It was around 4:30 AM when the carriage finally creaked to a stop. The night air carried that crisp, strangely fragrant scent that only elven lands seem to have, as if even their oxygen had better breeding than ours.
We'd crossed the Elvian border without trouble, thanks to Eldrin leading the front. Apparently, it's much easier to enter the kingdom if you're chaperoned by an elven noble who can snap a tree in half with his mana alone. Noted.
The border town we entered was called Lioraeth, one of the four cities in Elvian Kingdom that housed a branch of their Merchant Guild. The other three? The capital Aeloria, their finance capital Faelarion, and Zorynthia, the town near Zerathene.
And while each guild branch handled its own affairs, all decisions ultimately traced back to the head branch in Aeloria. Which means our first real move, the salted pork trade, needed the nod from the top. So once we made our pitch at the Lioraeth branch, they'd shoot a letter bearing their creast of approval off to Aeloria and wait for the High Guild's permission. Only after that would we be officially in the game.
A tap at the window drew our attention. One of the guards, always the same stony face, probably born in that uniform, bowed slightly.
"We've reached Lioraeth, my lord. The Merchant Guild is a short ride away. Lord Eldrin recommends you rest first. We'll head to the guild once you're ready."
Orion nodded like a tired professor still pretending to grade finals.
"Is the residence prepared for rest?"
"It is, my lord," the guard replied and moved the carriage forward.
As the carriage rolled on, I finally got to feast my eyes on Elvian architecture, and damn, the books didn't do it justice.
The houses weren't just built amidst the trees; they were part of them. Branches curved into walls, roots were coaxed into stairways, and the homes looked less constructed and more grown. Some homes circled around entire groves like they were hugging their ancestors.
And the roads...paved not with stones, but with hardened earth. It wasn't crude, either. It was smooth, clearly hardened, and elegant enough that the boundary between road and forest looked like a careful brushstroke on a canvas. The contrast of structure and wilderness blended so well, I started wondering if elves had a monopoly on aesthetic sensibility.
We eventually stopped before an inn.
"This is where we'll be resting," the guard said as he opened the door.
Sylvia, who'd curled up like a cat during the journey, blinked herself awake. Orion gently nudged her and said something quietly that made her yawn and straighten up.
I stepped out, stretching like a retired grandpa, while Clara silently followed behind me like the guardian angel she never admits to being.
"Lord Hugo," Orion said, "let's meet in the morning and have breakfast together. We'll discuss what to present to the guild."
"Of course, Lord Orion," I said with a nod. "Let's do that."
Then, with the grace of someone who wanted to avoid another round of noble small talk, I and my two companions, Sylvia and Clara, slipped past the others into the inn. Sylvia gave a polite bow before disappearing into her room. Clara and I headed toward the one allocated to me.
She moved ahead, already pulling back the bedsheets with that efficient quietness she had perfected. I was half-tempted to flop on the bed immediately when a thought hit me.
"Clara," I said, "we should prepare two letters."
She paused, half-kneeling at the foot of the bed.
"To whom, my lord?"
"One to mother. One to father."
She stood up immediately. "I will send it through the portal service first thing. What should be the content, my lord?"
"Everything's already discussed with Gaveric back in the castle...so explaining through a letter would do."
"For mother," I said, "inform her the salted pork deal was approved. Tell her we'll proceed as planned. Ramp up production, begin scaling facilities. With her in charge, I'm confident the whole thing will run smoother than butter on hot bread."
Clara gave a soft smile. "Yes, my lord. And for Lord Everard?"
I paused.
"The letter for father will contain the deal details too… but also a request...to tighten monitoring around the duchy."
That stopped her in her tracks. She blinked. "Increase monitoring around the duchy, my lord? Why?"
"The assassination attempt back at the mansion," I said, lowering my voice even though no one could hear us. "It wasn't Ashen. It wasn't Griffinvale. It was an inside job."
Her eyes widened. "But who would…?"
"That's what I want him to find out," I said. "Father and his council know the old shadows and rivalries better than I do. But I've pieced enough together."
I sat down, hands steepled.
"The viperine core wasn't brought into the mansion with us. It was already there. Hidden. In place. Before we even arrived."
Clara's brows furrowed. "Why would it be there… if there's no residual elven mana around it? Are you suggesting the elves lied?"
"No," I said. "The elves didn't lie. The core was smuggled in by humans, just like Eldrin suspected."
"But you just said they weren't smuggled in by us...?"
Clara's eyes widend to her own question, finally on same page.
"Yeah...just like sir Eldrin told, multiple negotiations from various provinces of Valthryon were hosted there."
"So they were smuggled by humans but not us..?"
"But...Wouldn't scrutiny have picked it up?" She asked, pacing now.
"Two options," I said. "First, multiple smuggling attempts. Tiny traces of the core split across several shipments, hidden so well that they'd pass each check."
She nodded slowly.
"Second....and worse, someone bribed the guards."
Her expression darkened.
"And frankly," I said, "I don't believe this attempt could have been pulled off without some help from within the mansion. Too many variables lined up perfectly. Including one crucial thing..." I looked straight at her eyes, "we weren't even supposed to stay the night there."
Her eyes snapped up. "We are supposed to be sent back before nightfall due to failed negotiations..."
"Yes, according to everyone else, sir Eldrin never approved a single deal due to pressure from Zerathene's embassy."
"Then...You mean… if we hadn't stayed…?"
"They would've used the core differently," I said. "But the goal would've remained the same...kill us."
She took a breath, then asked the obvious question.
"Who planned it?"
"Griffinvale hasn't made contact with Eldrin for half a year, and they are too cautious to risk a diplomatic blunder. Ashen is brave, but it isn't in a position to tail me throughout the journey... not with all those inquiries taking place in Falcon."
Clara spoke thinking, "That narrows it to...?"
"Merchant associations. Recently, Several merchant associations from our side of the border made proposals. Some even from our duchy."
"So you mean one of the associations attempted this?" she asked.
"No," I said. "Associations don't have the resources to erase every trace. And if they got caught, they'd be dismantled. But someone controlling them? A powerful figure pulling strings through those associations?"
She nodded grimly.
"Marquises. Earls. Ambitious families. Someone with enough influence to use the associations as pawns while staying clean themselves."
"If the perpetraitor is among the ones in our duchy, Lord Everard will find them."
"Eventually," I said. "He's got enough hounds with sharp noses."
"But what about the assassin elven guard found?"
"That just meant one of the Orion's staff was given the task... If the inquiry team Sir Eldrin mentioned is skilled enough, it won't take them long to find the assassin..but I am not sure if he will have any useful information other than his employer.."
Clara inhaled slowly, processing all of it.
"I'll prepare both letters. But… should I mention all this in the one to Lady Serena?"
"Absolutely not," I said, snapping a finger. "She'd fly to Lioraeth herself and burn down Eldrin's mansion. Just stick to pork."
Clara smiled faintly. "Understood, my lord."
Though..., yeah, I did say part of the reason I'm suspecting this whole assassination mess to be an inside job is because the most recent negotiation attempts with Eldrin came from our duchy's associations… that's not really the main reason.
The real reason?
I'm the author of this world.
And I know, or rather, I remember, that about three or four years from now, Hugo Gyrfald becomes Duke.
And gets overthrown. Publicly. With the dignity of a rotten cabbage. And then...beheaded. The entire plot twist delivered with a sword and a crowd cheering like it's festival day.
The reason? Internal revolt.
More specifically... Power struggle.
Now, I've read enough palace intrigue to know one thing, power struggles don't happen overnight.
They're not last-minute tea party ideas. If someone's going to try and rip a duchy out of your hands, they start early. Real early. Planting seeds, building alliances, weakening your foundations while smiling at you in council meetings.
So when I talked to that four-headed shadow... it hit me.
This isn't just a random event. It's part of a bigger mechanism. One that was already moving.
The people are real. Their ambitions are real. And that means…
The revolt has already started.
This assassination attempt? It's the first card on the table. Their way of saying, "Hey, nice to meet you, now get out of the way." And it's not just about killing me.
It's about cutting the Falcon Duchy's ties, breaking the alliance with House Leon, souring the diplomatic prospects with the elves. Make us vulnerable. Isolate us. And then take the duchy like kids grabbing the last sweet bun at breakfast.
And here's the worst part—
This wouldn't have happened if I'd just stayed in the castle.
No, really. My noble idiot self decided to waltz out of there, completely clueless about the duchy's internal politics, like I was on a self-care journey or something. "Let's understand the world," I said. "Let's go on a mission," I said.
And now here I am, realizing I might've triggered half the flags I was supposed to avoid.
So yeah. This is no simple, controllable, little novel.
This world? It breathes on its own.
This… is the art of God, not the scribble of a man.
Leaving the castle without knowing who hates who, who wants the duchy, and who sharpens their knives in secret corners... that was my mistake.
A mistake born from underestimating the world I created.
Well… whatever.
It is what it is.
I've got three years. That's the buffer before the so-called "beheading arc."
And now I know something critical...variables exist. That means fate isn't locked. The future isn't a one-way track. If I can shake the timeline this early, maybe I can derail the whole damn tragedy.
So let's do this the right way.
Secure the duchy.
Outmaneuver the rats.
Keep my head on my neck.
Time to take back control of this story.
My story.
The next morning, I had breakfast with Lord Orion and Lady Sylvia. Just us, a few pieces of warm bread, and the collective burden of representing a duchy in foreign land.
Over plates of roasted root vegetables and fluffy pastries, we reviewed the strategy for the Merchant Guild presentation.
Sylvia, ever the tactician, proposed we lead with our supply chain strength. Orion suggested keeping the numbers soft until we sense the room's temperature. I just nodded along like a good strategist while internally wondering if there'd be more of that honeyed spread with breakfast tomorrow.
By 10 AM sharp, we stood before the Merchant Guild of Lioraeth and, well, calling it a building almost felt insulting.
This wasn't just a guild. It was a living monument.
The entire structure was grown from the trunk of a gargantuan ancient tree. The leaves shimmered above like they'd been polished by sunlight itself, and the roots at its base intertwined with stone and crystal, keeping the entire structure grounded and yet oddly regal. Even the breeze that passed through the branches felt like it carried contracts on the wind.
If you wanted to imagine what it felt like to step into a breathing cathedral of commerce… yeah, that was the guild.
We didn't even have to go through the usual pleb-line of registration. Thanks to Eldrin's envoy credentials, we bypassed the front desk, skipped the waiting lounge, and were ushered straight into the approval chamber. No "take a token," no "we'll call you in thirty minutes." Straight to the decision-makers. VIP treatment, baby.
Eldrin himself joined us, acting as our most enthusiastic wingman. I don't know if it was the salted pork, the trade plan, or just my charm (Probably not), but he definitely seemed invested.
What followed was a marathon of presentations, subtle smiles, and more than one "let us break for tea." Elven tea, by the way? Incredible. Must be the soil. Or maybe the leaves. Either way, it's better than anything Falcon's got unless we secretly grow our leaves in divine mana springs.
By around 3 PM, we were finally done. Orion looked smugly triumphant. Sylvia wore her practiced noble calm. And I? mostly thinking about food again.
As we exited the guild, Clara was waiting just outside, standing like she always does, like she knew exactly where I'd be and when. She stepped up with a respectful bow and leaned in to whisper at my ear.
"The letters have been sent, young master. The one to Lord Everard was forwarded to the capital since we're unsure of his current location. The capital's portal system has mobile relay services. The one to Lady Serena has been sent directly to the castle."
I nodded and whispered back, "Good job."
With that squared away, I turned to rejoin Orion and the others. Eldrin handed me a sleek wooden card, polished, inscribed, and shimmering faintly with mana patterns.
"This is your grounds merchant identity, Lord Hugo," he said, his voice formal. "It's given to non-residents so they may conduct business within the kingdom without interruption. With this card, your contracts will be legally valid."
Fancy way of saying "your VIP pass to the merchant world."
I raised a brow. "Doesn't the head office in Aeloria need to approve our application before we begin trade?"
"Technically, yes," Eldrin replied, "but the contracts aren't initiated by the governing body. They're initiated by the merchant associations...the veterans who actually run the economy. To them, a branch's approval is more than enough. If Lioraeth says yes, they assume Aeloria will follow suit. So you won't face resistance."
I nodded, and so did Orion, both of us silently thankful that bureaucracy here actually made sense.
Then Eldrin added, "One more thing...the inquiry team has been conducting the investigation since 5 AM. We may hear something by tomorrow."
Orion nodded thoughtfully, but I could already sense the storm brewing in his mind.
Just then, a man walked up to us. No, glided would be a better word. He was dressed in the kind of robes that could put half of Valthryon's nobility to shame. Layers of deep forest green and golden trim, a long sash embroidered with runic patterns, and silver clasps shaped like blooming flowers. His hair was tied back into a braided crown, and even his shoes looked like they belonged on a painting.
"Lord Hugo," Eldrin said, "this is a reliable residence manager. He will help you find a place to stay in the city. You may reside as long as you like with the card in hand. But I recommend choosing wisely. Comfort breeds productivity."
Which, loosely translated, meant "don't pick the cheapest room and then complain your bed smells like moss."
We bowed back as Eldrin offered his final parting words.
"I reside here in Lioraeth," he said, "though I travel to the envoy mansion when summoned for negotiations. The rest of my time, I spend in service of the guild here. You may consult me whenever you wish, I will gladly be of assistance. May your business thrive."
"Nobly spoken," Orion said, offering a half-bow.
"Thank you, Sir Eldrin," I added with a smile. "We'll do our best to not disappoint."
With that, we finally parted ways. Me, Orion, Sylvia, Clara, and the elegant mystery broker set off to choose our temporary elvish home.
And for once, just for a moment, it felt like things were going well.