Chapter 30 The Estate in the Hills
The snow held.
Liana stood at the great hall window, watching the sun rise over the white fields. The pale light and sharp cold seemed to crackle in the air.
Marta was already in the kitchen with her daughters, kneading bread, the scent of wood smoke and yeast drifting through the corridors. Above, Theron’s footsteps moved back and forth as he likely worked through a new puzzle in the first lords’ journals.
Pip sat by the hearth, her silver eyes fixed on the flames. She had been quiet since the binding, more still than usual. Not withdrawn. Just… settled.
Kael joined Liana at the window.
“The passes will close soon,” he said. “If we’re going to send word to Aldric before spring, it should be today.”
“You’ve written to him?”
"Last night. He should know about the binding and Seraphina’s journey east."
She nodded. “Then send it.”
Theron came down as the messenger was leaving.
He looked thinner than he had a week ago, the shadows under his eyes deeper, his hands stained with ink. But there was something new in his face. A calm, perhaps. Or a resolution.
“The binding readings are stable,” he said, settling onto the bench across from Liana. “I’ve been tracking them every few hours. No fluctuations.”
“That’s good?”
“It’s better than good. The first lords’ binding never stabilized this quickly.” He leaned back. “I don’t fully understand it. But I think the Watcher’s choice, her willingness, made the difference.”
Liana touched her chest. “She’s still quiet.”
“She will be. For a while.” Theron’s voice was thoughtful. “The binding takes energy. From you, from her, from the land. Everything needs time to settle.”
“How much time?”
“I don’t know.” He met her eyes. “But I think we’ll know when it’s ready.”
The second day on the road was harder than the first.
The cold had deepened overnight; the snow was crusted with ice, and the horses picked their way carefully along the frozen track. Seraphina’s hands were numb inside her gloves, her face raw from the wind.
Laurent rode beside her, his eyes scanning the horizon.
“We’ll reach the village by midday,” he said. “The estate is another hour beyond.”
“Will Mallory have people there?”
“Always. A steward and a few guards. They’re told it’s a private residence. No one asks questions.”
"And the woods path your father showed you?"
“It’s still there. I checked before we left.” He glanced at her. “We’ll have to leave the horses behind. The woods are too dense for riding.”
She nodded. “Then we go on foot.”
The village was smaller than she expected.
A dozen houses, a smithy, a well. Smoke rose from chimneys, but the streets were empty. The people here had learned to stay inside when strangers came.
They stopped at the inn, a low building with a sagging roof and windows frosted over. Laurent spoke to the innkeeper in a low voice, and after a moment, the man nodded and gestured toward the back.
“We can leave the horses here,” Laurent said. “He’ll keep them safe.”
Seraphina looked at the innkeeper, at his worn hands, his wary eyes. “Does he know what Mallory is hiding?”
“He knows not to ask.” Laurent’s voice was quiet. “That’s enough for him.”
Pip led Liana to the old stones.
The path was buried deeper than before, but the child walked without hesitation, her small boots leaving prints that the wind was already smoothing. Liana followed, her breath misting in the cold.
The stones rose out of the snow like bones.
Pip stopped before the largest one and pressed her palm against it. “She’s listening.”
“Can she hear us?”
“She can feel us.” Pip looked up. “The binding connects you. Even when she’s resting, she knows you’re here.”
Liana touched the stone. It was cold, but not the cold of winter. Something older. Something patient.
“What does she want?” she asked.
“The same thing you want.” Pip’s voice was distant. “To stay. To be remembered. To not be alone anymore.”
They stood in silence, the snow falling softly around them, the stones grey and old and waiting.
The path through the woods was exactly where Laurent said it would be.
It was narrow, barely visible beneath the snow, winding between ancient oaks and thorn bushes. The guards followed at a distance, their hands on their swords, their eyes scanning the shadows.
Seraphina walked behind Laurent, her boots slipping on the frozen ground.
“How much farther?”
“Not far.” He pointed ahead. “The estate is just beyond that ridge.”
They climbed. The trees thinned, and through the branches she saw it, a low building of grey stone, surrounded by a wall, its windows dark. Smoke rose from a single chimney.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.” Laurent stopped at the edge of the clearing. “The steward lives in the gatehouse. The guards are stationed in the barracks located behind the main building. There are maybe a dozen people total.”
“Can we get inside without being seen?”
He studied the layout. “There’s a drainage tunnel. It comes out in the cellars. My father used it when he needed to move things without Mallory knowing.”
She looked at him. “You’ve been inside?”
“Once. After my father died.” His voice was flat. “I wanted to see what he’d been hiding.”
“And?”
“I found the books. The real accounts. And—” He stopped.
“And what?”
“And other things. Things I didn’t understand.” He met her eyes. “That’s why I came to you. That’s why I need you to see for yourself.”
The light was fading when Liana returned to the castle.
Kael was waiting at the gate, his coat collar turned up against the wind. He didn’t ask where she’d been. He simply opened his arms, and she stepped into them.
“Pip took me to the stones,” she said.
“Is everything all right?”
“Everything is quiet.” She leaned against him. “The Watcher is resting. The binding is holding.”
He kissed her forehead. “Then we rest too.”
The great hall was warm when they entered.
Marta had laid out bread and cheese and stew, and the villagers who stayed at the castle were gathered at the long tables, their voices low, their laughter soft. Pip was already there, curled in her corner, her silver eyes half-closed.
Theron sat apart, his books spread before him, but he looked up when they entered.
“I’ve been thinking about the estate,” he said. “Mallory’s estate. The one Seraphina is investigating.”
Kael sat across from him. “What about it?”
“The first lords’ journals mention something. A place in the eastern hills. A fortress, built around the same time as this castle.” He pulled a page from his stack. “I thought it was just a historical reference. But the descriptions match.”
“Match what?”
“The location. The layout. The way it’s hidden.” He met Kael’s eyes. “I think Mallory’s estate is built on the ruins of an old binding site.”
They waited until dark.
The guards were stationed around the perimeter, watching for movement. Laurent led Seraphina to the drainage tunnel, a low opening half-hidden by bushes, barely wide enough for a person to crawl through.
“The cellars are empty this time of night,” he whispered. “The steward checks them at dawn and dusk. We have a few hours.”
She followed him into the dark.
The tunnel was cold and damp, and the walls were slick with ice. Her knees and palms ached by the time they emerged into a stone cellar, lit only by the faint glow of Laurent’s lantern.
The room was stacked with crates.
“What’s in them?” she asked.
“Records. Old ledgers. Correspondence.” He moved to a crate in the corner and pried open the lid. “This is what I wanted you to see.”
She looked inside. Papers, bound in leather, had faded ink but were still legible. She pulled one out and read the first line. had
To Count Mallory, regarding the eastern tariffs—
“These are the real accounts,” she said.
“These are the real accounts.” He nodded. “And they go back decades.”
She spent hours in that cellar.
Laurent stood watch at the tunnel entrance, listening for footsteps. Seraphina read by lantern light, her fingers growing stiff with cold, her eyes burning with strain.
The documents told a story. Mallory had been manipulating the tariffs for years, skimming profits, hiding debts, and building a network of merchants who owed him everything. The estate wasn’t just a house. It was a headquarters. A fortress. A place where he kept his secrets and planned his next moves.
She found the names. The dates. The amounts.
And she found something else.
A letter, tucked at the bottom of a crate, hidden beneath a false bottom. The handwriting was different from the others', older and shakier, and the ink was smudged.
To whoever finds this,
My name is Henri Renard. I was a steward to Count Mallory for fifteen years. I kept his books, managed his estates, and kept his secrets.
I am writing this because I am going to die. Mallory knows I’ve been keeping a second set of records. He doesn’t know where they are, but he will find out. He always finds out.
The accounts are with my son, Laurent. He doesn’t know what they are. He just thinks they’re old papers. Keep them safe. Use them if you can.
And watch the estate. There’s something in the hills. Something Mallory found. Something he’s been building for years.
I don’t know what it is. But I know it’s dangerous.
Forgive me, Laurent. I tried to protect you.
Your father,
Henri
Seraphina folded the letter carefully and tucked it into her coat.
“Laurent,” she called softly. “We need to go.”
The great hall was dark when Liana finally went to bed.
Kael was already asleep, his breathing slow and even. Pip had curled up in her corner, her silver eyes closed. The fire had burned low, the embers glowing faintly.
She lay still, listening to the castle settle.
The stones breathed around her, as did the creak of old timbers, the whisper of wind through gaps not yet sealed, and the distant drip of water somewhere deep below. She could feel them now, the way they sealed and held the cold, the way they held the warmth.
The hunger stirred, faintly, then settled again.
The Watcher was quiet.
She closed her eyes and let herself rest.