She narrows her eyes. “Yes, I was surprised too. But Lord Luceran has decided you are better used here, for now.”
The Fae female gives me one last assessing look.
“If you have any questions, I have no time for the answers,” she says. “You will have to figure it out yourself. I will prepare Lord Luceran's supper, but you will serve him tonight. Understand?”
I nod, still trying to comprehend the mountain of disordered papers in front of me.
She moves past me with little regard, her shoulder striking mine as though I am nothing but a draft in her way.
“Wait,” I call before she can shut the door.
“I said, no questions,” she groans.
“Your name,” I say quickly. “Surely you can tell me that.”
She exhales, shoulders dipping with something like reluctance. “I suppose. My name is Atilia.”
She starts to step out, fingers tightening around the door handle.
“Atilia,” I say again, and she groans louder this time.
“What now?”
“Is the cold truly the only reason everyone abandoned him?”
Her expression shifts. All the sharpness melts, leaving something tired and strangely vulnerable. It is as though no one has ever asked her this, but she has carried the answer for years.
“No, girl,” she says softly. “It was Lord Luceran who abandoned us.”
She turns and closes the door. The click is final.
Silence swells around me. I cross the cramped room, stepping over boxes and stray papers that litter the floor. When I reach the narrow window, I press my hands to the cold stone and look out. Snow falls in a thick white veil, obscuring most of the view, but in the distance I can still see the faint glow of lanterns near the mines.
I did not realize the mines were so close to the lake.
A stray gust pushes snow through the window frame, dusting my nose. I huff, then step back and collapse into the chair, taking in the room.
Whether Lord Luceran is a murderer or not cannot matter now.
What matters is making a dent in this mountain of work before dinner is served.
5
Istart by trying to make sense of the chaos. The office is colder than the corridors, and every surface is dusted with a thin film of frost. I breathe out, rubbing my gloved hands together, then set to work.
First the boxes.I stack them against the far wall, sorting them by size, by weight, by any scrap of labeling I can find. Some are marked with dates I cannot decipher, others with symbols I do not understand. Still, I push them into neat rows.
Then the papers.I sweep them into piles, separating loose sheets from bound ledgers, shaking off snowflakes that seem to appear from nowhere. A few pages crumble in my hands, frostbitten by neglect, but most are legible enough. Contracts. Deeds. Tax collections. Lists of ore delivered from the mines.
Next the dust.I drag a cloth across every shelf, every corner, scattering grey plumes into the air. Beneath the grime I discover something unexpected. A small hearth tucked behind a stack of warped ledgers, its grate rusted, its stone dark with age.
Hope sparks in my chest.
It takes some effort, but eventually I coax a flame to life. I feed it with scraps of broken crates and brittle parchment no longer usable, and slowly the fire begins to burn steady and bright. Warmth creeps into the room like a timid animal, hesitant at first, then bolder.
I drag the chair closer.For the first time, the office looks like a place someone could work in.
I sit heavily and pull the nearest ledger toward me. Hours pass as I read line after line, my cramped handwriting filling page after page of my own notes. Frostwyn accounts, debt tallies, mine shipments, trade agreements, uncollected payments. More taxes owed than I care to think about. More expenses than any one person should manage alone.
