Chapter 140: And Attempt At Sabotage [3]

Chapter 140

The cold, quiet air of the secluded corridor seemed to press down with suffocating weight as Sigrid stood before the trembling captive. Pinned firmly against the stone wall by Chester’s iron grip, the young man in the disheveled scholar’s coat offered a pitiful sight. Sigrid narrowed her crimson eyes, studying his youthful, sharp-boned face with intense scrutiny. He could not have been more than a few years older than she, yet his expression was contorted entirely by absolute terror. A strange, fleeting pang of familiarity tugged at the back of her memory as she looked at his face, though she could not immediately place where or when she might have encountered him.

"Why," Sigrid began, her voice dropping into a dangerous, icy register that cut through the silence like a razor, "did you orchestrate the sabotage against the royal courier, seeking to undermine Marquess Caspian and bring humiliation upon House Aethermor?"

The brown-haired man shuddered violently beneath her gaze, his round glasses sliding crookedly down the bridge of his nose. He shook his head frantically from side to side, gasping for breath as he stammered out a terrified denial. "I-I cannot speak of it, Your Grace! If I utter a single word, I shall be dealt with... punished beyond endurance!"

A dark wave of frustration surged through Sigrid’s veins. His stubborn resistance only served to heighten her suspicions, especially since she had initially assumed Lord Sebastian Crownhill acted as the sole mastermind behind the intercepted dispatch. It was now starkly evident that the conspiracy ran far deeper than a petty noble rivalry. Stepping closer, Sigrid drew herself up, radiating cold, absolute authority. "I am willing to listen to whatever explanation you might offer," she stated, her tone cold and absolute. "However, if you persist in concealing your motivations, I shall personally drag you before the King to answer for this act of treason."

She dropped her gaze down to his rumpled, ink-stained attire, noting the unmistakable fabric of a royal academic uniform. "Furthermore, I shall ensure your immediate dismissal from the academy, stripping away your titles and any professional standing you possess, leaving you to suffer the full weight of my wrath for daring to cross me."

The young man shrieked in absolute panic, his legs trembling so violently that he nearly collapsed against Chester’s grip. "No, no! Please, Your Grace, I beg of you, do not take this to the King!" he wailed in sheer desperation, tears of fright pricking the corners of his eyes. "I shall explain everything! Every detail! Just... not here in this open hallway!"

Sigrid observed him closely, her perception noting the raw, unadulterated terror written across his face. He was not acting; his fear was entirely genuine. Satisfied that he was broken enough to cooperate, she flicked her gaze toward her veteran knight. "Release him, Chester." Chester loosened his grip immediately, stepping back while keeping a watchful hand near his sword hilt as the scholar stumbled forward, gasping for air and clutching his bruised collar. "Follow me," the young man muttered nervously, turning down a narrower side passage that led deep into the palace’s restricted administrative wing.

Sigrid, flanked by Lilith, Chester, and Maude, trailed closely behind the trembling captive through a series of winding, stone-flagged corridors until they reached a heavy wooden door bearing a polished brass plaque. The scholar fumbled through his coat pockets with shaking fingers, retrieved a heavy brass key, and unlocked the reinforced door. He pushed it open and gestured nervously for them to enter.

Stepping across the threshold, Sigrid found herself inside a vast, dimly lit chamber filled with rows of polished mahogany laboratory tables, bubbling glass test tubes, heavy iron cylinders, and an array of complex chemical apparatuses, scrolls, and specimen jars. The scholar hurried to the center of the room, turned to face his uninvited guests, and offered a weak, deeply apologetic bow. "I am Professor Alistair Veymont," he introduced himself breathlessly, adjusting his crooked spectacles. "Grand Royal Alchemist and Chief Pathologist of the Crown."

Sigrid’s crimson eyes widened slightly in genuine surprise. She had anticipated a minor academic clerk or a hired mercenary coordinator, not one of the highest-ranking scientific minds in the royal administration. A Royal Alchemist, she thought privately, her mind racing. What business does the crown’s chief pathologist have mixing himself in high-court political sabotage?

Noticing the dark, assessing frown plastered across the Duchess’s face, Professor Alistair cleared his throat nervously, his hands wringing together in distress. "Speak, Professor Veymont," Sigrid commanded, her voice slicing through the chemical hum of the laboratory. "Explain precisely why you took it upon yourself to orchestrate the ambush against the King’s messenger."

Alistair gulped audibly, his knees shaking so intensely that he was forced to lean against the edge of a sturdy lab table for support. He stared directly into Sigrid’s crimson eyes, finding no mercy within them. "I was threatened, Your Grace," he confessed, his voice cracking with anxiety.

Sigrid arched a sharp brow, stepping further into the room. "What do you mean by that?"

"I harbor no personal animosity toward Marquess Caspian, nor toward you, Duchess," Alistair babbled frantically, desperate to absolve himself of direct malice from a Duchess. "I was merely a pawn caught in a far larger web."

"Then name the person pulling the strings," Sigrid demanded coldly.

Alistair swallowed hard, his voice dropping to a terrified whisper. "It was Viscount Edric Fairmont who paid me to execute the scheme."

Sigrid’s features shifted in profound astonishment. Viscount Edric Fairmont? The very man who stood on the dais representing Marquess Tristan Bellamy? "Marquess Bellamy’s primary supporter?" she muttered aloud, processing the implication.

"Yes, Your Grace," Alistair confirmed miserably.

Sigrid crossed her arms over her velvet bodice, her mind dissecting the contradiction. "If Viscount Fairmont was the one who commanded you, why was Lord Sebastian Crownhill’s family crest found embroidered upon the discarded fabric near the ambush site? Were Lord Sebastian and the Viscount not supposed to be political friends?"

Alistair flinched, a deep mask of shame and dread twisting his pale features. "That was... an intentional deception staged to deflect suspicion," he admitted reluctantly. "Lord Sebastian was entirely complicit in the conspiracy. From what I managed to piece together through my involuntary involvement, Viscount Edric holds considerable leverage over Marquess Tristan Bellamy, while Lord Sebastian sought to secure his own future by aligning secretly with their faction."

Sigrid narrowed her eyes, stepping closer to the frightened alchemist. "Elaborate, Professor. Explain what you mean."

Alistair hesitated, casting a nervous glance toward Chester, whose imposing, heavily armored frame blocked the exit like a statue of judgment. Feeling the suffocating pressure closing in around him, Alistair finally broke entirely. "When I delivered my periodic pharmacological reports to Viscount Fairmont’s estate, I inadvertently overheard a private discourse between Marquess Tristan, Lord Sebastian, and the Viscount," Alistair confessed, speaking rapidly. "They were finalizing their strategy for seizing absolute control of the parliamentary council once Marquess Tristan ascends to the office of Lord Chancellor."

Sigrid’s expression hardened into ice. So they operated under the absolute assumption that Bellamy’s victory was already guaranteed.

"They view Marquess Caspian Warwick not as a legitimate political rival, but merely an irritating pest standing in the path of their ambition,"

Alistair continued, his voice trembling. "They firmly believe that because Marquess Tristan possesses unblemished, pureblood noble lineage, the high court will inevitably select him. Lord Sebastian and Viscount Fairmont agreed to assist him behind the scenes in exchange for guaranteed high-ministry appointments once Bellamy assumes power."

Sigrid uncrossed her arms, stepping directly into the alchemist’s personal space, her crimson eyes glowing with an intense, intimidating fury. "So tell me, Professor Veymont," she whispered, her voice dangerously quiet. "Looking around this sprawling laboratory—filled with brand-new, remarkably expensive, and up-to-date equipment—one must wonder why a man of your esteemed academic standing would stoop so wretchedly low as to sabotage an innocent royal courier in a political election."

What possible reason could a chief royal alchemist have to obey the Viscount’s commands? Sigrid questioned internally, studying the alchemist’s genuine, agonizing remorse. He does not carry the demeanor of a natural deceiver or a greedy opportunist.

"You stated that the Viscount threatened you into compliance. Tell me, Professor, exactly what does the Viscount hold over you to make you hire bandits?"

Alistair abruptly interrupted her, stammering out a correction. "Not bandits, Your Grace! The Silver Mantle."

Sigrid paused, repeating the name under her breath, though she momentarily pushed the detail aside to focus on the immediate interrogation. "Nonetheless, what leverage does the Viscount possess against you?"

Alistair’s face twisted into an expression of profound agony and humiliation. His mouth opened, but no words emerged; instead, he squeezed his eyes shut, stubbornly refusing to utter the secret that bound him to the conspiracy.

Sigrid let out a low, cold sigh of utter impatience. "Chester. Hold him down."

Before Alistair could react, Chester moved with terrifying speed, seizing the alchemist by the shoulders and forcing him firmly down into a wooden chair. Alistair let out a sharp, terrified shriek, but Sigrid gestured tersely to her knight. "Muffle him, Chester." Chester immediately pressed a heavy, steel-gauntleted hand across the scholar’s mouth, cutting off his frantic cries.

Sigrid glided forward until she stood mere inches away from the captive alchemist.

She locked her gaze onto the pale scholar. A sharp gleam broke across her crimson eyes—the unmistakable mark of judgment sight preparing to pass absolute judgment

"Tell me the absolute truth," Sigrid commanded quietly, her voice imbued with a hypnotic, otherworldly resonance.

Mysteriously, Alistair’s frantic struggles ceased entirely. His eyes dilated, growing wide and vacant as his jaw slackened. To his utter horror, his mouth began to move completely independent of his own volition, his vocal cords vibrating as a monotone, unbidden confession spilled forth into the quiet laboratory. The secret was wrenched violently from his mind, echoing off the stone walls as the true, dark machinery of the capital’s corruption lay bare before the Duchess of the North.

Time flowed onward, the skies darkened across the skies as the afternoon sun began its slow descent toward the horizon.

Within the luxurious interior of her private ducal carriage, the heavy oak wheels rattled steadily against the cobblestone road, carrying Sigrid away from the grand gates of the capital and back toward the cold sanctuary of the Northern Fortress. The velvet cushions offered a soft seat, yet Sigrid remained rigidly upright, her mind a violent, churning torrent of overwhelming worries and calculated strategies. The information extracted from Professor Alistair had unveiled a web of conspiracy far more dangerous than she had initially calculated would ever be involved in a simple election for lord Chancellor. As the carriage plunged deeper into the shadowed, snow-dusted trails of the northern pass, Sigrid rested her chin upon her gloved hand, her crimson eyes locked on the drifting winter snowflakes outside the glass pane as she silently prepared for the coming storm.