The Golden-Winter Hall gleamed as if polished with light. The enormous white walls reflected the warm illumination of the dozens of suspended chandeliers, and the marble floor was so immaculate that Demon could see his own silhouette distorted in golden hues.
As soon as he entered, the murmur of the hall shifted slightly—almost imperceptible, but noticeable enough for someone trained to observe subtleties. Some female gazes immediately turned in his direction; others lingered seconds longer, with clearly evaluative expressions.
Ester had indeed exaggerated.
The tailored suit molded his body with military perfection, giving him an almost aristocratic presence. His hair, slightly combed back, gave him an air of dangerous maturity. And his naturally calm, almost feline posture only reinforced the impression of someone who didn’t need to prove anything to anyone.
But Demon wasn’t there to be seen.
Quite the opposite.
The soft background music, accompanied by strings and flutes, made the atmosphere even more distracting, something he could use to his advantage.
He tried to discreetly circulate along the edge of the hall, ignoring:
— the ladies whispering amongst themselves,
— the young men glancing at him with jealous irritation,
— and even some older nobles trying to identify him.
Demon was nobody.
And that was precisely what made him dangerous.
"I need to get out of here before someone starts a conversation," he thought, mentally assessing possible escape routes.
The hall had: two main, heavily guarded exits, side corridors closed to the public, an area where servants passed carrying trays with goblets, and service doors invisible to anyone not paying attention.
He was paying very close attention.
On the opposite side of the hall, he noticed a darker wooden door, discreetly ajar each time a servant pushed a tray in or out. It was a service entrance. No guards. But always busy.
The opportunity was there—but only if he could synchronize with the movement of the staff.
Instructor Helvar, who was in the hall to supervise the summoned students, climbed onto the small central platform and began organizing papers, probably preparing for the formal part of the event.
This meant: more attention focused on the instructor, less attention focused on a freshman student standing in the corner, nobles beginning to gather to listen to the speeches, and servants taking advantage of the commotion to quickly replenish drinks.
Perfect.
Demon then approached the side table, where some wines were being repositioned. A staff member was standing with his back turned, changing glasses. The young man leaned over, picked up an empty tray, and held it firmly, as if he were part of the staff.
No one questioned him.
No one looked twice.
He had learned early on: When you act like you belong, people rarely doubt you.
With silent steps, Demon followed behind two servants who passed through the dark door. They didn’t even notice his presence.
When he crossed the threshold, the muffled sound of the hall was replaced by the low hum of service corridors.
And no one missed him.
The narrow corridor smelled of old wood and soap. It was a part of the palace that nobles would never tread—staff staircases, small passageways, doors to kitchens, pantries, and internal service routes.
"The Duke’s safe... where would a nobleman put something like that?"
Probably in his personal office.
And Demon had observed, on the map he had seen by chance at the Academy, that:
The administrative wing was behind the hall, but on the upper floor.
Perfect.
He walked quickly through the passageways until he found a side staircase that led to the second floor. Guards didn’t usually stay on service staircases—they were on the main staircases, where nobles passed.
He climbed carefully, trying to keep his steps light, his body low, his breathing controlled. When he reached the top of the stairs, he heard voices.
Two maids were talking while carrying clean laundry.
"...and I told you, the Duke doesn’t use that small office anymore."
"But the Duchess-Regent does. A lot."
The information made him stop. Small office. Duchess-Regent.
"That explains the activity."
If the Duchess-Regent was using the old office, it meant the place was active—and probably storing important things.
Demon waited for the two to leave and then followed the silent corridor.
He then continued to the administrative area of the mansion...
The difference between the noble corridors and the service corridors was striking: the carpets were thicker, there were paintings with coats of arms and old paintings, statues leaning against illuminated niches, and large windows that let in golden light.
A patrol of guards marched slowly ahead.
Demon immediately retreated, pressing himself against a side door and waiting for the patrol to pass.
Another old lesson echoed in his mind: Move while people are moving. Stop when people stop.
With steps synchronized to the sound of his boots, he silently veered into a small side corridor.
The palace was a labyrinth... and he was enjoying it.
After a few minutes of careful exploration, Demon finally found a door unlike the others. It was heavier, with reinforced hinges, and displayed the Arven family crest carved in the center.
"Private office."
He pressed his ear to it.
Silence.
No voices, no footsteps, no pen scratching paper.
Nothing.
Before entering, he tested the doorknob.
Locked.
It was obvious it would be.
But Demon hadn’t come unprepared.
Inside the suit’s inner pocket—carefully tailored by Ester—was a fine set of makeshift lock-picking tools, hidden in an almost invisible compartment. Ester had no idea he used that pocket for that purpose.
With light, precise, almost musical movements, he inserted the small blade, twisted it, slid it... He heard the soft click.
And slowly opened the door.
The smell was of parchment, ink, and waxed wood.
The office was smaller than he expected, but elegant: a large oak desk in the center, shelves crammed with books and documents, a narrow window, and framed maps of Arven and neighboring territories.
But what really caught his attention was the metal bookcase behind the desk.
It wasn’t decorative.
It was protected.
A discreet iron panel beside it indicated a magical opening mechanism—probably activated by a password, a symbol, or a specific touch.
"Important things are here," Demon murmured softly.
He approached and examined the panel.
It didn’t seem simple.
There were arcane inscriptions, combined with identifying runes and a crystal that likely monitored authorized magical presence.
Demon wasn’t a mage—but he knew how to interact with magic.
Mostly security magic.
He gently placed his hand on the side of the panel, feeling the energy field vibrate faintly.
It was an ancient system.
And ancient systems had patterns.
"If I press the wrong button... it will trigger an alarm."
He took a deep breath, trying to feel where the energy was most stable—most gentle—most vulnerable.
And he found a cold spot in the lower corner.
"Ah... so this is where you hide your weakness."
Before acting, however, he heard footsteps.
Quick footsteps.
Coming from the hallway.
Someone was approaching.
Demon mentally silenced all internal noise and instinctively moved, sliding behind the door, leaning against the wall, controlling his breathing, and keeping his hand close to the dagger hidden in his suit—the only thing Ester couldn’t see or she would have freaked out.
The footsteps stopped right in front of the door.
Someone typed something on the lock.
The door opened.
And Demon remained motionless, shadow within shadow.
A woman entered.
The Duchess-Regent.
Dark cloak, imposing posture, precise movements.
She walked to the table, quickly shuffled some papers, and sighed.
"If this event hadn’t completely taken over the center of Arven, I would have already resolved this," she murmured to herself. "This safe... needs to be relocated."
Relocated?
Demon almost raised his head to look, but restrained himself.
The Duchess approached the metal bookcase.
She placed her hand directly on the crystal.
The structure glowed, runes lit up, and...
A panel slid aside, revealing a hidden compartment within the wall.
It wasn’t an ordinary safe.
It was something much older.
And much more powerful.
The Duchess picked up a small artifact wrapped in runes, took a deep breath, and stored it in an inner compartment of the bookcase.
Then she reactivated the lock.
Before leaving, however, she stopped.
"I need to increase the security of this," she murmured, frowning. "Arven can’t take risks. Especially not now."
And then she left.
The door closed behind her.
Silence returned.
Only then did Demon dare to take a deep breath.
And smile.
He had seen everything... where she touched it, which crystal lit up, in what sequence the runes reacted, and which compartment opened.
He didn’t need to fully open the mechanism—just enough to discover:
what was being hidden there... and why.
But he needed to be quick.
The event would continue for another hour or two, but someone could appear at any moment.
He approached the panel again.
He repeated the gestures he had observed.
The crystal glowed—weaker than when the Duchess touched it, but it glowed.
Runes activated.
The panel slid slowly.
Behind it...
...the secret compartment was visible.
Demon reached out his hand.
And he found it: an old map, marked with strange magic... He looked at it and couldn’t help but wonder...
’It was pretty obvious that this is what Elizabeth wanted, right?...’ he thought as he tucked it into his clothes, ’Mission accomplished. Now... I need to go back.’ He thought.