The "how" was a puzzle box with only one key: Rina. For two days after his reconnaissance, Ray was consumed by the problem. He sat in the library, a heavy book open on his lap, but his eyes saw nothing of the text. His mind, a committee of his archetypes, was a storm of conflicting strategies.

Veteran:“The variable must be neutralized. A quick, quiet takedown. Subdue her, hide the body.”

The Grizzled Veteran was blunt and unhelpful. Ray shuddered and immediately dismissed the thought. He wasn't a killer, and the Veteran's single-minded pragmatism was terrifying. Besides, the "takedown" would involve a nine-year-old trying to subdue a grown woman. The thought was so absurd it was almost funny.

The Stoic Assassin was even less useful, offering only silence. Its solution would likely be similar, only quieter and more permanent.

Detective: “She's the lynchpin. The whole thing hinges on her. She follows a pattern. If you break the pattern, you break the security. But how? You got no leverage, kid.”

The Gritty Detective was focused on the problem, but not the solution. It was the Scheming Courtier and the Charismatic Conman who truly took up the debate, their voices a constant back-and-forth in his mind as he pushed a wooden horse across the floor.

Courtier:“The objective is to manipulate her schedule without raising suspicion. We could orchestrate a minor crisis in another wing of the keep. A 'discovered' pest infestation in the kitchens, perhaps? A task that would require her immediate, superior attention as a senior servant.”

Conman: “Too complicated, fancy-pants. Too many moving parts. You want a good grift, you keep it simple. The best lies are the ones that are mostly true. The girl is kind, right? She’s fond of the kid. So, use it. The mark’s own decency is the best tool in your box.”

The Conman’s logic was sound. Rina’s kindness was her most predictable trait. But how could he use it? A feigned injury was out. After his collapse at the dinner, another sudden illness would bring his mother and father running, not just Rina. It would put him under even greater scrutiny. It had to be something else. Something that required Rina’s specific skills and attention, but wasn't a medical emergency.

The answer, when it came, was born from a moment of pure, mundane observation. He was in the main hall, watching Rina carefully mend a tear in one of the faded, ancient tapestries that depicted a long-dead Croft ancestor wrestling a wyvern. She was meticulous, her fingers nimble, her focus absolute. She spent nearly an hour on the small repair, her brow furrowed in concentration. The tapestry was a priceless heirloom, one of the few things of real value the family had not yet sold. Its preservation was one of her most important duties.

That’s it!

Ray thought, a slow smile spreading across his face as the Conman and the Courtier fell silent, a new, unified plan blooming in his mind. Not a crisis for the household. A crisis for the history of the household.

The plan was audacious, risky, and relied on a perfect performance. It would take days to set up. His first move was to subtly alter his own routine. He began spending more time "playing" near the great tapestry in the main hall, making it a familiar sight for the rest of the household to see him there. He would trace the wyvern’s outline with his finger, a small boy lost in a world of fantasy. No one paid him any mind. His second move required a tool. During one of his covert training sessions, he’d found a small, rusted nail near the base of a loose floorboard in his room. It was perfect. Using the Sleight of Hand skills he’d been practicing, he palmed it and carried it with him, the small, sharp object a dangerous secret in his pocket.

His third move was the most difficult. He needed a component for the final act of his plan. From the library, he knew that the ink used in the keep was made from a mixture of oak galls, iron salts, and a gum Arabic binder. It was permanent and deeply staining. A pot of it was always kept on a small writing desk in a corner of the main hall, for his father to sign documents without having to retreat to his study. For three days, he waited for the perfect opportunity. It came on a windswept afternoon. A sudden storm had rattled the keep, and a draft had sent a cascade of parchments flying off the hall desk. A flurry of servants, including Rina, rushed to collect them. In the midst of the chaos, no one noticed the small, quiet boy sidle up to the desk. His heart hammered against his ribs. The Conman’s voice was a steadying presence.

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“Easy does it kid, you belong here.”

“Just a curious boy, make it look natural.”

His hands were trembling, but he managed it. Using a small, hollowed-out reed he had prepared, he siphoned a minuscule amount of the thick, black ink, plugging the end with a bit of wax. He slipped the reed into his sleeve just as Rina turned around. She smiled at him, completely oblivious.

[SKILL ATTEMPT: LARCENY (CHARISMATIC CONMAN)]

[PERFORMANCE EVALUATION: ADEPT]

[Host successfully utilized a distraction created by natural events to acquire a target object without raising suspicion. The choice of tool was inventive. Standard Mastery Gain.]

[Mastery Gain: Larceny +4%. Sleight of Hand +2%.]

He now had his tools: the location, the nail, and the ink. The final piece was timing. He had to execute the plan during the midday meal, just before Rina was due to begin her cleaning rounds upstairs.

The day of the heist arrived. A knot of nervous energy, a feeling every actor knows moments before the curtain rises, tightened in Ray’s stomach. He sat at the lunch table, a silent observer, waiting for his cue. The conversation was sparse. His father was in a foul mood, his mother was anxious, and Corbin was sullen. It was a perfect backdrop of disinterest. He excused himself from the table, claiming he needed to use the privy, a common enough request that no one questioned it. He didn’t go to the privy. He went directly to the main hall, to the great tapestry. His hands shook as he took out the nail. He looked at the ancient threads depicting the wyvern’s eye. It felt like a desecration, a violation of the history he was so eager to learn.

“The mission comes first, kid,”

The Veteran’s voice surfaced unexpectedly, a grim reminder of necessity.

“Sentiment is a luxury.”

He took a deep breath and made a small, deliberate tear in the tapestry, right along a seam near the bottom, a place where a child "playing" might believably snag it. It was a small rip, but noticeable. That was Part One. Part Two was the real crime. He uncorked the reed and, with painstaking care, dripped the thick black ink onto the flagstones directly beneath the new tear. He didn't make a puddle. He created a series of splatters and drips, a pattern that perfectly mimicked a leaking ink pot.

Then, he carefully squeezed the last drop of ink directly into the torn threads of the tapestry itself, creating a dark, ugly stain that looked like it was spreading. The scene was set. A fresh tear, and what appeared to be a catastrophic, ongoing ink leak that was staining the priceless heirloom. He scurried away, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He returned to the dining hall just as the meal was concluding.

"There you are,"

His mother said.

"Finish your meal."

He sat down, his hands trembling under the table. Now, all he had to do was wait for the trap to be sprung. They didn't have to wait long. It was Corbin who discovered it. He was the first to leave the table, heading for the main doors. He stopped dead, his eyes wide.

"Father,"

He said, his voice a strange mix of shock and malicious glee.

"You had better come see this."

Lord Alistair rose, an annoyed expression on his face, and followed his son into the hall. He stopped, and the color drained from his face.

"No!"

He breathed, a horrified whisper. He rushed forward and knelt, his fingers hovering over the stained threads.

"Gods, no!”

“The Inkgall Spoil!"

He leaped to his feet, his face purple with rage.

"RINA!"

He roared, the name echoing like a thunderclap through the keep.

"RINA, GET DOWN HERE THIS INSTANT!"

Ray watched from the doorway, his face a perfect mask of childish curiosity and concern. He could hear Rina’s hurried footsteps on the stairs. He saw her face pale as she saw the scene, her eyes filling with terror at the rage in her master’s eyes.

"You careless girl!"

Alistair bellowed, gesturing wildly at the tapestry.

"This is the work of generations! It is irreplaceable, forget your other duties!”

“Do not leave this spot until you have done everything in your power to halt the spread of this stain!”

“Find the source, fix it now!"

"Yes, my lord! Right away, my lord!"

She stammered, already on her knees, her mind completely consumed by the sudden, catastrophic crisis.

The midday bell began to toll. It was twelve o'clock. The path to the study was clear. The guard had been drawn off her post by a masterful deception. Ray had his window of opportunity. It was time for the scholar to get to work.