REINHARDT'S POV
I rose slowly, brushing the dust off my tattered clothes. The opportunity presented itself like a chess game with all the pieces ready for the first move.
—What's your name? —Daphne asked me.
—Reinhardt —I replied, opting to use my real name since there was no need to complicate things unnecessarily—. And thank you very much for your kindness, my lady Daphne.
—Just Daphne is fine —she smiled—. Formalities make me feel strange. Come on, you must be very tired and hungry.
As they led me toward the carriage, I discreetly observed the guards surrounding us. They weren't mere escorts; the tension in their postures, the tactical way they positioned themselves, and how their eyes constantly scanned the surroundings told me they had highly advanced professional training. They were likely "ex-vigilants," I deduced from the slight stiffness in their left posture, typical of elite military academy training. Their uniforms, elegant yet functional, with discreet insignias embroidered on the cuffs that I recognized as the Eisenberg family crest, confirmed that this family wielded significant influence and wealth, possibly connected to the highest circles of power.
Vigilants were far more than a simple police force in our broken society; they represented the true backbone of security in the capital. They were the most prestigious military arm, revered not only for maintaining peace in Sherazade but also for ensuring access to vital resources that allowed its citizens to thrive amid the chaos outside. Their authority surpassed that of any other military faction, precisely because they were directly commanded by the Three Exalted Clans.
Their responsibilities wove through the entire social structure like a spider's web: they tirelessly patrolled the streets of Danafor and Sherazade, guarded the Church and the majestic Parliament building with iron determination, investigated every crime, apprehended offenders without hesitation, and enforced the Senate's laws with relentless efficiency. They also oversaw high-ranking officials, regularly collected taxes, distributed land based on complex productivity calculations, and, in their most esteemed role, served as unwavering royal guards. The complex hierarchy of departments and ranks within their structure not only maintained social order but embodied it in every aspect of daily life.
The carriage's interior surpassed my most elaborate expectations: the seats were upholstered in deep blue velvet, clearly sourced from the exclusive looms of the eastern provinces; the wooden details revealed meticulous craftsmanship in what I identified as oak imported from the forbidden northern forests; and the small carved crystal lamps emitted a warm, steady light, powered by high-purity oil, a luxury only the wealthiest families could afford in times of scarcity. I settled in cautiously, aware that my worn and patched clothing starkly contrasted with this opulent environment. This visual contrast, however, could prove advantageous in reinforcing my carefully crafted cover.
—Where are you from? —Daphne asked with genuine curiosity, breaking the contemplative silence that had dominated the first minutes of the journey.
—From a small village to the south —I replied, keeping my story simple yet believable, as Mica had taught me—. I came to the capital looking for opportunities.
—And your family?
—I don't have a family —I murmured, letting a shadow of genuine sadness seep into my voice—. That's why I came here.
Daphne's expression softened further, and I could sense her natural compassion intensifying. It was exactly the reaction I had anticipated based on my prior observations of her charitable behavior.
—I'm so sorry —she whispered—. But don't worry. You'll be safe in my home and have everything you need.
Her sincerity seemed genuine, which slightly complicated my emotions. In my analysis, I had assumed she would be a superficial noble driven solely by aristocratic guilt or social exhibitionism. However, the depth of her empathy suggested more complex motivations.
As we moved through Sherazade's main arteries, I gazed with apparent indifference at the mansions and administrative buildings passing by, each structure more imposing than the last. The carriage finally turned onto an avenue flanked by centuries-old trees and stopped in front of a three-story residence that resembled a miniature palace, built with white marble that reflected the moonlight as if made of pure crystal.
—Welcome to my home —Daphne announced as she descended from the carriage with the assistance of her guards—. I hope you feel comfortable here.
The Eisenberg mansion was an elegantly disguised fortress; its gardens, seemingly designed for aesthetic purposes, actually provided a perfectly clear line of sight to all entrances. I identified at least eight guards patrolling strategically among the ornamental hedges and bronze statues. The security was overwhelming yet discreet, an unmistakable sign of genuine wealth and consolidated power.
—It's… truly beautiful —I admitted sincerely, allowing my face to betray a hint of youthful awe.
Daphne smiled, pleased by my reaction, and I detected a glimmer of genuine pride in her gaze.
—Wait until you see the interior. My father collects marvelous things from all over the world.
As we ascended the main staircase, I noticed how the guards escorted us, maintaining a respectful yet tactically effective distance. The monumental carved oak doors, which I estimated weighed no less than two hundred kilograms each, opened with surprising silence, revealing a vaulted-ceiling foyer adorned with frescoes depicting ancient legends and crystal chandeliers whose complexity and purity I calculated could purchase several hectares of fertile land.
—Welcome, my lady Daphne —greeted a butler with a tolerant smile and advanced age, executing a perfect bow.
—Thank you, Edgar —she replied with familiar cordiality—. This is Reinhardt, our guest. Please prepare the guest room in the east wing and serve a light dinner in my study.
—As you wish, my lady —the butler gave me a brief but intense glance, which I recognized as that of someone trained in threat assessment, before disappearing with surprising agility down a side corridor. His upright posture and the way he observed me indicated he almost certainly had military or intelligence training. He was definitely not a mere servant.
Daphne led me through hallways adorned with paintings and sculptures of incalculable historical and artistic value. I followed, projecting a studied teenage indifference while mentally mapping every nook, door, and potential passage, as I had learned to do since my early years in the orphanage. I counted three possible alternative evacuation routes and determined that the east wing, where I would be lodged, offered direct access to the rear gardens, a potentially crucial detail if an unconventional exit became necessary.
If the mysterious disappearances were indeed linked to Sherazade's elite, as Mica had theorized when assigning me this dangerous infiltration mission, I could hardly have found a more strategic position from which to conduct my covert investigation.
In the main hall, dominated by an imposing fireplace protected by intricately forged safety bars with hypnotic patterns, Daphne's family was quietly enjoying their evening tea. The room was decorated with majestic furniture I identified as authentic mahogany imported from the eastern continent and a gleaming glass table covered with exotic fruits artfully arranged on delicate porcelain that, by its characteristics, seemed to originate from the legendary imperial factories.
—Ah, Daphne's brought someone again —commented a man occupying the main armchair, clearly the figure of authority in the room, in a neutral tone.
He was a robust yet not athletic man, with neatly trimmed gray hair styled according to the aesthetic standards of the mercantile aristocracy, a meticulously maintained mustache framing thin lips accustomed to issuing orders, and piercing dark brown eyes that, like a deep lake in an ancient forest, conveyed an inscrutable sense of psychological depth. He wore a brown silk shirt complemented by a blood-red silk tie and black shoes that reflected the light with a shine that betrayed recent, meticulous polishing. His presence radiated a natural authority cultivated over decades of wielding power; he seemed to possess the unsettling ability to unravel others' thoughts and intimidate with a single glance.
—It's becoming quite a family tradition —added the woman seated beside him with slight irony—. I wonder how many she's picked up so far.