pouch of coins against her chest. Her bare feet barely made a sound against the stones, a learned skill from years of living in a place where being unseen meant survival. She had made great sales today, selling fruits at the bustling marketplace, and was eager to return home. Tonight, she and her mother would eat well—a rare moment of joy in their otherwise harsh existence.

She barely noticed the looming presence behind her, the way the shadows seemed to shift unnaturally. Her thoughts were filled with warm broth and sweet bread, with the delighted smile she imagined on her mother's face. It was only when she turned a corner that she felt the cold press of cloth against her nose, the scent of something cloyingly sweet filling her senses. Panic flared in her chest, her small hands clawing weakly at the vice-like grip around her. The world spun, her vision blurred, and before she could scream, darkness consumed her.

The city of Glandor was abuzz with whispers, and at the center of it all was the Fifth Prince, Alaric Varellion of Aeloria. Since the conclusion of Lord Hawke's case, the young prince had been basking in the empire's attention. Nobles shifted their focus toward him, commoners rallied behind him, and the court was in a frenzy after his public declaration: Evelyne Thorne was now his personal detective.

The factions of Aeloria were divided in their opinions, and this shift in influence had disturbed the already fragile balance of power.

The Imperialist Nobles: The Old Guard

These were the founding families, those who had stood by the empire since its inception. Their loyalty to the royal family was unquestioned, but even among them, opinions differed. Some saw Prince Alaric's move as a bold and strategic decision, an attempt to solidify his position. Others saw it as reckless, an insult to tradition.

"She is competent, certainly," murmured Duke Orvain, swirling his wine. "But a fallen noble house. The prince's favor sets a dangerous precedent."

The Nobility Faction: The Wealthy Elite

Unlike the Imperialists, these nobles had risen through wealth and commerce rather than birthright. They had long opposed the monarchy's unchecked influence, preferring a system where money dictated power.

"A woman of her station, given such influence?" scoffed Lady Valtessa at one of Glandor's most exclusive salons. "It is an insult. The prince is playing a reckless game."

The Neutralists: The Observers

This faction, a mix of old and new blood, had no strong allegiances. They preferred to watch, to analyze, to bet on the most advantageous outcome.

"She is unpredictable," mused Count Haverly, stroking his chin. "And that makes her fascinating."

The commoners, however, adored her. In the streets of Glandor, the people murmured of justice, of change. Of a woman who could challenge the powerful and win.

And that made her dangerous.

***

Evelyne sat in her study, surrounded by stacks of paperwork, her patience hanging by a thread. Across from her, lounging far too comfortably in an armchair, was none other than Prince Alaric.

He held up a newspaper, a smirk playing on his lips. "Evie listen to this—'Prince Alaric found frequenting the Thorne estate: A possible engagement?'"

Evelyne didn't even look up. "my, my, my why do I like the sound of that?" he mused, clearly entertained by the ridiculous rumors.

The prince had grown rather comfortable with her ever since he had started frequenting the manor. So comfortable he had given her a nickname and Evelyne being The unilling persistent to the 5th prince's shenanigans had no way of avoiding it, unless she wanted her head to be detached From her shoulders. The prince knew that all too well.

"I don't have time for this," she muttered, focusing on the endless contracts and reports before her. Managing a gold mine was proving to be an unexpected nightmare—logistics, labor disputes, aristocrats attempting to leech off her newfound wealth.

Alaric, ignoring her distress, continued, "I must say, the prospect of engagement seems quite tempting. It has a nice ring to it."

Evelyne shot him a glare but couldn't quite suppress the flicker of warmth at the thought. She would never admit it, of course.

Her butler, George, entered the room with yet another stack of documents.

"I need another case," Evelyne groaned. "Desperately. Before I drown in paperwork and die a bureaucratic death."

George, ever the picture of dry wit, placed the papers in front of her. "Perhaps my lady should not have asked for a gold mine, then."

She shot him a flat look. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

He did not answer, but she swore she saw the ghost of a smirk.

She sighed, rubbing her temples. "Fine. Maybe it's time I hired someone to manage it all. Post an ad—I don't care if they're noble or commoner, as long as they're competent."

George inclined his head. "Very well."

With that, Evelyne allowed herself a small sigh of relief. A manager would grant her freedom. Freedom to do what she did best—solve mysteries.

She hadn't forgotten Rosalind Sinclair. The book's protagonist had vanished without a trace, and Evelyne had been trying to pry information from Alaric. At the ball, he had hinted that he knew something, but when confronted, he merely shrugged.

"I just said that to keep you interested in me."

She had nearly thrown a book at him.

Back in the present, her eyes drifted to a newspaper lying on her desk. The headline sent a thrill through her veins:

Children Going Missing in the Slums of Galaza.

A slow smile graced Evelyne's lips.

"Well, well," she mused, lifting the paper. "Looks like I've found my next case."

Alaric leaned forward, intrigued. "And here I thought you were retiring to a life of gold and paperwork."

She shot him a knowing smirk. "Not a chance, Your Highness."

And just like that, the game was on again.