Chapter 14
A perfectly seared steak, balanced by a vibrant medley of garnished vegetables, sat on the tray alongside a hearty stew and a crust of bread. At a glance, it was an ordinary, even comforting meal. But something about it was fundamentally wrong.
“You expect me to eat with this?”
Kayte held up the dining utensils provided by Merry. It was a spoon and fork set so absurdly tiny they looked meant for a toddler. Curious, he gave the fork a light flick with his thumb. It bent instantly.
“I believe they are more than adequate for your current situation,” Merry replied, her voice coolly indifferent.
Kayte looked back down at the tray, noticing for the first time the meticulous preparation. The steak and vegetables had been systematically diced into bite-sized cubes. Even the heavy chunks in the stew were cut into miniature pieces. Strictly speaking, it was manageable, even with children’s plasticware.
“Ha!”
A breath of pure disbelief escaped his lips. Having reached the pinnacle of a Sword Master, Kayte’s physical vessel existed on an entirely different plane from ordinary men. Missing a few meals wouldn’t cause him a shred of discomfort. Still, it was always wiser to keep oneself fed when the opportunity arose.
“I assume you didn’t lace this with poison?”
Merry fixed him with a peculiar, unreadable look. “Perhaps I should have.”
It certainly would have kept you quiet. The unspoken words were written clear across her face, and the blatant lack of deference made Kayte’s stomach turn with irritation.
“Did you cook this yourself?” he demanded.
“Yes.”
“I see.”
For someone who claimed to be a maid, her culinary repertoire was severely lacking. He had specifically requested a cream of mushroom soup; what he received instead was a chaotic, thick stew. The discrepancies were piling up.
“Well, let us see how it tastes.”
If it’s terrible, I’ll just smash the room to pieces, Kayte decided silently. He pinched the toy-like fork between his large fingers, sighing at how ridiculous he must look, and speared a piece of steak.
He popped the meat into his mouth and chewed slowly. While it lacked the refined flair of the personal chefs he usually employed, whoever made this clearly wasn’t a novice to the hearth. The sear was flawless, the meat meltingly tender. The vegetables were cooked with equal precision.
The issue, however, lay in the stew. It wasn’t bad, but…
This taste. I know this taste.
It was a flavor profile etched so deeply into his memory that no amount of time could erase it. Years ago, under the decree of the late Emperor, Kayte had been deployed to the brutal northern theaters of war. The military rations served at those freezing outposts tasted exactly like this.
To be fair, the northern army’s stews—born of low-grade, half-frozen ingredients—were rarely considered fine dining. But because Kayte carried the blood of the imperial family, the camp cooks had always compensated by throwing in fistfuls of rare, heavy spices to mask the rot.
“Merry.”
Kayte set his eyes directly on her. She was still lingering by the door, watching him.
“You aren’t an ordinary maid, are you?”
“I am exactly what I appear to be, Your Grace. A simple servant.”
“No. You have ties to the Northern Army.”
Merry’s eyes widened, a flash of genuine shock breaking through her composure. But it lasted only a fraction of a second before her mask slipped back into place. “You are mistaken.”
“Am I? This stew is a carbon copy of the northern rations. The North is too bitter, too barren to yield quality produce. Livestock dies early, and supply lines from the south are notoriously unreliable. To hide the rancid state of the meat, the military drowns everything in heavy spices.”
Merry’s lips pressed into a hard, thin line.
“This is a proprietary northern recipe,” Kayte pressed, leaning forward. “And given the sheer volume of expensive spices used here, whoever cooked this was making it for a nobleman or a high-ranking officer.”
“You are misinterpreting things.”
“Oh, I doubt you were the one serving in the trenches. It must be a family member.”
At his words, Merry unconsciously shifted her weight, stepping back a fraction of an inch.
“Furthermore, I’ve been watching you. Your posture is far too rigid, your spine too straight for a common maid.”
The pieces of the puzzle fell into place with satisfying clicks. A noble family with military ties to the North, or a household born entirely of high-ranking officers.
“I am usually much more relaxed,” Merry countered, her voice tight as she fought to maintain her narrative. “But you are a Grand Duke, Your Grace. It is only natural that I am tense in your presence.”
Even cornered, she refused to yield.
“Ah, of course. A simple maid who just so happens to have kidnapped and imprisoned said Grand Duke.” Kayte slowly lowered his spoon, letting it clink against the ceramic. “I am certain of it now. You keep claiming to be the kidnapper’s servant, but that is a lie.”
His piercing, brilliant blue eyes locked onto hers, trapping her in place.
“You are the mastermind. You are the kidnapper.”
Merry’s fingers gave a violent, involuntary tremor. Yet, the confession Kayte anticipated never came.
“Enjoy your meal,” she whispered.
Turning on her heel, Merry practically fled the room. Even in her sheer panic, her muscle memory held true—the heavy iron door was thoroughly bolted and locked behind her.
“Hmm,” Kayte hummed, tilting his head with a sharp, calculating smile.
Upstairs in her second-floor bedroom, Merry—whose true name was Evelyne—let out a silent, internal shriek.
Aaaaagh!
She threw herself face-first onto the mattress, thrashing around in a fit of absolute mortification before burying her face deep into her pillow to gather her scattered wits.
“He knows. He figured it out.”
No, she couldn’t afford to panic. Deep down, she had always known a man of his caliber would eventually realize she wasn’t a maid. She hadn’t exactly been meticulous with her cover story anyway.
But that wasn’t the problem!
“The stew…” Evelyne groaned into the fabric.
It had never crossed her mind that the recipe she inherited from her grandfather would provide Kayte with the ultimate clue to her identity. And besides, she had set out to make a simple mushroom soup—how on earth had it devolved into a northern military stew?
“Idiot, idiot, idiot,” she scolded herself.
If she knew her grandfather was a capable cook, she should have questioned exactly where he had learned his trade.
Evelyne rolled over, staring blankly at the ceiling as her body grew heavy. She had spent so much energy managing the basement prison over the last few days that exhaustion was finally catching up to her. Her limbs felt like waterlogged cotton.
A brief rest was necessary. Once her mind was clear, she would be able to formulate a proper counterstrategy.
With that comforting thought, her eyelids fluttered shut. In the quiet dark of the room, it didn’t take long for sleep to claim her.
CRASH!
The sharp, echoing sound of shattering ceramic jerked her awake. It took her a disorienting moment to realize she wasn’t looking at her bedroom ceiling anymore—her consciousness had plunged into a vision of the immediate future. She was looking into the basement cell.
Kayte had finished his meal and deliberately swept the dishes off the tray. The noise that woke her was the plate obliterating against the stone floor.
What a vile temper, she thought, a cold shiver running down her spine. Seeing his casual destructiveness brought back a wave of primal fear. She could absolutely never let him discover her true identity or the nature of her abilities. If a man like Kayte learned what she was capable of, what would he do to her?
It wouldn’t end well for me. Not at all.
In the vision, Kayte knelt down and picked up a large, jagged shard of the broken plate. He spun the razor-sharp ceramic casually between his fingers. Despite the lethal edge, his skin remained completely unmarred, protected by an invisible shroud of aura.
“They take a Sword Master far too lightly,” Kayte murmured to himself.
A warrior who had pushed their physical form to the absolute peak could turn anything into a deadly weapon. The concept of an unarmed master was a myth.
Kayte smiled, a dangerous, feral expression, and tapped the shard against the stone walls, testing for structural weaknesses. He paused at a particular spot, raising the shard higher.
A faint, shimmering blue light began to crackle along the edge of the ceramic. But he didn’t strike. After evaluating the wall for a moment longer, he lowered his hand, sliding the makeshift dagger carefully beneath his pillow.
“Let’s gather a bit more information before making a move,” he muttered, looking entirely unbothered by his captivity. He looked like a man who knew he could walk through the walls the moment he grew bored of the game.
He thinks he can escape with a piece of a broken plate? Even as she scoffed at his arrogance, a knot of genuine anxiety tightened in her chest.
Then, reality pulled her back, and Evelyne bolted upright in her actual bed.
“Ah!”
She blinked rapidly, her heart hammering against her ribs. The vision of the future had faded, leaving her sweating. She realized then how little she actually understood about the true capabilities of a Sword Master.
Her grandfather had spun tales of such warriors during her childhood, but she had always taken them with a grain of salt. To cleave a mountain with a single stroke? To part a rushing river? It sounded like the mythos of ancient gods. No matter how much she revered her grandfather, she had dismissed those stories as old military exaggerations.
But what if they were true? What if he was staying in that cell purely because he chose to?
Evelyne bit her lower lip until it turned white. She needed to get down to the basement immediately to see if the dishes were broken.
The brief nap she intended to take had stretched on; the sun had set, plunging the house into pitch blackness. She struck a match, lighting the oil lamp on her nightstand.
Holding the lamp in one hand, she checked her hip to ensure her revolver was securely holstered. She crept down the stone steps into the subterranean chill, greeted only by a heavy, suffocating silence. Nothing has happened yet, she told herself.
No, she couldn’t be careless. The event might have already transpired.
With trembling hands, she slid the key into the lock and pushed the heavy iron door open. The sight made her breath hitch. The floor was a disaster zone of scattered food and sharp white shards. From the adjoining washroom, the distinct sound of running water echoed.
It seemed Kayte had gone to bathe, entirely unbothered by his mess. To display such casual nonchalance while kidnapped required nerves of absolute steel.
But this is my chance.
She had to fix this before he returned. Moving with frantic speed, Evelyne grabbed the broom by the door and swept the broken shards into a pile, clearing the floor. Then, she lunged toward the bed and lifted the heavy pillow.
There, sitting on the mattress like a silent threat, was the large, jagged shard from her vision.
“Haaa…”
A long, trembling sigh escaped her lips. She carefully picked up the sharp piece of ceramic, turning to make her escape from the cell.
But as she took her first step away from the bed, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up.
She was no longer alone in the dark.
