Two weeks.
Fourteen days since that conversation with Duke Austin — and so far, the most exhausting thing I'd done every single day was sit by the window and read letters.
Not work reports. Not internal memos. Not emails from a boss whose font was the wrong size.
Letters. On actual paper. With ink and wax seals.
Fourteen days, and sometimes I still couldn't believe this was my life now.
This morning there were ten envelopes stacked on my desk — each sealed with a different family crest, delivered by couriers since early morning. Lisa had already sorted them neatly by order of arrival, complete with small notes on the side explaining which family each letter came from.
An overly meticulous maid is honestly a little intimidating.
I picked up the first letter.
---
Dark blue seal with an eagle crest — the Voss family.
Oh. Interesting.
I cracked the wax seal with the small knife on the desk and unfolded the paper.
---
To Richard C. Raybak,
Good to hear you're doing better. I was worried — that night was an absolute mess, and you were one of the worst hit.
Father sends his regards to Duke Austin.
On the subject of the academy — I can't wait to get back either. Two weeks at home feels like months. You know how boring it is being stuck at home with nothing to do except sword practice and endless etiquette lessons.
Hope we can go back soon.
— Felix Voss
---
I read the letter twice.
Felix Voss. From Richard's memories — the only son of the Minister of Internal Security, a year older, wind element magic specialist. Friendly, chatty, and always had more energy than any situation actually called for. Not someone I — or Richard — had ever considered a threat.
But his father was on Duke Austin's list.
I folded the letter back up and put it on the left side of the desk. Special pile for letters that needed more attention.
---
Second letter. Dark green seal with a three-branched oak tree crest — the Farland family.
I already knew who this was from Richard's memories before I even opened it.
---
Rich,
Holy crap, I'm so glad you finally woke up. Seriously. When I first heard you were in a coma I couldn't believe it — you're the kind of person who's stupidly hard to knock down, so hearing it just felt wrong.
I'm not gonna write a lot of fluff. You're alive, that's what matters.
It's been boring as hell here. These past two weeks Dad keeps dragging me into family meetings that never end, my brothers are all busy with their own stuff, and the only entertainment I've had is sword practice and the horses. Honestly the horses are better company than most of the people in this house.
Oh — you still remember our bet, right? About who gets called out first by Professor Aldren in magic theory class? I was gonna say it's cancelled because the circumstances are obviously not fair. But if you want to keep it going, I'm in.
Get better soon. The academy's gonna be way too quiet without you pissing Aldren off.
— Glen
---
Glen Farland. Eldest son of Count Ethan Farland — Crestmoor territory, three days' travel west of Maltar. From Richard's memories, Glen was one of his oldest close friends — they'd known each other since before the academy, back when both families still regularly met at regional noble gatherings.
Blunt to the point of coming across as rude sometimes, but never had a hidden agenda — or at least, that's what Richard had always assumed. Earth magic specialist, big build, and had the habit of settling almost every argument with "alright fine, let's just duel and get it over with."
Nothing suspicious about this letter. Too Glen to be faked.
I put it on the right side — safe pile.
Then I stopped.
Too Glen to be faked — that's an assumption. And two weeks living inside a head full of conspiracies had already taught me that assumptions were a luxury I couldn't afford too easily.
I moved Glen's letter to the middle pile. Not left, not right. Grey zone.
---
Third letter. Dark orange seal with a half-sun crest — the Vargas family.
---
Bro,
First — thank God you didn't die. Second — you owe me one bottle of the best Crestmoor wine because I was the first one to pray for you when the news broke. Glen says he was first but he's lying, I was right there.
Seriously though, when I heard you were in a coma — felt like crap. Didn't feel like eating for two days. Mom got worried I was the one who was sick.
These past two weeks at home I've been pretty busy — Dad's been in negotiations for new trade contracts with some merchant guilds, so the house has been packed with people nonstop. Busy but not the fun kind of busy, more like the kind that gives you a headache.
My first and second brothers are both in the capital doing their own thing. So I'm alone dealing with Dad's endless stream of guests. It's torture.
Anyway — can you train yet? Because the second the academy opens I'm challenging you to a rematch. That last one wasn't fair, you used lightning momentum at the last second and that should be morally illegal.
Get better soon. Don't let me win the rematch because you're not at full strength — winning doesn't feel good if my opponent's not a hundred percent.
— Eric
---
Eric Vargas. Third son of Marquess Dominic Vargas — a merchant-noble family whose wealth nearly rivaled some Dukes, even if the official title was only Marquess. From Richard's memories, Eric was the kind of person who walked into a room and somehow made everyone immediately aware he was there — not because he was arrogant, just because his energy was always two levels higher than everyone around him.
Third son, meaning no heavy inheritance burden on his shoulders. That made Eric the only person in their circle who genuinely enjoyed his life without too much political baggage weighing it down.
I read his letter again.
New trade contract negotiations with some merchant guilds.
The Vargas family had a wide trading network — very wide, covering several port cities including, if I was remembering right from Richard's memories, the city of Merrath.
The same city where Ossen the cloth merchant lived.
I sat up straighter.
Could be a coincidence.
But coincidences are something I've stopped fully believing in.
I put Eric's letter in the middle pile, right next to Glen's.
---
Fourth letter. Dark red seal — the Hartwell family.
---
Richard,
You don't have to reply to this if you're not up for it. I just wanted to say that me and the others in the west dormitory still talk about that night a lot. It was really scary. Stella says she's still having nightmares.
Oh — Garrett says hi. He's at his family's place up north, says he's bored out of his mind.
Get better soon.
— Clara Hartwell
---
Clara Hartwell. Daughter of a mid-tier noble family — nothing notable in Richard's memories except that she was the type who always knew when someone was sick and immediately sent a letter. The Garrett she mentioned — Garrett Flinn, son of a minor northern noble, Richard's most frequent lunch companion.
This one went on the right. Not a threat.
---
The fifth letter made my hand stop for longer than the others.
Not because the seal looked suspicious. Actually the opposite — light blue seal with an iris flower crest, the handwriting on the front of the envelope neat but personal. A faint scent that either deliberately or accidentally had settled into the paper.
From Richard's memories, even before I opened it, I already knew who this was from.
Diana Rhiannon.
---
Richard,
I don't know where to start, so I'll just get straight to it.
When the news about you reached me that night — that you were one of the worst hit — I didn't know what to do. I just stood there in the middle of everyone panicking and felt like the floor was moving.
Sorry if that sounds dramatic. You know I hate dramatizing things. But that's what actually happened and I figured you'd rather hear the honest version than the polished one.
Two weeks of waiting for news is too long to just do nothing. So I did the only thing I could — I kept showing up to council, kept doing what was supposed to get done, and tried to make sure that in the middle of all this chaos there was at least one structure still functioning.
Council is in a... complicated state right now. I can't go into much detail in a letter, but you need to know that a lot of decisions had to be made about the academy over these two weeks, and some of those decisions I didn't fully agree with.
I hope you're doing much better.
We'll talk when we're back — there's a lot that needs to be said, and some of it can't wait too long.
— Diana
---
Diana Rhiannon.
From Richard's memories — a childhood friend, only daughter of Duke Dorian Rhiannon, whose territory bordered Maltar directly to the east. They'd known each other since they were eight or nine, back when both dukes still regularly held joint meetings every summer.
At the academy, Diana was the current Student Council President — elected at the start of the semester by a comfortable margin, because apparently the combination of a big family name, intelligence she didn't bother hiding, and the ability to make everyone feel heard was a pretty solid formula for winning an election.
I read her letter again, slower this time.
A lot of decisions had to be made about the academy over these two weeks, and some of those decisions I didn't fully agree with.
Student Council had access to several layers of the academy's administration that regular students didn't. Not all the way to the security systems — that sat under technical staff and supervisors — but enough to know how the academy worked from the inside.
And Diana, as its president, had been sitting in the middle of all that for two full weeks on her own.
This isn't an accusation, I reminded myself. It's just an observation.
But I still put Diana's letter in the middle pile.
Then I stopped and stared at the three piles.
Left pile — Felix Voss. Red.
Right pile — Clara Hartwell. Safe.
Middle pile — Glen Farland, Eric Vargas, Diana Rhiannon. Grey.
Out of the first five letters, only one is actually safe.
Maybe I was being too paranoid. Maybe I was seeing shadows where there weren't any.
Or maybe this was just what it felt like to live in a world where your name was on someone's target list — and you only found out two weeks after the fact.
I picked up the sixth letter.
---
Black seal. No family crest. Just initials at the bottom of the wax — E.M.
Edric Maren.
I stared at the envelope for a few seconds before finally opening it.
---
Richard,
I'm glad you're awake. Genuinely.
I know you've probably been hearing all kinds of things from all kinds of people about that night. I'm not going to pretend the situation isn't complicated.
There's only one thing I want to say: what I did that night — carrying you to the medical post — wasn't part of any calculation. You're my old friend, Richard. It's as simple as that.
If you ever want to talk — my door's open.
— Edric
---
Short. Way too short for someone whose name was on Duke Austin's suspects list.
Wasn't part of any calculation.
Weird word choice for a letter that was supposed to be simple. Someone who was genuinely innocent usually didn't feel the need to deny calculations that hadn't even been officially accused yet.
Or — maybe he was smart enough to know the accusations were already floating around, and chose to get ahead of them.
Edric's letter went into the left pile, with Felix Voss.
---
The seventh letter — and this one was the most different from all of them.
Dark purple seal. A small crown emblem on it.
From the Royal Palace.
I sat up straighter without thinking.
---
To Richard C. Raybak, Son of Duke Austin Raybak,
On behalf of His Royal Highness Crown Prince Aldric vas Alvan, we are pleased to convey our joy at news of your recovery.
His Royal Highness has specifically requested that we communicate his awareness of your role as one who bore the impact of the incident on the night of the academy gala. He extends his sincere sympathies.
Furthermore, His Royal Highness conveys that he hopes to meet in person at an appropriate time, should your condition permit.
Respectfully,
Personal Secretariat of the Crown Prince
— T. Aldwyn
---
I set the letter down slowly on the desk.
The Crown Prince wants to meet.
Not a formal invitation, not an order — but coming from an heir to the throne, the phrase "hopes to meet" carries pretty much the same weight as a direct command, just wrapped in more expensive courtesy.
I put that letter in its own separate pile. Not left, not right, not middle. Its own category entirely.
---
The last three letters were relatively easy to get through — a dormitory friend who wrote at length about how boring these two forced weeks off had been, an acquaintance asking whether Richard could duel again yet, one letter from a distant relative with standard get-well-soon fluff.
All of them went into the right pile.
I leaned back in my chair and looked at the ten envelopes spread across my desk in four different groups.
"Lisa."
She appeared from the corner of the room like she'd been standing there the whole time — and maybe she had.
"Yes, Young Master?"
"Get me paper and ink. I need to reply to some of these."
---
Replying to letters turned out to be way more complicated than I'd expected.
Clara Hartwell's was the easiest. Short, warm, no political weight.
---
Clara,
Thanks for the letter. I'm doing a lot better.
Tell Garrett he's not alone — it's just as boring here. Hope the academy opens soon.
— Richard
---
Glen's needed a different tone.
---
Glen,
Still alive, thanks so much for that very heartfelt prayer.
The Aldren bet — I haven't forgotten. And I'm not cancelling it just because I was in a coma. That's not a valid reason by our standards.
Your horses sound more entertaining than most family meetings I've ever heard of. Maybe there's a lesson in that.
See you at the academy.
— Richard
---
Eric's was easier than I expected — because Eric was the type who responded to energy, not content.
---
Eric,
First — the wine debt is invalid because there were no neutral witnesses. Glen's obviously lying but you're obviously lying too, so we're even.
Second — rematch is fine. But if you want to win, you'd better be ready for lightning momentum that's way more unreasonable than last time. Turns out two weeks of rest gives you a lot of time to think up new methods that are morally even more questionable.
See you.
— Richard
---
I set the pen down for a second and looked at Eric's letter.
Two weeks of rest.
The same two weeks where Eric's dad was busy negotiating with merchant guilds. In port cities. Possibly including Merrath.
Stop it, I told myself. You don't have any facts yet. You just have an unproven coincidence.
Felix Voss's letter took longer.
---
Felix,
Doing better, thanks.
Agreed on the academy — two weeks at home feels way longer than it should. Too much time to think and not enough to actually do.
Give my regards to Lord Voss.
— Richard
---
Give my regards to Lord Voss.
Standard line. But also, in a subtle way, a reminder that I knew exactly who his father was.
Damn it. I'm not a diplomat.
For Diana, I sat longer with the pen in my hand.
Diana wasn't someone you could treat with a regular letter. She was too smart not to read between the lines, and she knew me well enough — knew Richard well enough — to tell when something was off.
But on the other hand, she'd already sent signals in her own letter. There's a lot that needs to be said, and some of it can't wait too long.
Meaning she was also being careful about what she wrote.
Playing at the same level, then.
---
Diana,
I'm alright — or at least a lot better than I was two weeks ago.
Thanks for keeping everything running. I can imagine how hard that must've been, especially in conditions like these. Council's lucky to have you.
On the things that need to be discussed — agreed. We'll talk when we're back.
— Richard
---
Short. Acknowledged her letter without giving too much back. Left the door open for further conversation without saying anything that could be misread if this letter ended up in the wrong hands.
For Edric's — I wrote three different versions and tore up two of them before settling on the shortest one.
---
Edric,
Thank you.
I'm not ready to talk much about that night yet. But I haven't forgotten what you did.
We'll talk when the academy opens.
— Richard
---
Short. Gave nothing away. Didn't close the door but didn't throw it wide open either.
For the letter from the Palace, I needed help.
"Lisa — is there a standard protocol for replying to correspondence from the Crown Prince's secretariat?"
Lisa looked slightly surprised — I could see it in the small movement of her eyebrows — before her expression went back to professional.
"There is, Young Master. I can walk you through it."
"Good. Help me."
---
I'd just finished sealing the last letter when Lisa, who was tidying up the leftover paper and ink, suddenly stopped moving.
"Young Master."
Her tone was different. Different enough that I looked over immediately.
Outside the window — in the front courtyard of the Raybak estate that was partially visible from this angle — three carriages had just pulled up. Not ordinary carriages. Black livery with the royal crest on the sides. Guards in formal uniform at every door.
And among those guards, several men in civilian clothes were talking to the head of the Raybak estate's security — with expressions that looked nothing like a routine visit.
"That's from—" Lisa started.
"The Royal Investigation Division," I cut in quietly.
Not a question.
---
Duke Austin appeared at my bedroom door twenty minutes later — no knock, walked straight in, which by itself was already enough to tell me something significant had just happened.
Behind him, a man I didn't recognize. Mid-forties. Dark hair starting to thin at the top. Wearing a grey robe with a small silver pin at the collar — the emblem of the Royal Investigation Division.
"Richard." Duke Austin closed the door behind him. "This is Senior Investigator Cayne. He has something you need to hear."
Investigator Cayne gave a short bow — formal but not excessive — and got straight to it without any small talk.
"Mister Raybak, the official investigation into the academy incident was completed three days ago." His voice was flat, the voice of someone used to delivering information without emotional packaging. "We've identified the parties responsible for smuggling the explosive devices into the hall."
I waited.
"Three people were directly involved. One academy staff member — a maintenance technician for the protective magic system, had been working at the academy for eleven years. One third-year student. And one person from outside the academy who served as the liaison."
"All arrested?"
"All three. The technician and student were arrested four days ago. The external liaison turned himself in yesterday morning."
Turned himself in. Not arrested — turned himself in. Interesting detail.
"Who's the student?" I asked.
Investigator Cayne glanced briefly at Duke Austin before looking back at me.
"His name is Harlen Voss."
The room felt like it lost a layer of air.
Felix Voss has a younger brother.
From Richard's memories — yeah, he did. Harlen Voss, two years below Felix, third year. Barely any memories of him because Richard had almost never interacted with him directly. The quieter one compared to his brother. Kept to himself.
"And the technician?"
"A man named Drost. No noble family affiliation. Over the past three years, several fund transfers into his account couldn't be traced to any legitimate source."
"Paid off," I said.
"Paid off," Cayne confirmed. "And the external liaison — a man named Ossen, a cloth merchant from the port city of Merrath — turned himself in because he received a threat. Someone sent him a message two nights ago — if he didn't immediately surrender to the royal authorities, his family would bear the consequences."
Merrath.
I remembered something from Eric's letter. Dad's been in negotiations for new trade contracts with some merchant guilds.
Vargas family. Trading network. Merrath.
I didn't say anything about that. Not yet.
"This chain was deliberately cut," I said quietly, more to myself.
"Exactly right," said Cayne. "With Ossen in royal custody, the investigative trail leading above him becomes much harder to follow. Ossen himself admitted he only ever communicated through intermediaries. He doesn't know who was actually at the top of the command chain."
"So we have three people," said Duke Austin, "but the wall above them is still standing."
"For now." Cayne nodded. "Trial is scheduled in two weeks. Closed — given the sensitivity of the case. Harlen Voss is the son of the Minister of Internal Security."
"What's Lord Voss's situation? The father."
Cayne and Duke Austin exchanged a quick glance.
"Lord Voss has been temporarily removed from his position while the continued investigation runs its course. No direct evidence of his involvement yet. But—"
"But his son was just arrested for almost killing the Crown Prince," I finished. "And he's the person who knows the most about the academy's security system."
"The investigation is ongoing," said Cayne.
I leaned back in my chair.
"One more thing," said Cayne. His tone shifted — quieter, heavier. "During interrogation, Harlen Voss made one statement we didn't ask for." He looked directly at me. "He said that the primary target that night wasn't only the Crown Prince."
A small pulse in my chest.
"Who else?"
"You, Mister Raybak. According to his confession, there were two names who weren't supposed to walk out of that hall that night. Aldric vas Alvan — and Richard C. Raybak."
The room was genuinely silent now.
"Why me?" I asked finally.
"That's what we're trying to figure out," said Cayne.
Duke Austin stood up. "Security for this estate will be increased starting today. You don't go out without an escort until the situation is clearer."
Damn it.
"Fine," I said.
Cayne reached into his folder again and pulled out an extra sheet. "We found this among Harlen Voss's belongings after the arrest."
He placed it on the table. One short handwritten sentence.
When two trees fall, the forest will be ready to be cut down.
I read it three times.
Two trees. Aldric vas Alvan. Richard C. Raybak.
The forest — the Kingdom of Alvan. No heir to the throne. No son of its most powerful military commander. In a condition that's already been weakened for three years running.
This isn't just about provoking a war. It's about making sure the war is already won before it starts.
"You've already understood it," said Cayne. Not a question.
"Yeah," I said quietly.
"Good. Because there's still one thing we haven't been able to get from any of the three suspects we have in custody."
"What's that?"
Cayne closed his folder.
"Who wrote that sentence."
---
That night, for the first time in two weeks, I couldn't sleep.
I lay on the canopied bed, staring at the ceiling, letting everything spin around in my head.
Ten letters. Five in the grey pile. Two in the red pile. One in the safe pile. One in its own separate category — purple seal from the palace.
Felix Voss — brother of the suspect already in custody. A letter that was too normal for a situation that was anything but.
Glen Farland — too Glen to be faked. But assumptions are a luxury I can't afford.
Eric Vargas — trade contract negotiations. Merchant guilds. Merrath.
Diana Rhiannon — Student Council President. Access to academy administration. Some decisions I didn't fully agree with. Two full weeks sitting in that position on her own.
Edric Maren — a savior who's also a suspect, or a suspect who's also a savior.
And Crown Prince Aldric — whose name was on the same list as mine, who wants to meet, who probably has pieces of information that haven't reached anyone yet.
Above all of it — one sentence on a piece of paper. One unanswered question. One mastermind still standing free somewhere out there.
Two weeks since that night.
And only today did I find out my name was on the same list as the Crown Prince's.
Damn it, I thought quietly, closing my eyes.
This is way more complicated than a report that's five minutes late.