14. into the web

The noblewoman did not give him time to second-guess his decision.

The moment he agreed, she moved swiftly, as if she had expected this outcome all along.

"There is a man in the palace," she began, her voice low. "A minor scribe, insignificant to most. But he carries messages between certain factions—letters that should never be read aloud."

Harsh frowned. "A messenger?"

"A spy."

The word sent a ripple of unease through him.

She turned away, pouring herself a cup of spiced wine from a bronze pitcher. "He works under one of my father's rivals. The information he carries is… problematic. If it reaches the wrong ears, I will have problems."

Harsh crossed his arms. "And you need me to…?"

"Intercept him."

He stiffened. "You're asking me to steal a noble's message?"

She sipped her wine, unbothered. "I am asking you to prevent it from being delivered."

Harsh exhaled slowly. This was no simple task. If he were caught, it would mean punishment—or worse.

"And what happens to the scribe?" he asked.

Her gaze met his, unreadable. "That depends on you."

Later that night, Harsh found himself moving through the palace's quieter halls, his heart pounding in his chest.

The noblewoman's information had been precise: the scribe always stopped by the temple courtyard before delivering his messages. A man of habit.

Harsh stood hidden behind a pillar, waiting.

Minutes passed. Then—movement.

A figure in plain robes strode across the courtyard, head down, a leather satchel clutched to his side.

Harsh swallowed hard.

This was it.

His fingers tightened around the dagger hidden in his sash. He wasn't going to kill anyone—but he had to be ready.

Steeling himself, he stepped forward.

"Lost, friend?"

The scribe froze, turning sharply.

His eyes flickered with surprise—and then, suspicion.

"Who are you?" the man demanded.

Harsh forced a casual smile. "Just someone who's been told you're carrying something… interesting."

The scribe's grip on the satchel tightened. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Harsh took another step closer. "Let's not make this difficult."

The scribe's gaze darted around, searching for guards.

Then—he ran.

Harsh cursed and lunged.

He caught the man's robes, yanking him back, but the scribe twisted, driving an elbow into Harsh's ribs. Pain exploded through his side.

Harsh staggered, but his grip remained firm.

He barely had time to register the glint of steel before the scribe slashed at him with a small dagger.

Harsh dodged—barely.

The blade nicked his arm, burning hot. Blood seeped through his sleeve.

Enough.

His body reacted before his mind did. He drove a fist into the scribe's stomach, sending him crashing to the ground.

The man wheezed, stunned.

Harsh didn't hesitate. He grabbed the satchel and tore it open.

Inside—letters.

Some sealed, some hastily folded. He snatched the most important-looking ones and tucked them into his belt.

Then—he ran.

The scribe's groan echoed behind him, but Harsh didn't look back.

A New Reality

Back at his estate, Harsh sat in the flickering candlelight, staring at the stolen letters.

His hands were still shaking.

He had done it. He had crossed the line.

He wasn't just a forgotten noble anymore.

He was something else.

The noblewoman's words echoed in his mind.

"Then you will remain what you are now—nothing."

No.

Not anymore.