Catching the Arsonist
An oil lamp on the bedside table had overturned in the draft, feeding the hungry sparks into outright flames. Choking black smoke rolled across the chamber, thick and suffocating.
The temperature soared, the surrounding air turning scalding in an instant.
"Cough!"
Her eyes stung with tears, an involuntary spasm tearing through her chest before her lungs seized. Still, having survived the grueling survival drills imposed by the Pope's brutal instructors, she felt no real terror. Back then, they had bound her entire body in rough ropes and demanded she break free from a derelict, burning warehouse.
Even so, enduring this inside the body of a five-year-old is brutal.
Her immature lungs could barely hold her breath, and the sheer volume of smoke she had inhaled rapidly blurred her vision.
My physical body is giving out faster than planned.
Not that it truly mattered. Her strategy for tonight had never involved walking out on her own two feet anyway.
Just as Lefonya's consciousness began to unravel, an uproar erupted beyond the bedroom doors.
He's here.
The Duke of Craitan, who had not yet retired for the night, had undoubtedly caught the scent. An Aura Master of his caliber would never miss the sudden surge in heat and smoke.
At least this part is going according to plan.
The commotion outside spiraled into absolute pandemonium. A heartbeat later, the heavy chamber doors splintered with a deafening crash as someone kicked them clean off their hinges.
Lefonya wanted to pry her eyes open to see who was barreling so recklessly through a roaring wall of fire, but her heavy eyelids refused to obey.
Through the searing heat, massive hands reached in, scooping up Lefonya's limp, listless form from the bed.
Those large hands were trembling fiercely. Amidst several more shattering sounds of debris being blasted away, cool night air suddenly brushed against her burning skin. She had been carried out of the blaze.
The massive arms crushed her into an overwhelming embrace. Startled by a hold so utterly foreign to her, Lefonya reflexively gasped for air—an idiotic mistake.
"Cough! Cough!"
A rasping, ragged fit of coughing tore out of her throat, burning as if she were swallowing live soot. She knew well enough that one should only draw deep breaths after rinsing their face and mouth, but the body holding her was shivering so violently that she had slipped up.
"Your Grace!"
"My Lady!"
Frantic screams and cries echoed from every direction.
"Summon the doctor and bring fresh water! Now!"
A thunderous roar boomed directly above her head. The frenzied pounding of countless running boots rattled inside her ringing ears.
...The Duke?
Lefonya gathered every ounce of strength she possessed to force her eyelids open. Even though she knew it was dangerous to expose her soot-coated eyes before washing them, she had to see. She needed to look upon the face of whoever was clutching her with such desperately shaking arms.
"Little one."
Into her narrow, bleary vision came the face of the Duke of Craitan. Having plunged into the heart of the inferno himself, dark streaks of soot marred his sharp, weathered features.
The hands cradling her, the trembling chest pressed against hers—it had been the Duke of Craitan all along.
The instant their gazes locked, the Duke called out to her with raw urgency.
He could have just ordered the fire extinguished...
Lefonya knit her brows. She had already calculated that he would act to save her; he would never allow rumors to spread that an adopted child had burned to death under his roof, sullying the ducal house's prestige. But there was one variable she had completely failed to foresee.
Why did you run in yourself...?
She never imagined that, instead of suppressing the flames from without, the Duke of Craitan would charge headlong into the inferno with his own bare hands. His physical form was practically an imperial asset. Were he to sustain a crippling injury, House Craitan would crumble—and with it, the very peace and security of the Empire would unravel. A man like him could not possibly be ignorant of what his life weighed.
"...Do not be afraid. Close your eyes, Fonya."
Taking a clean linen handkerchief from the butler, the Duke of Craitan gently draped it over Lefonya's unsettled gaze. Every doubt and tremor of anxiety was veiled beneath the crisp cloth.
"Leave the rest to your father. I will handle everything."
Leave it to your father? What an absurd notion.
Since when did I have a father? Since when has there ever been anyone I could rely on?
If she had possessed someone she could trust to watch her back, if she had ever possessed a father, she would never have needed to pull such an extreme stunt in the first place.
A mysterious incident where fragrant oil was hurled into the fireplace while the adopted daughter slept, igniting the chamber, yet leaving no trace to pinpoint the culprit.
Naturally, suspicion would fall squarely upon the vassals who openly resented Lefonya's presence, yet with no tangible proof, none could be formally condemned. She could have fabricated evidence to frame them outright, but she had deliberately chosen not to. Those vassals were loyal pillars of House Craitan. There was no need to make lifelong enemies of them or force the Duke to purge his own men.
A moderate veil of suspicion—that was the exact margin required to keep her safe. The Duke of Craitan would pour every effort into securing Lefonya's well-being until the vassals departed, while the vassals, stained with murky suspicion for a crime they never committed, would be far too frightened to even dream of hiring assassins.
...This is enough.
Everything had unfolded according to design. A faint smile touched Lefonya's lips as she closed her eyes, and her consciousness slipped away into blackness.
Lefonya fluttered her eyes open. The first thing to greet her was a canopy of an unfamiliar hue. The carved ceiling and crystal chandelier were entirely different as well. Since her previous bedroom had burned down completely, it seemed she had been relocated elsewhere.
"My Lady!"
The moment her eyes cracked open, figures rushed to her bedside. It was Becky and Birdie.
"Ah..."
She tried to call their names, but a searing prickle in her throat caused her to wince.
"My Lady, please do not try to speak! By some miraculous blessing there is no serious harm, but the doctor said your throat was scorched from breathing in hot smoke. You must be very careful for a while."
She must have swallowed more smoke than anticipated. Becky hurried over with a glass of cool water.
After sipping the water, the nauseating churn in her stomach and the dizziness in her head settled somewhat. Propping herself up with great effort, Lefonya surveyed her surroundings.
Whose bedroom is this supposed to be?
"My Lady... are you feeling all right?" Birdie called out anxiously as she watched Lefonya inspect the room.
Setting aside her curiosity over the chamber's owner, Lefonya gave a small nod. Then, in a faint, raspy whisper, she asked, "Are... you two hurt?"
Her voice was horribly hoarse and pathetic. Lacking any strength, her pronunciation slurred into an infantile lisp.
"We are unharmed! Never mind us, My Lady, you—"
Of course they were fine. She had specifically chosen a time when they were away so as not to injure two innocent bystanders. If anyone else got hurt, matters would only become messier. Yet Lefonya feigned total innocence, letting out a weak, relieved smile as if she had been genuinely sick with worry.
"I'm glad."
With this, none of the maids will ever suspect it was staged.
But all of a sudden, Birdie dropped to her knees and burst into torrential tears.
"M-My Lady...! At times like this, you shouldn't be worrying about us—you should be screaming at us in pain! Hic... uwaaah!"
W-What is wrong with her?
Lefonya blinked in utter bewilderment as Birdie wailed uncontrollably. Even Becky had tears streaming down her cheeks, her eyes swollen red as though she had been sobbing long before Lefonya woke.
I'm the one who got hurt, so why are the two of you bawling?
Having never once learned how to comfort a weeping soul, Lefonya was at a complete loss.
"His Grace entrusted you to our care, and yet... sniff, we failed to protect you! We deserve to be severely punished!"
Punished?
Sensing that the situation was threatening to spiral out of control, Lefonya waved her small hands in flustered protest. "It wasn't your fault, so why say that? I'm fine. Don't do this."
"Do you... hic... really trust us? You believe us...?"
What on earth are they talking about now?
"You don't suspect us of setting the fire? A shattered bottle of fragrance was discovered near the fireplace... It's a common scent used throughout the estate, so someone must have thrown it in and fled."
"O-Oh..." Lefonya feigned shock.
"If it were me... I would have suspected the ones attending closest to you first... But we really, truly didn't do it!"
"His Grace is conducting an investigation, and it was concluded that we are innocent. So please... please continue to believe in us, My Lady!"
Lefonya pressed a palm against her forehead in sheer disbelief. Of course she had never suspected them. Why would she?
I'm the one who set the damn fire! What are you two babbling about?!
After all, she already knew the arsonist intimately!
"I never suspected you for a second."
Please, just don't blow this out of proportion. Lefonya spoke as firmly as her ruined throat allowed.
Birdie covered her mouth in trembling disbelief, fresh tears spilling over.
"So don't worry—cough, cough!"
Straining her voice triggered another violent, dry coughing spell. Each spasm shook her frail little frame. A terrified Birdie rushed to support her and rubbed her back while Becky refilled the glass.
Once the coughing finally subsided, Lefonya drew a ragged breath. Her chest felt as if it had been scraped with sandpaper.
"I'm okay. I didn't get hurt, and I didn't die," she murmured in a voice as faint as a candle flickering before the wind.
"How... how could you ask if we were all right before saying a single word about your own pain—"
"My Lady, for putting such trust in us, we will serve by your side for the rest of our lives!"
The two maids declared with solemn, unyielding resolve.
Talk is cheap when you don't even know how long a lifetime will be.
Rubbing her tender throat, Lefonya nodded half-heartedly. Then she brought up the detail that had been gnawing at her mind.
"Wait... what do you mean, the Duke is investigating?"
There was no external culprit, meaning there could be no external evidence. She had expected him to scold the vassals for nearly causing a scandal and wrap things up quietly. An investigation?
"His Grace is personally interrogating every single person in the estate right now."
"Huh?" Lefonya's eyes wavered.
"On the night the fire broke out in your chamber, all the visiting guests were absent from their quarters."
She knew that. They had slipped away to conspire in secret that night.
"Because none of them would confess where they were or what they were doing... His Grace has locked them all in solitary confinement."
Lefonya's eyes went round. "H-He didn't need to go that far—"
"His Grace declared that he will not let this slide."
"..."
"He swore that he would drag the culprit out into the open and toss them straight into a blazing pit of—ahem. He vowed to hunt down the culprit and show them absolute retribution, so please rest easy, My Lady."
"..."
"Whenever His Grace sets his mind to doing something, he accomplishes it without fail. He will definitely catch the culprit this time as well."
At Birdie's unwavering confidence, Lefonya's eyes—the eyes of the very arsonist—trembled in pure dread.
Meanwhile, near the front entrance of the Craitan Ducal Estate.
"Hm."
Gazing at the firmly shut gates, a young man tilted his head quizzically.
"Why is no one guarding the gate?"
Stepping back a few paces, he kicked off the estate's towering outer wall in fluid bounds and vaulted cleanly over the ramparts.
It was a feat utterly impossible for any ordinary mortal—both scaling such sheer stone ramparts with effortless grace, and daring to trespass uninvited onto the sovereign grounds of House Craitan.
Having slipped inside with nonchalant ease, the man dusted his palms together, a roguish grin spreading across his face as he sauntered forward.
"What a mess. And what in the world is this acrid stink? ...Hey, you there."
Strolling with his hands clasped behind his back, he flagged down a passing maid. Freezing in her tracks, the maid caught sight of his face and gasped, frantically dropping into a deep bow.
"Y-Young Master Felence!"
"Where might my father be? You'd think he'd welcome his dear son back after all this time."
It was the return of none other than House Craitan's infamous scoundrel second son.
Felence Craitan was back.