Chapter 38: Rat Trap

Last Night

The flickering torchlight cast long, jagged shadows across the cold stone walls of a subterranean dungeon.

Arya exhaled a soft, agonized groan, her eyelashes fluttering open as consciousness slowly returned to her.

Her mind was foggy, her body aching from where she had been thrown against the stone wall in Lord Aaron’s chambers earlier that evening.

As her eyes adjusted to the dim light of the pitch-black holding cell, her heart instantly skipped a beat.

Realizing she was bound in an unfamiliar location, she scrambled to push herself upright, her breath catching in her throat as panic surged through her chest.

"I wouldn’t move if I were you, little rat," a smooth, chilling voice echoed from the darkness.

Arya froze in sheer terror.

A tall figure stepped out from the oppressive shadows into the faint glow of the iron brazier.

It was Malcolm Tezor.

The sole heir of Javeren County and the chief strategist of the Sixth Successor’s faction.

His sharp black eyes glinted with malicious amusement, a cold, mocking smirk playing across his lips.

The moment Arya recognized his face, her legs gave out.

She collapsed onto her knees, pressing her forehead flat against the damp floor, her voice trembling violently as tears spilled from her eyes.

"P-Please, Master Malcolm! Mercy!" Arya sobbed desperately. "I know I failed Lord Aaron! I know I made a mistake! Please, I beg of you... give me a second chance! I will do anything! Anything!"

Malcolm let out a quiet, amused chuckle, crossing his arms over his chest as he looked down at the trembling maid.

"Calm yourself, Arya," Malcolm spoke smoothly, his voice dripping with condescension. "You should consider yourself extraordinarily blessed. The only reason your head is still attached to your shoulders is because Lord Aaron, in his immense magnanimity, has decided to grant you that second chance you so desperately crave."

Arya’s breath hitched.

She slowly lifted her head, her face pale as a sheet. "A... a second chance?"

"Indeed," Malcolm smirked, his eyes narrowing into thin, predatory slits.

"However... absolute incompetence cannot go unpunished. Lord Aaron’s wrath requires a toll."

Arya’s heart raced against her ribs like a trapped bird.

A terrible, agonizing knot twisted in her stomach as a horrifying question consumed her mind:

What punishment?

SNAP!

Malcolm casually snapped his fingers.

From the dark corridor outside the cell, the sudden, shrill screams of crying children shattered the heavy silence.

Arya jolted violently, her blood running instantly cold.

Heavy, steel-plated boots clanked against the stone floor as a hulking soldier marched into the cell. In his broad, calloused hands, he dragged two tiny, frail young girls by their hair.

The twin children, no older than six years old, were covered in deep, weeping whip scars, dark bruises, and ragged cloth rags.

"L-Lia?! Mia?!" Arya shrieked, her voice breaking into a ragged scream.

These twin girls were her younger sisters—the only surviving blood relatives she had left in the world after their parents had perished years ago.

Bound as indentured slaves to the Sixth Successor’s estate, they were forced into hard labor, serving as absolute leverage to ensure Arya’s complete, unwavering obedience as a spy.

"On your knees, bitch," Malcolm commanded coldly.

Arya scrambled back onto her knees without a second thought, her hands shaking uncontrollably as she stared at her weeping sisters.

"Master Malcolm, please! They are innocent! They know nothing! Take my life instead! Punish me!"

Malcolm ignored her desperate pleas entirely.

He stepped toward the two crying girls, inspecting them with a cruel, bored expression.

"Lord Aaron was thoroughly humiliated in the colosseum today because of your failure to poison the Seventh Child," Malcolm said, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather.

"Because his rage is vast, a mere whipping for you would be far too lenient. Therefore, as payment for your failure... you will watch one of your precious sisters die."

"NO! NO! PLEASE, GOD, NO!" Arya screamed hysterically, throwing herself forward, but the soldier easily kicked her back to the ground.

"MASTER MALCOLM! I BEG YOU! SPARE THEM! SPARE THEM!"

Malcolm offered no mercy. He gave a subtle, silent nod to the armored guard.

Without a single moment of hesitation, the soldier reached down, gripped the hair of the left twin—little Lia—and drew a jagged, vicious trench dagger from his belt.

SPURT!

Before Arya could even draw another breath, the soldier drove the heavy blade straight through the top of the child’s skull.

The young girl’s cries were instantly cut short.

Her small, fragile body went completely limp, collapsing onto the cold stone floor as a crimson pool of warm blood expanded rapidly across the dungeon tiles.

"LIAAAAAA!" Arya’s frantic scream turned into a raw, gut-wrenching wail that echoed endlessly through the dark subterranean halls.

She clawed frantically at the stone floor, her fingernails snapping as she wept uncontrollably, her face soaked in tears and sweat as she stared at the lifeless body of her little sister.

Malcolm stepped over the expanding puddle of blood, his grin widening at the absolute despair consuming the girl’s broken expression.

"Be grateful, Arya," Malcolm murmured, leaning down until his dark eyes were mere inches from her face.

"Lord Aaron graciously allowed your second sister to live. But remember this moment clearly: if you fail us a second time... Mia will join her twin in the dirt."

With a callous wave of his hand, Malcolm signaled the soldier.

The guard grabbed the remaining, traumatized child by the arm, dragging the crying, screaming Mia back into the dark depths of the dungeon until her faint, terrified voice faded into complete silence.

Arya lay on the floor for a long, agonizing moment, her body shivering wildly as her tears mixed with her sister’s blood on the floor.

Slowly, methodically, she dug her nails into her palms, forcing herself to stop crying.

She buried the unbearable grief deep within her chest, hardening her eyes into dark, hollow stones.

She pushed herself back onto her knees, wiping her bloody face with her sleeve.

"What..." Arya choked out, her voice raspy and devoid of life as she looked up at Malcolm.

"...What must I do?"

***

Present Day — Heaven’s Net Castle

Arya stood near the grand archway leading out of the Grand Throne Room, a bright, innocent, and cheerful smile plastered flawlessly across her face.

To anyone watching, she looked like nothing more than a devoted, affectionate personal maid waiting dutifully for her master.

Nobody could ever divine the dark, terrifying trauma buried beneath her sweet demeanor, nor the absolute desperation driving her every action.

The heavy double doors swung open, and Craig emerged from the throne room, his royal crimson cloak billowing behind him as he stepped into the hallway.

The moment Craig stepped into view, Arya rushed forward with light, eager steps, bowing her head gracefully before him.

"Lord Craig!" Arya chirped, her voice dripping with childlike excitement.

"Ah, forgive me—I should say Lord Viscount now! Congratulations on your grand title, my Lord! And congratulations on your legendary victory at the Dragon’s Calling Ceremony! I knew you would achieve greatness!"

Craig paused, a warm, gentle smile touching his lips as he looked down at the maiden.

"Thank you, Arya. Your kind words are always appreciated."

Arya tilted her head curiously, taking a subtle, peek past Craig’s shoulder toward the quiet interior of the throne room, where the scent of fresh blood still lingered faintly in the air.

"Um... Lord Viscount?" Arya asked in a hushed, conspiratorial whisper, her eyes wide with innocent curiosity.

"What happened in there? I thought I heard a strange noise earlier..."

Before Craig could offer an answer, a heavy, armored hand slammed onto the hilt of a sword.

"Silence!" Ser Hughway roared, stepping forward aggressively and cutting Arya off.

The Guardian Knight’s face was contorted into a sharp, terrifying glare as he looked down at the maid, his voice echoing loudly down the corridor.

"Know your place, girl! You are a mere servant! How dare an unranked maid pry into the high administrative affairs of the nobility?!"

Arya flinched violently, shrinking back with a look of genuine terror, clutching her apron.

Craig immediately turned around, raising a hand to check his knight. "Calm yourself, Hughway. There is no need to raise your voice at a young girl who is simply worried for my well-being."

"Forgive me, Lord Viscount," Hughway replied, bowing his head stiffly, though his eyes remained cold as stone. "I merely seek to maintain proper court decorum."

Craig turned back to Arya, offering a gentle, apologetic smile as he patted her shoulder reassuringly.

"Do not mind him, Arya. But Hughway is technically correct—there are certain high-level matters of the realm that I cannot disclose to you for your own safety. Go rest in the inner chambers; you have had a long journey."

"Y-Yes, Lord Viscount... thank you for your mercy," Arya murmured, lowering her head in a deep, grateful bow.

Craig gave her one final, warm nod before turning on his heel, walking down the marble corridor toward his private quarters.

Ser Hughway fell into step directly behind him, his boots clicking in a steady, rhythmic cadence against the stone.

The moment their backs were fully turned to the maid, the warm, gentle expression on Craig’s face vanished instantly, replaced by a cold, razor-sharp smirk.

Ser Hughway’s aggressive outburst hadn’t been a slip of temper—it was a carefully orchestrated performance, executed strictly according to Craig’s prior instructions.

By having Hughway publicly shut her down while Craig played the role of the merciful, trusting master, they reinforced Arya’s false belief that Craig remained completely oblivious to her true identity.

They were giving her just enough leash to feel safe, pushing her to take bigger, more desperate risks to extract intelligence for Aaron.

The rat believed she was pulling the strings.

In reality, the Seventh Viscount had already built the cage—and Arya was walking straight into it.