The presence of the man named Silas settled over Greywood Keep like a fine, choking dust. For three days, he remained. He spoke little, ate less, and watched everything. He was a specter at the dining table, a shadow in the halls, his plain, forgettable face a mask of polite disinterest that concealed the sharp, analytical mind of a master spy. The entire household was on edge, the tension so thick it felt as if the very air had congealed. Lord Alistair’s forced joviality had been replaced by a grim, tight-lipped anxiety, while Corbin treated the silent guest with a hostile glare that Silas absorbed without comment or reaction.

Ray, for his part, retreated even deeper into his role as the frail, quiet nine-year-old. He spent his time in the library or the main hall, seemingly engrossed with his books and wooden toys. Inwardly, however, he was a whirlwind of activity. The plan for his phantom patron, the Magus of the lost House Lumina, was slowly taking shape in the war room of his mind, a desperate, long-term strategy against an overwhelming force. But his immediate focus was on his mother. His secret palliative was working in a way that was both a profound relief and a new source of terror. Lady Eileen was improving at a startling rate. The anxious, trembling woman who had haunted the halls was being replaced by the ghost of her former self. The color was returning to her cheeks, the tremors in her hands had vanished, and her mind was sharp and clear. She began to engage in conversations again, her insights into the management of the keep surprising her husband.

It was a miracle, and miracles draw attention. During one tense breakfast, Ray watched as Silas observed Lady Eileen discuss the state of the winter stores with the household steward. The assessor’s eyes, usually placid, held a flicker of keen, calculating interest. He was witnessing an anomaly, a noble lady making a near-miraculous recovery from a long-standing malady at the same time her strange son had caused a diplomatic incident. Silas said nothing, but the Detective persona in Ray’s mind supplied the words.

“Another entry for the report,”

The Detective’s voice growled stating observations from the assessor’s point of view.

“Subject’s mother displays a sudden, unexplained return to health.”

“Coincides with other anomalous events, the variables in this house are multiplying.”

Ray knew a direct confrontation with the assessor was inevitable. The man couldn't complete his evaluation without probing the source of the original disturbance: Ray himself. The confrontation came on the third afternoon of Silas’s visit. Ray was in the library, sitting on the floor, a heavy, illustrated history of Eldoria open on his lap. He had been so engrossed in his background reading for the "Magus" persona that he didn’t hear the man approach.

“That is a heavy book for a boy your age.”

The voice was soft, unassuming, and it made Ray’s heart leap into his throat. He looked up to see Silas standing over him, his hands clasped behind his back. The man’s shadow fell across the page. Ray immediately fell into character. He looked up, his eyes wide and innocent.

“It has pictures of dragons.”

He said, his voice a childish whisper. Silas smiled, a thin, bloodless expression that did not reach his eyes.

“I see. I was a boy once, I liked stories of dragons, too.”

He knelt, a smooth, fluid motion that was surprisingly graceful, bringing himself down to Ray’s level.

“I hear you are fond of stories, your father tells me your Master-at-Arms used to tell you tales of brave soldiers.”

The game had begun. This was not a friendly chat; it was an interrogation disguised as one. Ray felt the familiar pressure of the Cognitive Aegis as he activated Concurrent Partial Immersion, calling upon the Scheming Courtier and the Gritty Detective.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on NovelBin. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Courtier: “He is referencing the dinner incident. This is a probe, designed to test your consistency. The story about Theron is your established alibi. Do not deviate.”

Detective:“Watch his eyes, not his mouth. He’s looking for a flicker, a hesitation. Any sign that you’re lying. He doesn’t expect a nine-year-old to have perfect narrative discipline.”

“Master Theron told the best stories,”

Ray said, his voice full of a child’s simple sincerity.

“He told me about the Valorians and their big armies, and about the knights of Eldoria who can use magic.”

He was deliberately sticking to the information he had "learned" in the library, reinforcing the image of a bookish, imaginative child.

“Indeed,”

Silas said, his eyes scanning Ray’s face.

“Did he ever tell you stories about the Argent Hand?”

The name was a physical blow, a perfectly aimed stiletto of a word. Ray’s breath caught, but he forced himself to maintain his composure.

Courtier: “Feign ignorance. The name should mean nothing to a child. A slight head tilt, a look of confusion, is the correct response.”

Detective:“It’s a bluff. He’s trying to provoke a reaction. If you know the name, you’ll react. If you don’t, you won’t. Your non-reaction is the answer."

Ray tilted his head.

“The Argent… Hand?”

He repeated, his voice full of childish puzzlement.

“Like… a hand made of silver?... Is that a monster?”

Silas’s thin smile remained.

“Something like that, a monster from a different kind of story.”

He paused, letting the silence stretch, another classic interrogation technique.

“Your mother seems to be feeling much better lately.”

“It is a wonderful thing to see.”

This was the second probe, aimed at the other anomaly.

Courtier: “Ascribe it to the gods, or to simple rest. A child would not have a complex medical opinion. Keep the answer simple and emotional.”

Detective:“He’s connecting the dots. Your ‘performance’ at dinner. Your mother’s recovery. He’s searching for the common denominator. You!”.

“She is,”

Ray said, a genuine, happy smile brightening his face. He channeled the relief he truly felt into the performance.

“Rina says she is sleeping better, I am glad she is not so sad anymore.”

The answer was perfect, emotionally true, simple, and utterly devoid of any suspicious information. He was just a boy, happy to see his mother well. Silas stared at him for a long, silent moment. Ray met his gaze without flinching, his mind a fortress of disciplined calm, while his face projected nothing but innocent sincerity. It was the hardest acting he had ever done. He was playing against the most perceptive audience imaginable, a man whose entire profession was to see through lies. Finally, Silas rose to his feet.

“You are a remarkable child, Ray Croft,”

He said, his voice still soft, but the polite facade had cracked just enough for Ray to see the cold calculation beneath.

“Continue to love your stories.”

He turned and walked away without another word, leaving Ray alone on the library floor, his heart pounding a frantic, delayed rhythm against his ribs. The interrogation was over. He had held his own.

[SKILLED APPLICATION DETECTED]

[EVENT: COVERT INTERROGATION]

[PERFORMANCE EVALUATION: INSPIRED]

[Host successfully defended against a multi-pronged psychological probe from a high-level intelligence agent. You maintained flawless character consistency, deflected loaded questions with plausible naivete, and revealed no compromising information. Largest Mastery Gain.]

[Mastery Gain: Deception +15%. Performance +10%. Psychological Fortitude +5%.]

The next morning, the silent assessor was gone. He had departed as quietly as he had arrived, leaving behind only a deeper, more profound sense of dread. The immediate threat had passed, but Ray knew with chilling certainty that Silas had left with more questions than answers. The Hand’s eye was now fixed squarely on him. He retreated to his room, the victory feeling hollow. His desperate deception was no longer a distant contingency plan; it was his only move in a game where the opponent was already circling the board. He needed more than a concept. He needed details. He needed a script. He needed to build his Magus of House Lumina from the ground up, and he needed to create evidence of his existence, evidence that a man like Silas could be sent to find. His mind raced, sifting through the histories he had read. An ancient, forgotten house of illusionists. A keep found abandoned in the mountains. A legend of immense, hidden wealth. The foundation was there.

“The first step,”

He thought, a new, daring plan beginning to form,

“is to prove the ghost is real.”

“And the best way to prove a ghost exists… is to show someone its hoard of gold.”