The Master Study

POV: Malia

The air in the eastern corridor did not just feel cold; it felt dead.

Every breath I took tasted of damp limestone and ancient dust, settling like lead at the back of my throat. My leather boots made no sound against the thick velvet runner, but with every step I took toward the heavy oak doors at the end of the hall, my pulse hammered against my ribs so hard I was certain the stone walls themselves could hear it.

If anyone caught me here, there would be no explanation, no clever lie to save me. This was the Master Wing Jarrah’s private sanctuary—a place where even the high stewards did not tread without a direct summons. To be found here after midnight was an automatic sentence of treason.

Do it for Callan, I told myself, clutching the small brass lockpick until the jagged metal bit into the palm of my hand. You owe him the truth even if it destroys you.

The thought of Callan sent a sudden, agonizing wave of heat through my chest. Two weeks had passed since they fished his body out of the ice-choked river at the edge of the estate. Two weeks of hollow condolences, fake tears from men in velvet coats, and Jarrah’s smooth, icy assurances that it had been nothing more than a tragic accident. A fallen horse on a slippery night.

It was a lie. I had seen the neat, silent slit across Callan’s leather collar before they wrapped him in linen. That was not a fall. That was an execution.

I reached the massive double doors of Jarrah's private study. The polished bronze keyhole gleamed beneath the weak, flickering light of a single tallow candle mounted on the wall. My hands were trembling so badly it took three attempts just to slide the thin strip of metal into the keyway.

Click.

The tiny, metallic pop sounded like a thunderclap in the silent hall. My heart leaped into my throat. I froze, pressing my shoulder against the dark wood, my ear strained against the silence of the corridor.

Nothing. Only the mournful howl of the wind whipping against the tall glass windows down the hall.

Slowly, inch by agonizing inch, I turned the heavy iron handle and pushed the door inward.

The room smelled of bitter tobacco, expensive parchment, and dry, crushed cedar. It was a predator's den, cold and grand, lit only by the pale moonlight spilling through the arched bay window. Shadowy silhouettes of high glass cabinets and towers of bound ledgers stretched across the Persian carpet like reaching fingers.

I slipped inside and eased the door shut until the latch caught with a soft, dull thud.

The silence inside the study was suffocating. It felt as though Jarrah’s presence still lingered in the air, dark and watchful, even in his absence. He had left for the High Council meeting in the lower city three hours ago, but the oppressive weight of his authority remained carved into every corner of this room.

"Find it," I whispered into the dark, my voice a threadbare rasp that barely belonged to me. "Find it and get out."

I moved swiftly toward the polished black mahogany desk sitting on a raised dais near the window. The surface was impeccably neat: a silver inkwell, a quill dipped in dried blue ink, and a stack of sealed estate reports. I ran my fingers over the edges of the heavy drawers, pulling each one open with agonized slowness.

The top drawer contained land deeds, tax ledgers, and trade agreements bearing the red wax seal of the merchant guild. Nothing about Callan.

The second drawer held ledger after ledger of silver payments sent to various guards and mercenaries across the northern border. My pulse quickened as I flipped through the pages, my eyes scanning the names line by line. Payments for escorts, payments for iron supplies... but nothing that read like a hit on one of Jarrah’s own commanders.

Panic began to claw at the edges of my mind. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked loudly, each rhythmic tick-tock sounding like a countdown to my execution. Jarrah would return before dawn. If I left empty-handed tonight, I would never get another chance. He was already suspicious of my quietness, watching me across the dinner table with those sharp, unblinking grey eyes.

"Where would you hide it?" I muttered, leaning against the cold edge of the desk, my teeth digging into my lower lip until I tasted iron. "A man like you doesn't destroy an order... You keep it as leverage."

I closed my eyes, forcing myself to remember Jarrah’s habits. He was meticulous. Paranoia was his blood. He never left important secrets where a common thief or an inquisitive servant could stumble upon them.

My eyes snapped open and landed on the high carved back of his heavy oak chair. Behind it, built straight into the stone masonry of the fireplace, was a coat of arms, a silver wolf wrapped in iron chains.

I hurried around the desk, my soft soles whispering against the carpet. I reached up, my hand trembling as my fingers traced the cold steel outline of the wolf's head. When I pressed the raised eye of the beast, there was a dull, mechanical latch clicking deep inside the stone.

A narrow panel on the side of the mantelpiece popped open two inches.

A wave of dizzying relief rushed through me, followed immediately by a surge of icy terror. My hands were slick with cold sweat as I reached into the dark cavity. My fingers brushed against a heavy leather-bound cylinder tied with a black silk cord.

I pulled it out into the silver moonlight.

My breath hitched. The wax seal holding the cord together was stamped with Jarrah’s personal signet, the crest of the house, and beneath it, the dark red mark of the shadow guild.

With shaking hands, I broke the seal and unrolled the parchment.

The ink was sharp, dark, and unmistakable. Jarrah’s elegant, sweeping handwriting stared back at me, slicing through the darkness like a knife:

'To the Raven's Blade: Commander Callan has become compromised. His loyalty to the girl threatens the timeline of the northern campaign. Eliminate him before the third frost. Make it look like a tragic fall at the border pass. Leave no trace of the poison in his lungs. Payment will be delivered upon confirmation.'

A choked, ragged sob tore from my throat. I pressed my palm over my mouth to smother the sound, tears blinding my vision as the brutal truth laid itself bare before me.

It hadn't been an accident. It hadn't even been a battle. Jarrah had sold Callan out like cattle, slaughtering the man who had served him loyally for ten years, all because Callan cared about me. All because Callan knew too much about what Jarrah intended to do with me once the winter settled in.

"You monster," I whispered, the parchment shaking wildly in my grip as rage, hot and violent, flared through the cold numbness of my grief. "You absolute monster."

I folded the document with frantic speed, shoving it deep inside the inner breast pocket of my leather tunic. This was it. The proof I needed to turn the guard against him. The proof that would tear Jarrah’s honorable reputation to ribbons.

I turned back toward the heavy oak doors, ready to melt into the shadows of the servant stairs.

Then, the floorboards in the outer hall gave a soft, ominous creak.

My blood turned to ice. I froze in the center of the room, every muscle locked tight.

From the other side of the heavy wood came the slow, heavy, unmistakable sound of boots dragging across the stone floor. They stopped right outside the door.

Clack.

The key slid smoothly into the outer lock. The iron tumblers turned with a sickening, deliberate crunch.

There was no time to reach the window. No time to hide behind the heavy curtains.

The heavy door swung inward. The tall, broad silhouette of Archduke Jarrah stepped into the moonlit doorway, his dark cloak dripping with melted snow, his silver eyes locking instantly onto mine in the shadows.

A slow, terrifying smile spread across his sharp face.

"I wondered how long it would take you to look in here, Malia," he whispered, stepping inside and locking the door behind him with a quiet, final click. "And now that you've found what you came for... you're never leaving.”