Frustrations of a Self-Proclaimed Villain Lord

Returning home with one unconscious noblewoman, one half-collapsed witness, one soundless bell, one suspicious white leaf, and far too many unanswered questions was not how I envisioned my evening ending.

Then again, my original plan upon arriving in the Capital had been to poison the Crown Prince during the festivities and enjoy the resulting political chaos from a comfortable distance. Instead, said Crown Prince was now sleeping in my west guest suite after being cured by the poison I bought for him. His mother was staying in my house. His father had granted me public emergency authority. My estate had become a temporary prison, infirmary, investigation center, and child refuge. The court was beginning to whisper about me as if I had somehow become the patron saint of inconvenient rescue operations.

Truly, slander evolved quickly in the Capital.

The carriage rolled through the wet streets, its wheels cutting through shallow puddles left by the strange rain. Outside, the city glittered with evening lamps and damp stone. The Capital always knew how to look beautiful after a disaster. It polished itself with light, hid the cracks under reflection, and trusted that people would be too dazzled to notice the rot underneath.

A skill, admittedly. A disgusting one.

Abi sat across from me with the soundless bell sealed in violet light between his hands. He hadn’t spoken since we left the botanical exchange.

This, in itself, was alarming. Abi quiet was not like ordinary silence. Ordinary silence merely existed. Abi quiet had texture. It sat in the carriage with us like an uninvited scholar, waiting to open a book no one had asked for.

My father looked out the window, one hand resting loosely over the hilt of his sword, his expression calm, though the air around him hadn’t settled. Not fully. He was thinking. That was dangerous enough on its own.

The white leaf from the Verdant observer rested inside a warded case on my lap, pale, almost translucent, its veins faintly glowing whenever the carriage passed under lamplight.

A record, she’d said. Keep it away from bells. Keep it away from children who dream in old names.

A ridiculous warning, all things considered. Unfortunately, ridiculous warnings had a very unpleasant habit of becoming relevant.

I tapped one finger against the case. Abi looked at it, then at me, then away.

There it was again. The silence with teeth.

"Abi," I said.

"Yes, brother?"

"Do you intend to continue brooding until we reach the estate?"

He blinked. "I am not brooding."

"You’ve not annoyed me for nearly twenty minutes."

"That’s an accusation."

"It’s an observation."

"Perhaps I am respecting the gravity of the situation."

My father made a soft sound from the window. Abi turned to him. "Former Grand Duke, you wound me with your disbelief."

Father smiled. "I said nothing."

"Your silence had tone."

"Yours has been louder."

I looked between them. Wonderful. Even silence had become conversational in this family.

"I am merely thinking," Abi said.

"That’s what people say when they don’t wish to explain themselves."

"You say that constantly."

"Yes. I’m allowed."

"Why?"

"Because I am the Grand Duke."

He stared at me, then, finally, a faint smile returned.

Good. That was better. I preferred him intolerable. Intolerable was familiar. Quiet and old-eyed made certain corners of my mind feel too close.

"What did that thing mean?" he asked softly.

I didn’t ask which thing. He didn’t need to say it.

Wish-bearer.

The word had entered the winter garden like something crawling out from beneath a sealed lid. It hadn’t sounded like a title. Titles had structure. Weight. Social intention. That word had sounded like recognition.

I disliked being recognized by shadows with poor manners.

"It meant to unsettle us," I said.

"That isn’t an answer."

"It’s the only answer worth giving."

Abi watched me. My father didn’t turn from the window, but I knew he was listening. Of course he was. The man could hear a blade leaving its sheath across a noisy courtyard. A conversation inside a carriage was nothing.

"The creature in the aqueduct called you that too," Abi said.

"Ancient entities repeat themselves when they lack creativity."

"And the lower voice?"

"Also uncreative."

"And the voices inside the bell?"

"Extremely impolite."

His expression didn’t change. Neither did mine. The carriage rolled over uneven stone, a small jolt shifting the warded case on my lap. The white leaf glowed once, faintly, then settled. I placed a hand over the case.

"Whatever that word means," I said, "we will find out only when doing so becomes useful."

Abi’s eyes lowered to my hand. "And if it becomes useful before you’re ready?"

"Then I’ll become ready retroactively."

My father laughed softly. Abi sighed. "You are impossible."

"I’ve been told this often enough that I now consider it part of my charm."

"That isn’t how criticism works."

"It is when directed at me."

The silence eased after that, not because the matter was resolved, but because I’d successfully stepped around it. Some truths were like traps laid under carpets. A person did not need to lift every rug merely because the floor looked suspicious. Especially not while carrying a white leaf, a bell, and a prisoner whose shadow had spoken through her mouth.

The Elysian Estate gates opened before our carriage reached them. Not when we stopped. Before. The guards had seen us turn the corner and acted immediately. Efficient. Well trained. Worth their salaries.

The estate didn’t look like a residence anymore. It looked like a fortress wearing noble stone. The outer lamps had been dimmed, shadows moving along the walls, Sonomi knights at each entry point. The usual household warmth remained, but it had been drawn inward, protected behind layers of discipline.

My mother stood at the top of the front steps. Naturally. She wore a dark gown with no jewels and a cloak thrown over her shoulders, hair pinned neatly, expression calm enough to frighten less experienced men. William stood behind her. Bernard wasn’t present, which meant he was either buried under paperwork or performing some task my mother deemed too important to interrupt.

Spiro wasn’t present. Good.

The carriage stopped. Arthur’s men brought Lady Marielle down first, still unconscious, wrists bound separately, hands wrapped in salt cloth, face pale beneath the rain clinging to her hair. Without the performance of grace, she looked smaller.

Not harmless. Never harmless. Just smaller.

Eron was carried by one of the shadows after her. He hadn’t fully lost consciousness, though his eyes remained unfocused. The physician’s assistant had wrapped his hands. The black marks from the bell had faded, but faint grey traces remained along his fingers like old ink.

My mother’s eyes moved over both of them once. "Lower ward room for Lady Marielle," she said. "Not the one beside Lorian. Place her in the east cell. No reflective surfaces. No song. No spoken names until I inspect the seals."

Arthur bowed. "Yes, my lady."

"Eron goes to the west medical wing. Keep him separate from the younger children at first. He’s frightened, not dangerous, but fear can carry things if someone has been used as a witness."

Eron flinched at the word. My mother noticed, her gaze softening by the smallest possible degree.

"He isn’t under guard," she added. "He’s under care. Make sure he understands the difference."

The shadow carrying him bowed. "Yes, my lady."

Eron’s eyes moved toward me as he passed. "She was not there," he whispered again.

The words were barely audible, but my mother heard them. So did Abi. So did Father.

I stepped closer. "No," I said.

His lips trembled. "Then where is she?"

There it was. The question no rescue could answer cleanly. His sister had been taken from Saint Orison. Her voice had been used through the bell. Something of her might remain in the stolen echoes. Or nothing remained except the shape of grief sharpened until it could cut him open.

I could have lied. Kindly. Beautifully. People did that often. They called it comfort.

I disliked comfort that left a knife under the pillow.

"We don’t know yet," I said. Eron’s face twisted. "But we will search records before conclusions. That’s the only honest answer I have."

He stared at me, then nodded once, exhausted enough to accept honesty because he no longer had strength left for hope.

That was a tragedy, perhaps. It was also safer. Hope, handled by the wrong person, had nearly opened a door tonight.

The shadow carried him inside. The soundless bell remained in Abi’s hands.

Mother looked at it. "Silver pantry?"

"No," Abi said immediately.

She raised a brow. He didn’t shrink.

Interesting.

"The red bell and the shard are already there," he explained. "This one shouldn’t be placed near them. It’s not the same kind of vessel. It listens sideways."

Mother was quiet for a moment, then nodded. "The old map room."

My father looked at her. "The one under the west corridor?"

"Yes."

I looked between them. "Why does this estate have so many specialized containment rooms?"

Mother glanced at me. "You were curious as a child."

"That’s not an answer."

"You once tried to open a sealed mourning cabinet because you wanted to know why the lock was written in Ancient Paravel."

"I was seven."

"Exactly."

Abi looked delighted. Father smiled. I stared at my parents.

"You turned half this house into an anti-curse structure because I was curious?"

"No," Mother said. "Only a third."

I closed my eyes. Patience. Patience remained the golden chain preventing me from saying things an obedient son should not say to the woman who gave him life and then apparently renovated real estate around his childhood habits.

When I opened my eyes again, Abi looked far too pleased.

"Do not speak," I told him.

"I was not going to."

"That was a lie."

"Yes."

At least he was honest.

The soundless bell was taken to the old map room by Abi, Mother, and two of the senior ward specialists. The white leaf, after some discussion, was placed in a separate salt-glass case in my study. Mother inspected it before allowing that. The leaf didn’t react. The bells in the pantry didn’t ring. Spiro didn’t appear.

For a brief, foolish moment, I thought the night might settle.

Then William approached. "Young Master Spiro is awake," he said.

Of course.

"He heard the carriages?" I asked.

"Yes, Your Excellency. He also saw the rain."

"That’s not alarming by itself."

"The rain tapped on his window in three notes."