Chapter 450 First Meeting [2]

Helmic stood at the top of the steps, expression carefully composed, though Michael could still feel the sour bite of resentment bleeding from his thoughts.

Michael dismounted.

He landed lightly, boots hitting stone. Roran followed behind, followed by the rest of the company peeling off in practiced motion, forming a defensive arc that never looked threatening but still commanded the courtyard.

The silence was brittle.

Helmric stepped forward, attempting a forced smile. "Welcome, Lord Nor. I trust your journey was... uneventful?"

Michael didn’t answer at first.

Instead, he stepped forward slowly, each bootstep echoing like a judge’s gavel.

His gaze swept the courtyard—over the cracked pillars, the limp garden hedges, the broken sundial, the waterless fountain.

Then, and only then, did he look Helmric in the eye.

"I trust," Michael said calmly, "that you have prepared a full accounting of this manor and the state of Thornvale."

Helmric blinked. "I—I was not given notice of your exact arrival date. Had I been—"

"You

were

," Michael interrupted, voice sharp enough to make several servants flinch. "You received different notices. One from the Duke’s house. One from

my

knight."

He stepped closer. "And you ignored them all."

Helmric’s mouth opened, but Michael raised a hand.

"I’m not interested in excuses, Steward Helmric."

The title was spoken with just enough ice to make its edges clear.

Michael’s eyes narrowed. "Are you the head maid?"

"Yes, my lord," the head maid snapped to attention.

"Prepare the hall."

"It is being done."

"Good. In one hour, I want every senior staff member assembled. Guards, scribes, cooks, blacksmith, stable master—everyone who holds a title. If they’re absent, they’re fired."

"Yes, my lord."

"Have them bring records. Everything from the last two years."

He turned back to Helmric.

"Especially yours."

Helmric’s face turned a shade paler, but he inclined his head stiffly. "Of course."

Michael didn’t smile.

Instead, he turned away.

"Roran," he called without looking back. "Assign our men a place to stay. I’ll want a patrol around the manor organized by nightfall. We don’t know who still thinks this place belongs to them."

"Understood," Roran said, already snapping out orders to the escort squad.

Michael began climbing the steps, each one taken slowly, methodically. He passed Helmric without a glance, passed Isolde, passed the gathering of wide-eyed staff.

This was no longer the manor of a decaying steward.

It was now the seat of House Nor.

And everyone inside would feel the change.

Inside the manor, the air felt thick. The grand hall ahead was dim.

A long carpet stretched from the doors to the twin staircases at the far end, but it was frayed, its deep red faded to a tired rust.

Michael couldn’t help but wonder how it was possible for the manor to have servants and look dead.

Michael’s steps echoed as he moved toward the center of the hall, his senses stretching further. He felt every movement around him—every nervous breath from a hiding servant, every whisper behind a half-shut door.

Then—

A flicker.

Not of sight, but of presence.

A faint shift in air pressure.

Michael didn’t turn.

One second he was alone, and the next, a shadow appeared at his side.

Lyra.

The dark elf moved like mist—silent, unannounced. Her silver hair was tied in a loose tail that shimmered like moonlight against her dark leather robe. Her silver eyes gleamed faintly in the dim hall, but her expression remained as unreadable as ever.

In her hands was a neat stack of documents.

Michael didn’t so much as blink.

Only Wisdom stirred, letting out a curious low hoot from his perch on Michael’s shoulder. The owl’s wide golden eyes locked onto the elf, head tilting just slightly.

"Shiny hair? Shiny food?"

Lyra paused. She’d half-expected a startle. A blink. Even a raised brow.

Instead, Michael simply lifted a hand and took the stack from her without looking at her.

"You were slower than I predicted," he murmured.

Lyra narrowed her eyes faintly. "I took the long route."

"You didn’t kill anyone, I hope."

"No," she said.

Michael glanced down at the stack, rifling briefly through the top documents. One page caught his eye—an expense ledger, with consistent discrepancies in food allotments and ’maintenance’ repairs listed under inflated costs.

He has lived in this world and integrated enough with it to have some common sense.

He held it up. "This alone is enough to hang someone."

Lyra crossed her arms, eyes scanning the chamber. "There’s more. That’s just what I could carry. I memorized the rest."

Michael gave a faint, humorless smile.

He turned and continued toward the large wooden doors leading into the lord’s personal study.

Behind him, Lyra fell into step without needing to be told.

For a few moments, silence stretched.

Then, softly, she said, "You knew I was there, didn’t you?"

"Yes."

"...How?"

Michael’s gaze didn’t waver. "You’re good, but you’re not invisible. Not to me."

Lyra said nothing more—but her silver eyes flicked to his back, lingering for a beat longer than necessary.

The new lord was full of surprises.

Who was this man, really?

And what kind of power does he hold?

Michael reached the doors to the study.

He stepped inside.

The room reeked of disuse and stale wine. Books were scattered across the floor, and a thick film of dust coated the desk. A large map of Thornvale hung crooked on the wall, one edge curled and water-stained.

Michael walked to the desk, dropped the documents with a heavy thump, and turned to Lyra.

"Prepare yourself," he said. "You’ll be working again soon."

Lyra raised a brow. "What kind of work?"

Michael didn’t answer immediately. His eyes were on the map.

Michael studied the map for a long moment, his fingers tracing the faded contours of Thornvale. Then, slowly, he turned back to her.

"You’ll find out soon enough," he said, voice calm but final. "For now, tell me what you discovered."

*******

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