CHAPTER TWELVE: Settling Down
Blade draped a thicker blanket over Milani and Lenora, their bodies curled in exhausted slumber, seeking refuge from the day’s horrors. A cool breeze filtered through the half-opened window above the bed—the only source of fresh air in the small, stifling room.
Satisfied that they were warm enough, he stepped out, closing the door softly behind him. His descent down the stairs was unhurried, yet his thoughts stormed violently. The morning’s events played in his mind, stirring something unfamiliar.
His conviction about Milani was unraveling. For so long, he had believed she was his enemy, a plant meant to destroy him. But his body betrayed his own strength—old wounds festered, memories tormented him, and the weight of Vesper’s death had carved out something vital within him, leaving only silence in its wake.
And then he had seen her fight. Seen the way she protected Lenora without hesitation. And just like that, doubt seeped into the foundation of his certainty.
Somewhere in the house, hidden away, a silent observer lingered. One of the Robes had wedged himself between stacks of books, using their bulk as both a burden and a shield. The dusty cloth draped over him made breathing difficult, but it granted him a vantage point, allowing him to watch without being seen.
Blade had nearly thrown himself into battle earlier—his instincts screamed for it—but he had held back. He hadn’t the strength to take on Elder Hans alone, let alone his men. Charging in recklessly would have only ended in disaster, leaving Lenora vulnerable, stolen from his grasp. So he had watched, heart clenched, as the women endured their torment.
Now, at the foot of the stairs, he exhaled, rubbing his face roughly. It was over—for now.
He moved toward the kitchen, intending to quench his parched throat. But as he entered, he found someone already there.
Seated at the dining table, tea in hand, was Conir.
“Doctor Conir, right?” Blade’s voice was even, but there was a thread of recollection in it. The man nodded.
Blade took a seat across from him, slumping into the chair, his head tilting toward the ceiling. “You arrived just in time earlier. If you hadn’t…” He trailed off, the weight of unspoken gratitude settling between them.
Conir said nothing. Instead, he took another sip of his tea.
A long silence stretched before Conir finally spoke. “So, do you believe your wife loves you now?”
Blade’s eyes flickered, then he looked away, feigning deafness. He had no interest in discussing his supposed marriage with a stranger.
Instead, he changed the subject. “Who owns this house?”
Conir, unfazed, pressed on. “I asked you a question.”
Blade persisted. “I saw the wardrobe. The furniture. Even found a duvet. For a village this simple, this house belonged to someone of wealth.”
Conir’s patience thinned. “Your wife is doing everything she can to protect you, yet you—”
“The books.” Blade cut him off, his tone sharpening. “No schools here, yet textbooks everywhere. Strange, don’t you think?”
The shift in topic didn’t go unnoticed, but Conir read between the lines. Blade was deliberately diverting attention. And the way he resisted the conversation about Milani…it was almost as if he had something to hide.
“Why are you avoiding my question?” Conir leaned forward slightly, his voice edged with frustration. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
Blade’s gaze snapped to him.
For the first time, suspicion coiled in his chest.
Could the doctor know? Could he have known Milani before Blade ever met her?
“Hiding?” Blade’s voice was quiet but sharp. “From you?”
The realization hit Conir like a slow-moving storm—his concern was unnatural, a flaw in the illusion Milani had carefully crafted. If he wasn’t careful, his words could unravel her entirely.
So he pivoted. “Seven years ago, aristocrats moved here. Hiding from something. Or someone.”
Blade didn’t miss the way Conir dodged his question, but he let it slide. For now.
“The man was a professor. His wife, foreign—looked Asian. Kept to themselves. Never trusted the villagers, feared spies lurked among them.”
Blade said nothing, merely listening.
“They were right to be afraid,” Conir continued. “One day, they were found hanging. A double suicide, the official report claimed. But the knots—they were wrong. It was murder.”
Blade stilled.
The description—it was familiar. Uncomfortably so.
He sat up, his eyes sweeping over the room. Recognition dawned like a slow sunrise.
“No wonder this place felt familiar,” he murmured. “They were my targets.”
Milani choked on her stolen sip of tea. Conir’s eyes widened in disbelief.
“You did not.”
Blade exhaled, almost as if the memory bored him. “I did. The wife fought harder than expected—threw my knot off balance.”
Silence thickened the air.
Milani and Conir stared at him, but Blade simply leaned back, utterly unmoved.
“And you’re not afraid their ghosts will haunt you?!” Milani asked, her mouth still agape.
“Assassins don’t believe in ghosts. And ghosts don’t believe in assassins. Add that to your ‘101 Facts About Assassins’ list.” Blade shrugged, rising to his feet.
“That doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”
“I’ll confirm when I become one.”
Silence crashed over the room like a sudden storm. He didn’t look the part—not to them.
“I should probably thank you for protecting Lenora,” Blade continued, turning to Milani. “But then I remembered—Scarlett Blades never do anything unless it benefits them.”
Milani rolled her eyes. “And the rude guy is back. Can’t you be nice for once in your life?”
Just like that, the conversation shifted, as if it had never carried any weight to begin with. But Conir felt it. He was still stuck on the revelation.
A Black Robe. That wasn’t something to take lightly.
His build, his scars—they already told enough of the story.
Blade walked out, heading toward the living room, leaving Milani and Conir at the table.
“What do we tell Lenora when she wakes up? Something that won’t give her unnecessary trauma?” Milani called out.
Conir leaned closer, voice hushed. “You knew he was a Blade?”
Blade, already halfway into the next room, responded instead. “I don’t care. Tell her whatever you want. But one thing’s certain—we can’t stay here for long.”
Milani nodded absently at Conir before turning to Blade. “So where do we go? We can’t just keep wandering around with a little girl.”
Conir, still intent on his own mystery, mouthed, “How’d you know?”
Milani barely glanced at him as she whispered back, “A pigeon messenger.”
“I haven’t decided yet,” Blade said. “When I do, I’ll let you both know.”
“Who told you?” Conir mouthed again, but Milani couldn’t respond. Blade had reentered the room. Instead, she tapped Conir’s hand twice—a silent promise to explain later.
Conir understood and rose to his feet. “I should take my leave. Take care of yourself. More importantly, take care of the ladies.” He drained the last of his tea and made for the door.
Blade didn’t move. “Forgive us—we won’t be seeing you out.”
The message was clear. Conir and Milani understood immediately.
