Chapter 42

Ember

The final days before we leave are full of quiet preparation.

Jake handles most of the logistics, helping us draft travel orders that frame the visit as a standard property review.

Nothing urgent or suspicious. This is simply a routine inspection of land ledgers and boundary lines, supposedly in response to a few clerical inconsistencies.

The wording is just vague enough to keep anyone from asking questions. Only the three of us know the real reason.

We don’t discuss the argument from earlier in the week. Prince Kaine avoids the subject entirely, but his behavior shifts. He’s less guarded in meetings.

When he asks for my input, it feels less like obligation and more like genuine interest. The formality that’s always defined our conversations hasn’t disappeared, but something in the tone has softened.

Nara notices it too.

“He’s trying,” she says again as we finalize the route. “Even if he won’t admit it.”

I keep my responses measured. Calm. “There’s no point in reading too much into kindness. It doesn’t change anything.”

We travel light. Two guards accompany us, neither high-ranking, neither particularly nosy. They’re told the same story the rest of the palace is hearing, that the estate we’re visiting sits near former disputed territory, and inconsistencies in the land transfer records require a quiet review.

It’s partially true. The land did change hands. The records are suspicious, but this isn’t about clerical mistakes.

It’s about Lady Chantarelle.

Or more specifically, the land once affiliated with her extended family.

I pack the forged documents and old border logs myself, organizing them into a secure case alongside a coded sheet Jake gave me. Everything is cross-referenced by region and date. I plan to compare them directly to whatever documents the estate still keeps on file.

We arrive just after midday. The estate is larger than I expected. The grounds are neat, the staff presentable, but there’s a tension beneath the politeness.

The man who greets us claims to be a cousin, someone distantly tied to the Chantarelle name but with no active role in palace affairs. Still, he carries himself with the same rehearsed composure I’ve come to associate with the family.

He smiles too often and says very little.

He shows us to a study and offers us access to the ledgers. He claims full transparency, insisting there’s nothing to hide. That any confusion must be due to “poor clerical training from the previous generation.”

The words are smooth. Practiced. I don’t waste time.

The ledgers are too clean. One cover is frayed and yellowed, but the pages beneath are pristine. Fresh ink on old bindings.

The forgeries aren’t glaring, but they don’t hold up under close inspection. There are gaps in the timelines, sudden shifts in the format of documentation, and three signatures that match no known steward or manager on file.

Prince Kaine stands beside me, asking quiet questions about land boundaries and historical stewardship. His tone stays even, but I recognize the bite behind his words. He’s forcing the steward to clarify things he’d rather leave vague.

When I ask about former land managers, the man’s answers grow thinner. He claims most have moved on or passed away. No forwarding addresses or names offered.

The longer we stay, the clearer it becomes, the estate was warned. The records were prepared in advance. The story they’re giving us is smooth because it was rehearsed.

We work into the late afternoon, copying what we can and noting the rest. The steward doesn’t stop us, but he watches every page we turn.

By the time we’re shown to the guest quarters, the sun is low behind the hills. I haven’t said much since we left the study. Neither has Prince Kaine.

I don’t know what he’s thinking, but I can feel it, that same pressure that’s been building since the day I stepped into this role. It’s still there, even in silence.

Kaine

The guest quarters are small. Plain.

One desk, two chairs, a fire already lit. Ember sets her case down on the floor beside her and begins sorting through the documents we copied.

She moves efficiently. Quietly. I don’t interrupt.

The longer I sit across from her, the more certain I become. That estate wasn’t caught off guard. They cleaned house before we arrived, and any document that could’ve helped us was either destroyed or rewritten.

Still, she found enough to raise questions. Enough to make a case for further inquiry. Her eyes scan each line twice. She highlights inconsistencies, dates that don’t align, signatures that repeat too perfectly.

“They were ready for us,” I say.

She glances up. “They had time.”

I nod.

“The steward didn’t lie, but he didn’t tell the truth either.”

“No. He just left out everything that mattered.”

I sit back and exhale through my nose. The firelight flickers against the walls. Outside, the trees move softly with the wind.

I want to believe we found something. That this trip wasn’t wasted. We did find something. Just not enough.

I look at her again.

She hasn’t stopped working. Her focus hasn’t wavered. I think of the way she handled the conversation earlier in the week, how calm she was, how sharp.

“I owe you an apology,” I say.

She pauses. Slowly sets her pencil down beside the open ledger.

“For what I said. About Jasper. About your loyalty.”

She doesn’t answer immediately.

“I was frustrated, and I took it out on you. That won’t happen again.”

Her expression doesn’t shift. She meets my eyes, steady and unreadable.

But then, after a moment, she nods once.

“Understood.”

It’s not dramatic. She doesn’t make me repeat myself. But the silence afterward feels different. Some of the tension eases. The distance between us, one I created, no longer feels impossible to cross.

We turn back to the documents. I begin sorting the pages into columns. Dates, signatures, boundary claims. Ember matches the disputed lines to old maps she brought from the archive.

In two cases, the estate’s claim overlaps with areas that were never legally transferred. In one instance, the page appears to have been rewritten entirely.

She flags each item with simple symbols for possible forgery, conflicting account, and missing steward. Her handwriting is small and even. Controlled.

“You don’t miss much,” I say quietly.

“I can’t afford to.”

Her voice is calm. Not cold.

The hours pass without interruption. The only sounds are the movement of paper and the soft crackle of the fire.

We don’t speak about the palace. Not about Bianca. Not about Jasper. Not about the rumors.

For once, it’s just the work between us. The purpose that brought us here.

It’s not a full win. But it’s something.

By the time we finish, we have a preliminary brief that can be expanded once we return. I collect the flagged documents and secure them in my case. Ember closes hers and locks the latch.

“We’ll pick it up in the morning,” I say.

She nods once, then glances toward the door. For a moment, she hesitates. Then she steps out, leaving the air a little clearer than when we arrived.

I stay behind, staring at the last page she annotated. We’re not back to how things were before, but something is shifting. For the first time in a while, I let myself believe that might be a good thing.