Günther : Chapter 11

The confession hung between us like smoke after gunfire—lingering, suffocating, impossible to ignore. Seraphine's words had torn open old wounds I'd long pretended were scars. My late wife's face flickered in my mind, her laughter now a ghostly reprimand. How dare you? it seemed to whisper. Yet here I was, calloused fingers tangled with a noblewoman's, her pulse racing against mine like a sparrow caught in a storm.

I was too old for this. Too old for the way my chest tightened when she glared at me with those fire-bright eyes, too old for the reckless hope that maybe—just maybe—I could have something alive in this graveyard of a life.

"But Seraphine," I sighed, thumb tracing the ridge of her knuckles, "You're nobility. I'm just a chauffeur with blood under his nails. If your father's rivals catch wind of this—"

She scoffed, tossing her hair like a challenge. "No one dares lay a finger on the right hand of King Lysander Ironveil."

I couldn't help the dry laugh that escaped me. "Even kings have blind spots. And I'd rather not find ours the hard way."

For once, she didn't argue. Her shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of her as she leaned into me. "You're right. Again. Always seeing the traps I'm too stubborn to notice."

We spent the night like that—her head on my shoulder, my arm around her waist, two fools pretending the world outside that room didn't exist. No grand declarations, no reckless passion. Just the quiet terror of realizing we'd already stepped off the cliff.

And the unspoken truth: neither of us knew how to fly.

A week had passed since Seraphine's confession, and Duke Ironhold's silence was louder than any protest. The old man knew—of course he knew—yet he let his daughter orbit me like a comet drawn to a dying star.

Today, I leaned against the courtyard's stone arch, watching her practice the Blade of Clarity. Sunlight caught the steel as it arced through the air—Hupp!—splitting the dummy target clean down the middle. Sawdust rained like confetti.

"How was that, love? Any progress?" She grinned, chest heaving, sweat gluing stray hairs to her temples.

I crossed my arms. "I don't know swords," I admitted, stepping closer. The scent of iron and her lavender soap tangled in the air between us. "But… try rotating your hips when you strike." My hands found her waist, adjusting her stance. "Power comes from here." My thumbs pressed into the dip of her pelvis, lingering a heartbeat too long.

She shivered. "Like this?"

"Mm. And focus your energy—" My lips brushed her ear as I guided her arms back. "—right there."

Shhaa!

The blade cleaved through the dummy—and the wall behind it—with surgical precision.

"Gods!" Seraphine whirled to face me, eyes wide. "Are you sure you've never held a sword? That was—"

"Just these." I held up my calloused palms, still warm from her skin. "But I know bodies. Yours especially."

Her laugh was breathless. Then, in one fluid motion, she dropped the sword and fisted my collar, pulling me down. "Liar," she murmured against my mouth. "You fight dirty."

The sword lay forgotten between us, gleaming in the grass like a secret.

The maid's arrival shattered our moment like a hammer through glass. "Gunther, Duke Ironhold requests your presence in the war room. Maverick is already there."

Seraphine's grip on my arm tightened. "I'm coming with you."

The war room smelled of ink and impending storms. Duke Ironhold stood over a map of Blackwater Docks, his knuckles white around a report. Maverick lurked in the corner, sharpening a dagger with too much enthusiasm.

"Good morning, Duke Ironhold," I greeted.

"Gunther." He didn't look up. "The intel I sent to Blackwater confirmed our fears. A new necromancy sect—likely the source of the Jenuvian League's suicide magic. The Crown has ordered an investigation." His jaw twitched. "They're sending Lady Elyria Sylvaris."

Seraphine's chair screeched as she shot to her feet. "That viper? She's—"

"The King's niece," the Duke cut in. "And we've been ordered to provide her escort. Gunther will go."

"No." Seraphine's voice could've frozen hell. "Send Maverick. Send anyone else!"

Maverick snorted. "Flattered, princess, but I don't babysit nobles."

"This isn't a debate," the Duke growled. "Do you truly believe anyone else can guarantee the safety of the King's own blood?"

"Then I'll go too!"

"Absolutely not!" The Duke's fist hit the table. "Your recklessness will get people killed!"

Oh, for fuck's sake. I exhaled sharply. "Lady Seraphine," I said, stepping between them before this could escalate further. "Please understand your father's position. And more importantly—I'll be fine."

Her eyes burned. "You don't know Elyria like I do. She'll—"

"I'd rather have peace of mind than constant vigilance," I lied through my teeth. "Isn't that better?"

A beat. Her shoulders slumped. "...Fine."

The Duke stared as if I'd performed witchcraft. One sentence, his expression screamed, and my hurricane of a daughter yields? What sorcery is this?

Gods above. Twenty years of parenting, and I couldn't calm my daughter. Yet this battle-scarred chauffeur silences her with one sentence? What devil's bargain is this?

Aloud, he only sighed. "Maverick, prepare the briefing documents. Gunther, you leave at dawn."

Maverick's blade scraped ominously. "Well. This is awkward."

The documents sat heavy in my hands—locations, numbers, the cold facts of death magic. But the real weight was Seraphine's gaze burning into my back as I packed my gear.

"My love," she began, voice frayed at the edges, "I still hate leaving you with that royal viper."

I turned slowly. Her fists were clenched, jaw set, but her eyes... Gods, her eyes were young.

"[Oh, God... I know. And I am aware.]" I caught her chin, forcing her to look at me. "Seraphine, my love. Do you think I've lived to this age by accident? That I can't guard my own neck? Or—" the hardest blow, delivered gently, "—that I'm unworthy of your trust?"

She flinched. "That's not—"

"I know." My thumb brushed her lower lip. "But next time, ask me first. Your intel is vital, but the world doesn't bend to our wills. Not even yours." A deliberate pause. "Your father is bound by duty. So am I. The only choice here... is whether you'll fight the tide or learn to swim with it."

Her breath hitched. Then, like a snapped bowstring, she sagged against me. "...I hate this. I hate her. And I—" A muffled sob into my shoulder. "Forgive me. For being insufferable. For not..."

"Shhh." I cradled the back of her head, lips against her hair. "The woman I love isn't one for half-measures. Why start now?"

The documents from Duke Ironhold lay spread across the table, their edges curling like dead leaves. Blackwater Docks—a rotting carcass of the city's past, left to seagulls and desperate men. I traced the faded ink of the map, my finger hovering over the tidal flats. Perfect for hiding bones.

Seraphine leaned over my shoulder, her breath warm against my neck. "They'll be here," she murmured, tapping a cluster of abandoned warehouses. "Near the old icehouse. The locals avoid it—say the walls whisper at high tide."

I grunted. "Necromancers do love their theatrics."

My Kit:

The Kris Dagger – Serpentine blade, its edge honed to a whisper. I slid it into the hidden sheath beneath my coat. A gift from Seraphine, though she doesn't know I've rebalanced it for throwing.

Flint and Saltpeter – Wrapped in oilcloth, tucked into my boot. Fire was the great equalizer. Burn the bodies, break the ritual. Simple.

Fisherman's Rope – Ordinary hemp, but I'd tied it with a sailor's knot. One tug, and it'd tighten around a man's throat like a noose.

Lady Elyria's "Luggage" – A polished leather case, its contents innocent enough. Unless you knew to unscrew the false bottom, where I'd hidden a vial of mare's tears. Just in case.

Seraphine's fingers brushed my wrist. "You're not just a chauffeur, are you?"

I kept my face blank. "I drive carriages and clean boots. Occasionally, I stab people."

She rolled her eyes, but the worry didn't leave her. "Be careful. Elyria's reckless, and the docks…"

"Are a den of cutthroats and cultists. I know." I caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "But I've walked worse alleys."

The Plan:

Phase One: Play the oblivious servant. Let Elyria strut ahead, her noble blood a beacon.

Phase Two: Salt the fog. Necromancy required dry bones—flood the ritual sites, and their magic would crumble.

Phase Three: If it all went to hell, I'd drag Elyria out by her hair. Alive, if possible.

Seraphine sighed, her forehead resting against mine. "Come back to me."

"Always," I lied.

Because in the end, the docks didn't care about promises. Only the tide.

Dawn Run

The armored car's engine growled like a chained beast as I tore through the mist-cloaked roads. Seraphine's last kiss still burned on my lips—a brand, a promise. "Don't die before I get mad again," she'd whispered. Typical.

I shaved two hours off Maverick's estimated time. Let Elyria choke on my punctuality.

Sylvaris Atheneum Gates

The academy loomed, its ivory spires clawing at the sky. A guard in silvered armor halted me, his spear barring the way.

"State your purpose."

I flashed the Ironhold seal. "Chauffeur for Lady Elyria. Here to collect her... and her inevitable luggage."

His eyes narrowed at my lack of credentials, but the Duke's sigil held weight. "Wait at the parking yard. Stray, and we'll treat you as a trespasser."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Parking Yard Intel Review

Leaning against the armored car, I reopened Maverick's dossier:

Blackwater's Dead Zones: Marked the map where fog clung unnaturally—necromancer hotspots.

Local Threats:

- Fishermen with knife-scarred hands (likely cult sentries).

- Tidal traps (shifting sands to drown the unwary).

- The Whispers (reports of voices mimicking loved ones—psychological warfare).

My fingers drummed the Kris dagger's hilt. Elyria would charge in blind. Which means I'll be the one burning corpses and cutting throats.

A shadow crossed the dossier.

"You're early."

I didn't look up. "And you're predictable, Lady Elyria."

The armored car's leather seats creaked as I adjusted my position for the twelfth time. My fingers drummed against the steering wheel—tap, tap, tap—keeping time with the sinking feeling in my gut.

Nobles. An investigation. Me playing chauffeur.

Back on Earth, I'd seen how quickly "civilized" people could turn feral when hierarchies got challenged. A Black general in dress whites still got stopped at the Pentagon's gates. What hope did a "mere driver" have here?

The academy's gilded doors swung open. Three figures emerged, sunlight glinting off their polished accessories like warning flares.

Showtime.

I slid out of the car, my chauffeur's mask snapping into place. The door hinges barely sighed as I opened the rear compartment with practiced deference.

The Jewel Arrives First

"Representing Sylvaris Atheneum—Her Royal Highness's beloved niece, the Jewel of the Kingdom, Lady Elyria Sylvaris!"

She announced herself like a royal herald, golden hair cascading as she curtsied—to no one. Battle dress immaculate. Eyes scanning me like a stain on her itinerary.

"You're the Ironhold driver?" Her nose wrinkled. "I expected someone... younger."

I kept my gaze lowered. "The car's interior is spacious, my lady."

The Strategist Steps Up

Theron Valebright materialized at her elbow, chestnut hair artfully disheveled. "Theron Valebright, at your service. Top of our investigative arts class, naturally."

His smile didn't reach those calculator-gray eyes. When he shook my hand, he left a silver coin in my palm—bribe or test?

I pocketed it silently. Let him wonder.

The Muscle Last

Donovan Hargrave shouldered past them both. "Hargrave. Field operations."

His knuckle-scars brushed the car frame as he entered. A soldier's assessment flickered across my posture—finally, someone who recognized stance over status.

I met his eyes just long enough to nod. Professional courtesy.

The Game Begins

Elyria's perfume (jasmine and entitlement) flooded the cabin as she settled in. "To Blackwater, driver. And do try not to hit every pothole—this dress cost more than your annual wage."

Theron chuckled. Donovan stared out the window.

The engine purred to life. Oh, I'll hit every damn pothole between here and that dock, I promised silently. You just won't feel it until tomorrow.

The armored car hummed along the coastal road, its reinforced tires eating up the miles without so much as a shudder. The nobles in the backseat, however, were another story entirely.

"—and when my brother single-handedly negotiated the Karthian trade accord, the King himself said—"

"Oh, that reminds me! Father once hosted the Karthian ambassador at our estate—"

I tightened my grip on the wheel. Two hours. Two hours of this ceaseless, simpering bragging. Theron and Donovan were like overeager hounds, tripping over each other to lay their family achievements at Elyria's feet. And for what? She hadn't so much as glanced away from her vanity mirror once.

"—of course, our vineyards produce the finest wine in the eastern provinces. Perhaps you'd like to visit during the harvest, Lady Elyria? The sunset over the vineyards is truly—"

God. I'd met fresh recruits with more self-awareness. Back on Earth, at least the bootlickers had the decency to be subtle about it.

Then—

"Chauffeur," Elyria's voice cut through the drivel, smooth and dismissive. "Your driving is… different. Usually, I feel every bump in the road."

Theron seized the opportunity like a starving man offered a scrap. "Yes! The ride is remarkably smooth. Did you modify the suspension?"

I kept my eyes on the road, my voice carefully neutral. "No, my lord. I'm just a chauffeur. No special knowledge, no modifications." A beat. "But thank you for noticing."

Donovan, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, let out a soft snort.

Elyria's emerald eyes flicked up, meeting mine in the rearview mirror for the first time. "Hmph. A shame. A skilled driver is rare."

Theron, sensing an opening, leaned forward. "Speaking of skill, my family's stablemaster once trained the royal cavalry's—"

"Enough." Elyria's voice was a whip-crack. "If I hear one more word about your family's accomplishments, I will throw myself from this moving vehicle."

Silence.

Finally.

Then Donovan, ever the pragmatist, cleared his throat. "...So. Blackwater Docks. Anyone actually read the briefing, or are we just going to wing it?"

Elyria smirked. "I always read the briefing."

Theron opened his mouth—

"Don't," she warned.

I exhaled, long and slow. Maybe this mission wouldn't be so bad after all.

The armored car's door clicked shut behind the nobles, their voices fading as they disappeared into the so-called hotel. The air here was thick with salt and decay, the kind of stench that clung to your clothes like a second skin.

Across the street, a group of locals had stopped mid-conversation to stare. Their eyes tracked me with the same dull hostility I'd seen in war zones—not quite a threat yet, but not safe either. A woman gutting fish behind a stall let her knife clatter loudly against the wood. A man with rope-scarred palms spat near my boots.

Lapdog. The word might as well have been painted on my back.

I didn't react. Didn't tense. Just secured the car with mechanical precision, checking each lock with the same detached focus I'd used to clean my rifle back in another life. Elizabeth used to say that was my tell—"You go so still it's like you're not even there anymore."

She wasn't wrong.

A kid, no older than ten, kicked a rusted can toward me. It clanged against the armored wheel well. His friends held their breath.

I turned my head just enough to meet his gaze. Held it for three steady seconds. Then went back to my work.

Let them think what they want. Emotions were a luxury I couldn't afford. Not here. Not since the day I'd buried my wife and my ability to care along with her.

The fishermen muttered amongst themselves as I walked away. None followed.

Good. The quieter this investigation started, the fewer bodies we'd leave behind.