Rendon stood in the quiet alleyway where the assassin had been intercepted. The cold night air still carried the lingering scent of blood, though the cobblestones had long since been scrubbed clean. His sharp eyes scanned the surroundings, searching for anything out of place. The attack had been swift, calculated. A mistake made by his men? No. He refused to believe that. There was a missing piece in this puzzle, and he would find it.
"The assassin had to enter the manor somehow," Rendon muttered to himself, crouching near the wall. "And he wasn't alone in this. Someone inside helped him."
He signaled to one of his men, a tracker by the name of Garret, who had been analyzing the area for any overlooked details.
"Anything?" Rendon asked.
Garret knelt beside him and pointed to a set of faint markings near the stone wall. "See these scuffs? They're not from boots too smooth, too clean. Someone lowered a rope or a ladder here."
Rendon narrowed his eyes. "That means the assassin had an accomplice on the inside." He turned toward the nearest guard stationed at the perimeter. "Who was on duty that night?"
The guard straightened at the sudden question. "Sir, the rotation was handled by Captain Elric's squad. They reported no disturbances before the attack."
"Convenient," Rendon murmured. "Too convenient."
He gestured for Garret to continue searching while he walked toward the manor's servant quarters. If the assassin had inside help, the most likely suspects would be among the lower-ranked staff those who could move through the manor unseen, unnoticed.
Reaching the servants' entrance, he knocked once before stepping inside. The air smelled of fresh bread and burnt wood, remnants of an evening meal. The staff quieted at his presence, their eyes wary but obedient.
"I won't waste time with pleasantries," Rendon began, his voice firm but calm. "Someone in this manor helped an outsider gain entry. If I find out who it was before they confess, my patience will not be kind."
Murmurs rippled through the room, eyes darting between one another. Fear was an effective tool, but Rendon preferred certainty over speculation.
A young scullery maid, no older than sixteen, hesitated before stepping forward. Her hands trembled as she clutched her apron. "Sir, I... I don't know if it means anything, but I saw a shadow near the eastern gate two nights ago. It moved strangely, like it knew where to go."
Rendon focused on her immediately. "Did you see a face?"
She shook her head quickly. "No, sir, only the shape. But I think whoever it was had a limp."
A limp? That was a lead small, but significant. It meant their traitor wasn't just anyone. Someone in the manor had been injured recently, and Rendon would find out who.
"Good work," he told the girl. "Keep this to yourself."
Stepping back into the night, Rendon felt the first pieces of the puzzle clicking into place. The traitor was close closer than anyone realized. And if he played his cards right, they would make a mistake soon enough.
Rendon stepped into the young master's chamber, his sharp eyes scanning the surroundings with practiced precision. The room was tidy almost unnaturally so, given the chaos that had unfolded just days prior. The maids had done their jobs well, erasing any immediate traces of the assassin's presence.
But Rendon knew better than to trust the surface. A clean room did not mean an undisturbed one.
He moved with careful deliberation, his leather-gloved fingers brushing against the furniture as he studied the placement of each item. The assassin had entered and exited without detection, which meant there had to be something some sign of their movements that had gone unnoticed by the untrained eye.
He crouched by the window, inspecting the wooden frame. The locks were intact, with no sign of tampering. "Not the entry point," he murmured to himself. His gaze shifted to the floor beneath the window, but the thick carpet showed no obvious impressions.
Turning his attention to the bed, he checked the sheets. They had been changed, of course, but the assassin had come for the young master there was a chance they had interacted with the bedding in some way. He leaned in, pressing his fingers against the mattress, testing for anything unusual. Nothing.
Rendon exhaled through his nose, his mind already working through possibilities. "If there's no trace of forced entry, then the assassin was let in."
His next target was the writing desk. He checked the edges for scratches, the drawers for signs of forced entry. Nothing seemed out of place, yet something nagged at him. He slid a drawer open, fingers brushing over neatly stacked parchment and quills. The ink pot had been refilled recently, its surface smooth and undisturbed.
He almost closed the drawer before something caught his eye faint scratches along the inner wall, too subtle for casual notice. He traced them with a fingertip, feeling the slight indentation in the wood. It was as if something had been hastily removed, dragged across the surface.
His pulse quickened. This was something.
He leaned in, studying the markings closer. They were uneven, as if an object had been yanked free in a moment of urgency. "Was something taken from here?" he wondered aloud.
Rendon straightened, his mind assembling the puzzle. A missing item, a perfect entry with no sign of forced access, and an assassin who knew exactly where to go.
"This wasn't an outside job," he muttered, his eyes darkening. "Someone inside the manor had a hand in this."
His search had not yielded a definitive answer, but it had given him something more important: a direction. If the assassin had assistance from within, then his next step was clear.
The next day.
Rendon sat in his dimly lit office, poring over the reports from his men. The investigation had been meticulous, retracing the assassin's every step, yet there was still a missing link the connection between the killer and someone inside the manor. That connection had to exist, and Rendon knew from experience that silence often spoke louder than words.
One particular detail had caught his attention: the unusual absence of a certain servant on the night of the attack. While most of the manor's staff had accounted for their whereabouts, one man a footman named Callen had not been seen at his usual post. His absence had been noted in passing but dismissed as mere coincidence. Now, with no other leads, coincidence was not something Rendon could afford to trust.
"Callen," Rendon muttered to himself, tapping a finger on the parchment. "Where were you that night?"
Rather than act immediately, Rendon decided on a different approach. If Callen was indeed involved, he would be cautious now. A direct accusation could send him into hiding or, worse, make him desperate. No, this had to be handled carefully.
He dispatched two of his most discreet men to watch Callen's movements. No questioning, no confrontation just quiet observation. If the man was guilty, he would make a mistake sooner or later. And sure enough, it did not take long.
Two days later, one of Rendon's informants returned with news. Callen had been seen slipping out of the manor grounds late at night, meeting with a cloaked figure near the eastern district. When questioned by another servant the next morning, he had given a vague and inconsistent excuse about visiting a sick relative. That was the mistake Rendon had been waiting for.
Without hesitation, Rendon ordered Callen's silent capture. His men moved swiftly, intercepting him just as he attempted to leave the manor again under the cover of darkness.
"You should have stayed where you belonged, Callen," Rendon said coldly as his men restrained the struggling footman. "Now, you'll tell us everything."
The investigation was far from over, but the first real crack in the mystery had appeared. And Rendon would make sure to pry it open until the truth was laid bare.