CHAPTER 27: CHAPTER 27: A MEETING

Aiden was already at the servant quarters, his breath ragged, each inhale clawing at his ribs like the air itself wanted to slow him down. He pressed a palm to the wall to steady himself, the rough, flaking paint scratching at his skin. His lungs burned.

"Fuck..." he panted, forcing the word out between shallow breaths, "...thank God I didn’t look back. Now she wouldn’t know my face..."

The relief was a fragile thing, brittle enough that a single thought could shatter it.

It was treason in the highest form to ever think of rebellion. More so even plotting something towards the Nobels as Heads rolled very easily. Very VERY easily.

His chest heaved, and the faint smell of damp linen and old wood crept into his senses. The servant wing always had this smell—like forgotten soap and years of dust settling into cracks no one cared to clean.

"...Haaa... it must be some servant coming late," he muttered, trying to believe it. The thought felt hollow, like a lie you tell yourself in the dark just so you can sleep. He pushed himself forward, scuffing away quickly, boots scraping the worn floorboards.

His room was as he’d left it—or so he thought. That cell of a space, too small for a man to stretch his arms without hitting the walls, had always been an afterthought in his life. He rarely came here anymore. Most nights, he ended up tangled in Akidna’s sheets, buried in the warmth of her presence and the scent of her skin.

But now... it was time to at least visit.

The sight hit him like a cold hand to the throat.

Locks on his door. And not just the usual latch—three heavy, polished brass locks that gleamed faintly in the dim hallway light. A folded scrap of paper dangled from the top one, pinned neatly under the handle.

He plucked it free. The paper was crisp. Clean. The ink, sharp and deliberate.

Your secret, I know. If you want to live a long life, visit me at the corner balcony of the mansion at xx date, night time.

Aiden’s stomach tightened, the words sinking in slow, like poison working its way through the veins. His eyes traced the handwriting again—it was clean. Too clean. No hesitation in the strokes, no messy loops. This was no half-educated servant playing games. This was someone fully literate.

And in this world, literacy was a weapon reserved for the powerful—nobles, politicians, the kind of people who could ruin you with a smile and call it mercy.

"Know about what?" he whispered, though the answer didn’t matter.

That he was an incubus? That he was sleeping with the high maid? Or something worse? The thought clawed at his skull, pulling threads of paranoia loose. His fingers tightened on the paper. The ink was dry, but the words still felt fresh enough to sting.

"Calm down... calm down..." He ran a hand over his face, forcing his breathing into some semblance of rhythm. His eyes dropped to the date. The exact date when he’d been discharged from the infirmary.

"...Tonight."

Panic flickered, sharp and instinctive, but it died quickly—burnt out by something darker. Not fear. Rage.

Because this wasn’t the only problem. Not even close. This was just another turn in the wheel, another pitfall in the road. The real storm was still on the horizon, and when it came, it would spin the world so violently that anyone unprepared would be ground to dust. If he couldn’t manage this, he wouldn’t live long enough to face what was coming.

"Tonight, 11 p.m... then."

His shoulder throbbed under the bandages, the dull pain pulsing like a second heartbeat. His ribs still ached from Gail’s little lesson, and the stitches tugged every time he moved too quickly.

Who was it?

The person knew he’d be here today. That meant they knew he’d been injured, knew about the infirmary.

His mind ran through names like cards in a gambler’s hand.

"Gail’s work? No..." He shook his head. "He’s still crying in his own despair."

Could the soldiers have told a noble? But what would they gain? He was just a peasant. Nobles didn’t waste effort on empty pockets—they crushed men who mattered. And he was nothing. No land. No name.

"Then who?" His voice rose in frustration, echoing faintly down the corridor. "Who the fuck—ooouu." He shook in pain,as his sudden body reaction pressed on his healing shoulder.

His eyes widened in frustration as it hit him. He dug into his pocket, pulling out a creased scrap of paper. An address. One he knew by heart—the place of his favorite healer.

Amber.

The memory of her precise, gentle touch on his wounds returned unbidden. The cool scent of herbs. The way she always looked at him too long, as if trying to see something hidden under his skin.

"...I’ll visit her after. Be healed. Be at a hundred percent." His voice hardened, the words grinding out like stone underfoot. "...This might be a trap to kill me...or something entirely different.....whatever may it be, i need to be ready."

His hand trembled slightly as he gripped the paper. More than normal. He clenched his fist around it until it crumpled, the edges digging into his palm.

Bang!

His knuckles exploded with pain as he slammed his fist into the wall. The sound cracked through the quiet hallway. The sting in his skin grounded him, pulled him back from the spiral. The shaking stopped.

"You don’t have the time or the luxury to be scared," he told himself, voice low but firm.

His heart was still running wild, his body primed to run, but his mind—his mind was a different beast entirely. Chaotic, yes, but calm where it mattered. He’d lived his life like this. Always on the edge, always managing the impossible. He would manage this too.

The ticking of the wall clock caught his ear. He glanced up. Afternoon. Still hours before nightfall.

That meant he had time. Too much time, maybe. Time to think. To prepare. To sharpen the edges of his plan until it cut through whatever was waiting for him.

He looked down at the address in his hand. "Amber... I seems, I will be visiting you early than I thought."

But as he stood there, his gaze drifted back to the locks on his door. They were still there, heavy and unmoving, the paper gone from the handle but the message still hanging over him.

It wasn’t just a threat. It was a leash. And someone, somewhere, was holding the other end.

"Aiden!" An old but familiar voice echoed from afar.

"Coming old man!...I’m Coming!"