There are moments in life where you have exactly two choices: panic or commit to the bit.
I'd spent three years giving quarterly presentations to executives who could fire me with a signature. I'd defended buggy code to clients who were threatening lawsuits. I'd once explained to my company's CEO why the entire payment system was down and why it was, technically, not my fault.
This was just another hostile presentation.
With my life on the line.
No big deal.
"Your Grace," I said, keeping my voice steady. "I can explain."
"Can you." It wasn't a question. Duke Cassian stepped into the room, and the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. "Because from where I stand, my new butler—hired this very morning—has broken into my secretary's private quarters and is currently holding what appears to be evidence."
Mrs. Blackwood's expression radiated vindication. "I told you, Your Grace. Divided loyalties."
"I'm not an assassin," I said.
"That's exactly what an assassin would say," one of the guards muttered.
Fair point, actually.
Tom, to his credit, stepped forward. "Your Grace, if I may—"
"You may not." Cassian's gaze didn't leave my face. "You, however, have approximately two minutes to convince me why I shouldn't have you arrested. I suggest you make them count."
Two minutes. I could work with two minutes.
I held up the handkerchief. "This doesn't belong to Mr. Wickham."
"Obviously," Mrs. Blackwood said. "You brought it here to—"
"To frame Count Rothford?" I interrupted. "That would be impressively stupid, even for a supposed assassin. Think about the timeline, please." I turned to the Duke. "I was hired this morning. Mr. Wickham fell ill *last* night. This handkerchief was already in his room when I arrived at the manor."
Cassian's expression didn't change, but he tilted his head slightly. Listening.
"Furthermore," I continued, warming to my argument, "if I were the poisoner, why would I *investigate* the crime? Why ask questions about his symptoms? Why draw attention to myself?" I held up the handkerchief again. "And why would I be caught holding evidence that points to someone else entirely?"
"Perhaps," Mrs. Blackwood said coldly, "because you're trying to deflect suspicion."
"Or perhaps I'm trying to solve the actual problem before more people die." I looked at the Duke. "Your Grace, I need to ask you something, and I need you to answer honestly. Have you received any threats recently? Any letters, any messages, anything that suggested someone wanted to harm your household?"
Cassian's eyes narrowed. "Why would you ask that?"
"Because Mr. Wickham wasn't the target. You were."
Silence fell like a hammer.
"Explain," the Duke said softly. Dangerously.
Here went everything.
"Mr. Wickham attended Baron Helmore's gathering three nights ago. You were there too, Your Grace, but you don't drink wine—only tea. Your specific tea blend, which you presumably brought with you or had prepared by your own staff."
"I did," Cassian confirmed.
"Mr. Wickham, however, drank wine. Multiple glasses, according to Tom. He came back ill, and by morning, he was fevered and delirious." I gestured to the handkerchief. "This was planted in his room afterward—probably the same night he fell ill or the next morning, when he was too sick to notice an intruder. The poison was in the wine at the gathering, meant for you. But you didn't drink it. Wickham did."
Mrs. Blackwood's expression had shifted from vindicated to uncertain. "That's... quite a theory."
"It's the only theory that makes sense." I met the Duke's gaze. "Someone wants you dead, Your Grace. They failed. And now they're either scrambling to cover their tracks, or they're preparing to try again."
Tom spoke up quietly. "The handkerchief's got wine stains on it, Your Grace. I saw them. Could be tested, maybe?"
"Could be," Cassian agreed. He held out his hand. "Give it to me."
I handed over the handkerchief. He examined it with the same cold precision he'd used to examine me earlier.
"Rothford," he murmured. Then, louder: "Why Rothford?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "Maybe he's the poisoner. Maybe someone's trying to frame him. Maybe the handkerchief is a complete coincidence. But it's evidence, and it was hidden in your secretary's room for a reason."
The Duke looked at me for a long moment. I couldn't read his expression. I'd never been good at reading people—I was an engineer, not a psychologist. But I could read stakes, and right now, the stakes were "convince him or die."
"Mrs. Blackwood," Cassian said finally. "Leave us. Take the guards with you."
"Your Grace, I really don't think—"
"*Leave us.*"
She left, but not before shooting me a look that promised this wasn't over. Tom tried to follow, but the Duke stopped him with a raised hand.
"You. Stable boy. How long have you worked here?"
"Five years, Your Grace," Tom said, looking nervous for the first time since I'd met him.
"And in those five years, have you ever known me to tolerate liars or fools?"
"No, Your Grace."
"Then tell me, honestly: do you believe this man is an assassin?"
Tom glanced at me, then back at the Duke. "No, Your Grace. I think he's just nosy and has terrible self-preservation instincts."
Despite everything, I nearly laughed.
Cassian dismissed Tom with a gesture, and suddenly I was alone with the Duke in a dead man's room, holding evidence of a conspiracy I barely understood.
"Sit," Cassian ordered, gesturing to a chair.
I sat.
He remained standing, looming over me like a very attractive, very dangerous storm cloud. "You're either remarkably clever or remarkably lucky. I haven't decided which."
"Can't it be both, Your Grace?"
His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "You said that earlier. About perception and paranoia."
"It seemed applicable to multiple situations."
"Clearly." He turned the handkerchief over in his hands. "Let's assume you're right. Someone tried to poison me at Baron Helmore's gathering. They failed. Wickham drank the poisoned wine instead. Now he's dying, and someone planted evidence pointing to Rothford." He looked at me. "Why?"
This was the part I hadn't figured out yet. The game never explained the conspiracy. It just existed as background noise for romance routes and doom flags.
But I could make educated guesses.
"Count Rothford was here today," I said slowly. "He made comments about your 'methods' in the northern territories. About His Majesty having concerns. He seemed..." I searched for the right word. "Adversarial. But not openly hostile. Like he was probing for weakness."
"He's always been adversarial. He wants the northern territories for himself—more taxes, more control."
"Then maybe someone wants to remove both of you. Frame Rothford for poisoning you, or vice versa. Create chaos in the nobility. Weaken the kingdom's stability."
Cassian's expression darkened. "You think there's a larger conspiracy."
"I think," I said carefully, "that in my experience, when things seem too complicated, it's usually because someone wants them that way. Confusion is a tactic. Misdirection is a strategy."
"Your experience?" He studied me with renewed intensity. "You're a butler from the eastern provinces. What experience could you possibly have with noble conspiracies?"
Oh. Right. I was supposed to be a random servant, not a former software engineer who'd debugged systems for multinational corporations.
"I read a lot?" I tried.
"You read a lot."
"Voraciously, Your Grace."
He didn't look convinced, but he didn't press. Instead, he pocketed the handkerchief and moved toward the door. "Come with me. We're going to my study."
"Your Grace?"
"You wanted to examine documents. You're about to get your chance." He paused at the doorway. "And Arjun? If you're playing some kind of game, if this is all an elaborate scheme, I will discover it. And I will not be merciful."
"Understood, Your Grace."
"Good. Because I'm about to give you access to some of the duchy's most sensitive information. If you betray that trust..." He smiled, and it was the kind of smile that reminded me exactly why his route ended with the kingdom burning. "Well. Let's just say execution would be the merciful option."
We walked through the manor in silence. Servants scattered as we passed—apparently, walking with the Duke made you radioactive by association.
His study was exactly what I expected: dark wood, leather-bound books, a desk that could double as a small battlefield. He gestured to a chair opposite his own and pulled out a stack of ledgers.
"These are the duchy's financial records for the past six months. Trade agreements, tax collections, expenditures." He pushed them toward me. "I need them organized and cross-referenced. I want to know if anyone's been moving money in unusual patterns. I want to know if there are any discrepancies, any irregularities, anything that suggests someone's been preparing for something."
I stared at the ledgers. There had to be hundreds of pages.
This was basically asking me to audit the entire duchy.
"Your Grace, this could take weeks."
"You have three days." He leaned back in his chair. "The Royal Ball is in three days. Every major noble in the kingdom will be there, including whoever tried to kill me. I need to know who my enemies are before I walk into that nest of vipers."
Three days. To audit an entire duchy's finances. To find a conspiracy. To prevent a doom flag.
I'd had worse deadlines. Barely.
"I'll need supplies," I said. "Paper. Ink. Multiple colors if possible. And access to any previous years' records for comparison."
"Whatever you need."
"And Tom."
Cassian raised an eyebrow. "The stable boy?"
"He knows the household. He knows the gossip. And he's observant." I met the Duke's gaze. "Plus, if I'm going to spend three days locked in here, I'll need someone to bring food and keep watch. Someone who won't report every conversation to Mrs. Blackwood."
"Fair point." The Duke stood. "I'll send him up. But Arjun?"
"Yes, Your Grace?"
"If you're wrong about this, if there's no conspiracy and you're just wasting my time, I'll be very disappointed."
"And if I'm right?"
He smiled that dangerous smile again. "Then I'll owe you a debt. And I always pay my debts."
He left me alone in the study, surrounded by ledgers and the weight of impossible expectations.
I rolled up my sleeves, grabbed the first ledger, and opened it.
Numbers. Columns. Dates. Expenditures.
It looked like chaos.
But chaos was just data that hadn't been organized yet.
And I was very, *very* good at organizing data.
"Right," I said to the empty room. "Time to build a spreadsheet."
Three days until the Royal Ball.
Three days until every major doom flag in the game would be in one place.
Three days to save a kingdom with nothing but accounting and spite.
I'd faced worse odds.
Probably.
Maybe.
I got to work.
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