Three days had passed since the head of House Waltz died suddenly. The sky above the royal capital Verkhait was a dull grey in the hour before dawn. The Silver Crown Palace—Gratius Kingdom's royal residence, built upon a stone hill at the city's heart—still had torches burning in its corridors. In those hours before full daylight, when neither the sun's rays nor complete darkness held dominion, the stone floor gleamed wetly in the orange flame-light. Bertrand Eldin stood at the end of one such corridor. Nineteen years old. A young knight of the Iron Dawn Order—Gratius Kingdom's official knighthood, numbering some twelve hundred members and bearing a name derived from the kingdom's founding legends—serving as direct aide to the Hero Royce. His short golden hair caught the torchlight with a faint reddish tint. His bangs stood up slightly. Clear blue eyes that always looked directly at their subject were fixed now upon his superior's face. A small scar marked his right cheek. His shoulders, accustomed to the weight of armor, drew tight in the posture of salute. The fingers of his left hand remained rigid with tension. His superior—a mid-ranking officer of the Iron Dawn Order, a man in his forties with a sharp jawline—stood directly before Bertrand. No one else occupied the corridor. A summons timed with dawn. That alone told him this was no ordinary matter. "I need you to investigate the Waltz family matter," The superior's voice had dropped low. It was nearly a whisper, the kind of volume that the stone walls seemed to absorb. "A death investigation, sir?" "That's right. Three days ago, the head of house died suddenly. Officially it's been ruled a heart attack, but... I need you to verify the scene, just to be certain. However," He paused for a beat. "I can't issue written orders. This is a verbal command only," Bertrand's gaze flickered, just for an instant. No written orders. That fell outside the Iron Dawn Order's standard procedures. Investigation assignments always received a formal order bearing the superior's signature. It was necessary both to maintain records and to give the knight's actions proper legal foundation. Three years at the knight academy had hammered that principle into him. Yet his superior's eyes were serious. They held no evasion, no concealment—only proper resolve. (There must be circumstances I'm not aware of. It's a decision from above. It's not my place to question it.) That hesitation was swept away immediately by Bertrand's sense of duty. The head of House Waltz had died suddenly. He'd been given the opportunity to investigate. He could act for justice. That was enough. "Understood, sir. I will verify the facts without fail," His left hand pressed harder into the salute. The superior nodded curtly and departed down the corridor. His footsteps faded into distance. Bertrand remained alone in the dawn-lit passage. The stone walls were cold. Somewhere, a torch caught the wind, and orange light trembled. He left the Palace of Honor and made his way toward the high district in the northern quarter. ＊ House Waltz's mansion stood in the northern quarter of the royal capital Verkhait. North from Ash Wolf Street—the kingdom's largest commercial thoroughfare—the stone-paved path became a slope. The hilltop residential district held homes of families with considerable wealth, though not quite the standing of the Five Great Houses. Stone gates, carefully maintained hedges, white walls hazed in morning mist. It was quiet. Unnaturally quiet, even compared to ordinary mansion districts. As Bertrand approached the main gate, a middle-aged man in butler's dress emerged. His complexion was poor. His eyes held the look of someone who hadn't slept properly in three days. "I am Bertrand Eldin of the Iron Dawn Order. I've come to ask several questions regarding the passing of House Waltz's head," The butler nodded silently. He offered no resistance. Yet his expression revealed nothing. It was mechanical, as though he'd been waiting with an answer already prepared. As Bertrand entered the mansion, a strange odor struck his nostrils. It was faint, but unmistakably sharp. Like disinfectant, or the lingering scent of something volatile that had been used. Bertrand's expression didn't change, but his attention contracted inward, drawn taut. The butler led him to the dining hall. A long table with eight chairs. Only the head chair was more heavily constructed than the others. Silver cutlery lay in perfect order. No trace of a meal remained. Everything had been cleared away. Naturally—three days had passed. And yet... it was too clean. (They may have destroyed evidence.) Bertrand turned his gaze toward the butler. "Can you tell me what was served at the meal that day?" "Pork stew and dark rye bread, with white grape wine, sir," The answer came immediately. Without hesitation. "Had there been any indication beforehand that his health was not well?" "I'm not aware of any, sir," "Among the servants, was there anyone who noticed anything unusual that day?" "I'm not aware of any, sir," Same pitch, same speed, same volume. The butler answered like a machine programmed to respond to questions. His eyes never met Bertrand's. His gaze remained fixed at the level of Bertrand's chest. When Bertrand asked to speak with the servants, the butler brought several. A kitchen maid, a stable hand, a young man who tended the corridors. All three had the same eyes. They answered questions but gave no information. It wasn't that they lacked memory—there was a will not to speak, hidden beneath their responses. Bertrand thanked them and asked to be left alone in the dining hall. He picked up a silver goblet. He examined the interior. Shifting the angle of light, he ran his gaze along the rim. There. At the inner bottom edge, a faint discoloration. The silver's luster had dulled in one spot. And the sharp odor from before concentrated around this cup. Residue that hadn't fully volatilized still lingered there. (Poison.) Something tightened hard in Bertrand's chest. Not a heart attack. Poisoning. And done hastily enough that evidence remained. Not the work of a skilled poisoner—or perhaps the traces had been left deliberately. Either way, this was no accident. ＊ The study was on the second floor. With permission granted, he climbed. A heavy door slid across the stone floor. Bookshelves lined three walls. A writing desk occupied the center. Stacks of parchment lay aligned at one end, three pens standing at equal intervals in their holder. Too clean. A study, if it's been used, always bears traces. Ink marks on pen nibs, creases at the edges of parchment, dust disturbed by books being removed and replaced. The head of House Waltz must have used this room daily. Yet this study possessed the cleanliness of a place where traces of use had been deliberately erased. One section of the shelves stood empty. Three shelves' worth of books had been removed. On the shelf's surface, dust lay unevenly—some areas thick, others thin. Something had rested there until recently. It had been taken away. Bertrand knelt and began examining the floorboards. He ran his fingers along the seams between boards. He searched for places where dust had accumulated unnaturally. He traced faint variations in light with his gaze. That was when the door opened quietly. Candlelight spilled in. A young maid had entered. Seventeen or eighteen years old. Dull flax-colored hair bound at the back, a dark green maid's dress. She'd come to fetch bedding, or perhaps to check the window locks—the moment she noticed Bertrand in the room, she let out a small cry. The maid raised her candelabra high. Flame illuminated two shadows. The distance between Bertrand, rising from his knees, and the maid, stepping backward, closed for an instant. The maid's foot caught. The candelabra tilted. The flame swayed wildly. Bertrand's hand shot out reflexively. He caught the falling candelabra. At the same moment, his fingers brushed against the maid's slender hand. It was warm. The maid trembled slightly. "My apologies," Bertrand withdrew his hand immediately. He returned the candelabra to the maid. When he looked up, her ears had flushed red. Her cheeks, lit by candlelight, held a faint blush of blood. But Bertrand's gaze had already returned to the floorboards. He had no spare second to register the maid's reaction. (There's something here.) One seam in the boards showed a different pattern of dust disturbance. Recent movement. When he pressed with his fingertip, the board lifted slightly. From the gap, a folded paper slip emerged. "Forgive me, I just need to check the window—" "Please, don't mind me," The maid checked the window lock and hurried from the room. Her footsteps receded down the corridor. Bertrand unfolded the paper slip. ＊ A column of numbers written in ink. Their meaning wasn't immediately clear. But in the slip's lower right corner, there was an impression. A fragment of a stamped seal, partially torn and broken—yet the remaining shape resembled a pattern Bertrand knew. The seal of Chancellor Gais Helderin. Chancellor Gais of Gratius Kingdom was sixty-two years old, had held the position for twenty years, and was the kingdom's de facto ruler. Bertrand had seen his seal on official documents several times. He couldn't say with absolute certainty that this matched perfectly. It was only a fragment. But this shape... His fingers stopped. The weight of the fact—not what was written, but whose seal was here—fell upon Bertrand first. Traces of poisoning, evidence of a cover-up, and a paper slip possibly connected to the Chancellor's office. All present in the same mansion. He carefully refolded the slip and placed it in his pocket. ＊ The Iron Dawn Order's headquarters was a three-story stone building at the northern end of Ash Wolf Street. Sand from the training grounds released the smell of damp earth. From the direction of the barracks, the sound of iron pots being prepared for midday meal drifted across. Bertrand knocked on his superior's office door before noon. "I've returned from investigating the Waltz residence," "That was quick. What did you find?" "The silver goblet in the dining hall showed discoloration and a sharp odor. There's a possibility poison was used. Additionally, in the study I found traces of evidence destruction and a fragment resembling the Chancellor's seal. I believe a more thorough investigation should continue," The superior's expression changed. It changed in a way Bertrand hadn't anticipated. Not surprise. A small, deep crease formed between his brows—the kind that appears when someone is processing difficult information. It wasn't anger or shock, but something closer to the quiet exhaustion of one who has received heavy news. "Things have been settled at the higher levels," The superior said only that. "Sir?" "You don't need to investigate this further. House Waltz lost its head to a heart attack. That's the official record," "But—the evidence—" "Intervention in a noble house's affairs would damage the kingdom's stability. That's the decision from above," Bertrand opened his mouth. No words came. He had counterarguments. There is evidence, sir. There are traces of poisoning. There is the Chancellor's seal. He could have said that. He'd meant to. But when he looked into his superior's eyes, Bertrand understood something. Calculation. Not fear. Calculation. His superior had received this information and immediately determined what course of action best served his own position. His eyes prioritized survival over justice or truth. (He may have known all along.) Or perhaps he was only now confronting reality. Either way, the result was the same. This investigation would end here. "...Understood, sir," The words passed his throat. He formed the salute. But the fingers of his left hand wouldn't align proper