The palace felt heavier that night.
Even the chandeliers, always glowing with warm golden light, flickered as though disturbed by whispers in the halls. After the rescue of the commander's son and the unmasking of a palace traitor, Sabel had been given access to the King's private records.
But Sabel didn't need dusty scrolls to smell secrets.
He stood in the Royal Guard's quarters—a quiet, clean barracks tucked behind the west wing of the castle. Too clean.
He poked a laundry sack. "No sweat stains, no smelly boots, and not a single smuggled snack? Definitely suspicious."
He glanced at Percy, who was perched on his shoulder, wearing a tiny eyepatch today. The parrot puffed his feathers dramatically.
"Too neat," Percy agreed. "They either died or they're lying. Probably both."
Sabel chuckled. "Let's find out."
He moved toward the wall where the guard roster hung. A list of names neatly scribed—some circled in red, others crossed out. But it was the ink that caught his eye.
"Cinnamon oil ink," he muttered. "Used only by royal scribes… or spies who want to pretend to be royal scribes."
He waved his hand, casting a detection spell. The parchment shimmered—and a second list emerged underneath.
Ten names.
All guards who'd resigned in the past year, no public record of where they went. The top name?
Marick.
Sabel's eyes narrowed. "The bad-luck adventurer…"
He had encountered Marick weeks ago—an oaf with a cursed aura who claimed to be a wandering explorer. But now it made sense. The constant misfortunes, the bizarre coincidences… were distractions. A perfect cover.
He wasn't unlucky. He was gathering information.
"Percy," Sabel said, turning toward the door, "we've got ghosts to chase."
"Squawk—let me at 'em!"
An hour later – the abandoned bathhouse near the palace moat.
The air was thick with steam, moss-covered stone, and silence.
Sabel kicked open a half-rotted door. "Nothing says 'secret spy den' like free hot water."
They descended into the lower chambers. The stone walls were etched with warding runes—mostly faded, but some still pulsing faintly with heat.
In the center, a round table sat under a low-hanging lantern. Scattered on it were detailed maps of the palace, troop routes, and alarm sigils.
"They were planning something bigger than just a kidnapping," Sabel whispered.
He ran a finger along the edge of the map—until he spotted it. A mark on the eastern tower's lower foundation, right next to the ancient aqueducts.
"A tunnel," he muttered. "Of course."
"Squawk—are we going in?" Percy asked.
Sabel smirked. "We're going deeper than we've ever brewed before."
Meanwhile, in the shadows of the old aqueduct...
Three hooded figures stood in candlelight. One of them, Marick, held a crystal orb, through which the granary guard's unconscious body could be seen.
"Failed," Marick said bitterly.
Another hooded figure spoke. "No. He fulfilled his role. The prince has taken the bait."
A third figure whispered, "Shall we activate the sentinel?"
Marick hesitated, eyes narrowed. "Not yet. Let him dig deeper. Let him think he's in control."
Back in the café...
Sabel returned near dawn, covered in dirt, with Percy squawking nonsense about "bat ghosts" and "bathwater memories."
Rosemary handed him a steaming cup as he collapsed into a chair.
"You find anything?" she asked.
Sabel took a long sip. "Only a dozen traitors, an ancient spy tunnel, and a missing luckless adventurer who's actually a mastermind."
"Oh," she blinked. "Is that all?"
He exhaled. "Something big's brewing, Rosemary. Bigger than all this."
She smirked. "Bigger than your ego?"
Sabel raised an eyebrow. "Barely."
They laughed, but the shadows in the café windows didn't fade with the morning sun.