CHAPTER V: BENEATH THE CORPORATE VEIL
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FREDERICK'S office was dim, lit only by a flickering wrought iron lantern that hung above the table, swaying slightly. Its unsteady light cast shifting shadows on the cold stone walls, adding weight to the silence between the two commanders.
Commander Arnold stood upright with arms folded across his chest. His gaze fixed intently on the Grand Commander.
"Well then, Frederick. Are you prepared to discuss the outcome of your interrogation? I must admit, your sudden decision to take a leave of absence earlier morning was entirely unexpected. Such behavior is most uncharacteristic of you, Grand Commander."
Grand Commander Frederick leaned back in his high-backed office chair, the leather groaning softly beneath him. His gloved fingers tapped the armrest in a slow, deliberate rhythm.
Following his parting with Dorothea,
Frederick returned to his office that evening and summoned Commander Arnold for a matter of considerable importance.
Frederick lifted a glass of deep red wine from the polished oak desk, letting the liquid swirl before taking a slow, deliberate sip. His eyes, shadowed by the flickering candlelight, met Arnold's as he finally spoke. "I apologize for that. It was all because hearing his name again unsettled me more than I anticipated."
"His name? Who are you referring to?" Arnold inquired, furrowing his brow as he leaned forward slightly, his curiosity clearly piqued by the vague mention.
"Edward."
At the mention of the name, Arnold's expression darkened noticeably, a shadow of concern crossing his face as he looked toward his superior.
"Tell me everything you've learned," he demanded.
With that, the Grand Commander began to relay the details of his interrogation with the marquis to his trusted subordinate.
During the interrogation, Frederick remembered how Marquis Valegrim recounted the events and revealed everything with a kind of weary detachment, as though the years had dulled the edges of guilt.
Ten years ago, Marquis Valegrim nor his wife had set out to become entangled in the shadows of human trafficking. However, their path changed after an encounter at the king's birthday celebration in London.
There, a masked teenage nobleman with a scar on his face approached Valegrim while he was struggling to find a way to pay off his debts.
The boy extended an offer of financial assistance, but it came tethered to a single, immutable condition. Valegrim would have to swear allegiance and join the Ordo Tenebris– a secret organization promising wealth and power to its members in exchange for complete obedience to its leader.
Pressed by mounting debts and seduced by the prospect of restored prestige, Valegrim was thrilled by the offer and accepted it. But what he entered into was not merely a society, but a vast, well-oiled machine of corruption stretching across Europe. The Ordo Tenebris is involved in secret illicit activities such as bribery, trafficking, forced servitude, coercion and contract killings. All activities were orchestrated under the orders of the cold, calculating sky blue eyes of the same masked young boy known only by the name Edward.
Once the person is initiated, the members are expected to carry out the organization's illegal commands without question. Under the influence and manipulation of higher-ranking officials, Valegrim became involved and obsessed with human trafficking, both to meet the orders of his leader and to preserve his wealth and noble standing.
Valegrim also admitted that he never discovered the true identities of other members or even the leader, as sharing even tiny personal details between the organization was strictly prohibited and punishable by death. Only the leader was aware of everyone's identities. Furthermore, Valegrim had no knowledge of the organization's headquarters, as this information was restricted to a small group of top-ranking individuals. The organization maintains such a high level of secrecy that, upon issuing new directives, Edward personally visits the residence of each member to deliver the orders directly.
After Frederick informed Arnold about the outcome of the interrogation, Arnold narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "Are you certain? He's not just making it up?"
"No," Frederick replied. "He proved it by showing the organization's emblem branded on his chest. Besides, he's too terrified to be lying."
Frederick stepped up to the drawer, retrieved a folded piece of paper, unfolded it, and handed it over. "He said this symbol is branded on every member when they join."
Arnold took the paper and examined it. It was the sketch of a symbol of a flag bearing a cross at its center. "How can you be sure it's the same Edward you once knew? The marquis never had his full name or face, just a description of his hair and eye color. It could easily be someone else."
"He has a cross-shaped scar on his chin," Frederick spoke with conviction. "I gave him that scar during the night of his betrayal." His tone shifted, filled now with fury and resentment.
In that instant, something twisted deep inside Frederick. The gentle mask he wore shattered like brittle glass, exposing the cold, relentless fury that had been festering in the shadows all along.
Arnold couldn't help but feel concerned. The man before him wasn't the respected grand commander anymore. This was Arthur Mountbatten. The innocent boy who had once lost everything... and chose vengeance.
Arnold knew everything. The truth behind Frederick's identity, his hatred towards Edward who betrayed him and his role in the massacre of the Valegrim estate.
After all, he had seen the aftermath firsthand. Arnold was the one who found him bloodied, broken and standing over the corpses of his victims. From that night on, Arnold had become his confidant and had placed his deepest trust in him.
But now, as he saw that old resentment resurface, Arnold couldn't help but feel afraid of the man before him. Not because of his thirst for revenge, but because of the risks Frederick might take if he chose to pursue it.
"For years, I've been crafting the perfect revenge, patiently waiting for the moment to return to London and finish what I started. But fate seems to have thrown me a gift. He's tangled himself in one of the very cases my men have been chasing," Frederick's voice cracked with raw fury. "Whether the Edward I knew and this Edward of Ordo Tenebris are one and the same doesn't matter anymore. I will hunt him down, no matter the cost until justice is served."
A suffocating silence settled between them, thick and oppressive until it was shattered by a sudden, sharp knock at the door, reverberating through the room in the dead of night. Then, cutting through the silence like a razor, came a calm, cold and unmistakably urgent voice.
"Grand Commander, this is Mikkel. I apologize for the intrusion, but I bear urgent news."
The storm raging in Frederick's eyes vanished instantly, replaced by a calm and collected demeanor. "Enter."
Commander Mikkel stepped inside, his face shadowed by a grim seriousness that seemed to weigh down the air itself, as if he carried a darkness too heavy to bear lightly.
"What is it, Mikkel?"
Mikkel hesitated, his words hanging suspended before they fell like a death sentence. "I regret to inform you this but..." Mikkel's voice trailed of. "Marquis Sivert Valegrim is dead."
THE PALE light of dawn filtered through the narrow windows of the knights' headquarters, casting elongated shadows along the cold stone corridors. Dorothea's footsteps echoed softly as she moved through the labyrinthine halls, the unfamiliar weight of her newly issued armor steady against her frame.
Today was her first day training under the grand commander Frederick- a figure as commanding and austere as the ancient fortress itself.
As she approached the courtyard, the subdued murmur of voices emerged from a nearby hallway. Pausing instinctively, Dorothea leaned against the rough wall and listened.
"...the marquis we apprehended yesterday," one knight whispered in a low tense voice. "He died last night. They say someone infiltrated the prison and killed him, but the perpetrator remains unidentified."
"We all knew he was guilty," the other knight responded, suspicion underlying his tone. "But it makes you wonder if someone wanted to ensure his silence."
"Or perhaps it was revenge. Frankly, he deserved it."
The marquis had long been a figure whispered about in rumors. He was a nobleman reputed for his benevolence, yet beneath the surface, he was a disgusting monster who abducted women and children to sell into slavery. That had been his true trade until the knights finally brought him to justice in chains.
Now, however, he was dead.
Dorothea felt a surge of curiosity more intense than the morning sun cresting the fortress walls. But she mentally filed away the overheard conversation like a secret to be uncovered later and continued onward into the courtyard, where Grand Commander Frederick awaited. His tall figure leaned against a tree, his silhouette sharply outlined by the rising light.
"So, you're already here," Dorothea announced, making her presence known. "It seems I'm late."
Frederick turned his head. "No, you're right on time. I simply never left the headquarters last night."
Gathering her courage, Dorothea asked the grand commander about the murmurs she had overheard among the others that still echoed in her mind, refusing to be dismissed.
"Grand Commander Frederick," she ventured, with deference but unmistakable resolve, "may I inquire about the marquis? I have heard… that he died. Is it true?"
Frederick's eyes, sharp and steady as a hawk's, met hers. A shadow flickered across his face— a flicker of something unspoken. Then he nodded, his voice calm but grave. "Yes. It's true. I just got the news right after I went back to my office last night."
"Is that so?" Dorothea posed the question, her features drawing taut. "Did you manage to gather any useful information from him?"
"I did," Frederick replied, his tone measured, though weariness tugged at the edges of his voice. "It's the reason I've scarcely slept since yesterday."
Dorothea studied him more closely, and for the first time, noticed the fatigue that lined his face— the slight sag of his shoulders, the dark circles shadowing his eyes like bruises earned not on the battlefield, but through long hours of unrelenting vigilance.
"You haven't slep, didn't you?" she asked, concern threading her voice despite her attempt to keep it neutral.
"I slept a little," he admitted, though the statement rang hollow. With a quiet exhale, he turned and retrieved a training sword from a nearby rack. The metal caught the morning light as he offered it to her, hilt-first. "I appreciate your concern, but my priority is to begin your training. I can rest afterward."
Though she knew she shouldn't interfere in his life since it was his own body, but his disregard for rest irritated her. He reminded her of her mother, who would often forgo sleep to attend to duties, always placing responsibility above personal well-being just for her sake.
Dorothea refused the sword. "No. You need to rest."
"What?" Frederick regarded her with a flicker of confusion.
"Are you deaf? I said go to your quarters and sleep," she said firmly, giving him a push on his back. "I'll train on my own for now. I can manage since I've been training all by myself before. We can spar when you've regained your strength and some color in your face."
Frederick's expression settled into something between confusion and mild defiance. He let the sword hang loosely at his side.
"You misunderstand," he said evenly. "This training is the most important. Your progress cannot afford delay, and I am fully capable of-"
"You are not," Dorothea interjected, her tone firm. "You may be standing, but your face betrays your exhaustion. I won't accept instruction from someone who looks ready to collapse."
A long silence passed between them, filled only by the gentle rustling of leaves and the distant calls of waking birds. Frederick's gaze narrowed slightly, not with irritation, but with an evaluating calm. He was not accustomed to being contradicted certainly not by a new trainee.
"I see," he said at last then smiled. "You're far more stubborn than I anticipated."
"That's what my mother told me," she replied curtly, arms crossed.
Frederick sighed, his grip on the sword relaxing. "Very well. You've made your point with considerable flair, I might add."
He turned slightly, as if about to head toward the inner hall, then paused to glance back at her. "But I warn you, Lady Dorothea, once I am rested, your training will resume at twice the pace. You've bought yourself a few hours of freedom, nothing more."
"That's all I asked," she said with a slight nod. "Now go before you faint and give the entire Order something to gossip about."
A low, genuine chuckle slipped from Frederick as he turned, his boots echoing softly down the stone corridor. "I'm happy to see you being so concerned over me ever since yesterday." he said, glancing back with a crooked smile. "Almost as if you've fallen for me."
"As if," Dorothea scoffed, rolling her eyes with theatrical flair. "Now, go to sleep, Commander."
He gave a final, lazy salute as he disappeared into the shadows beyond the corridor. "As you command, my lady."
Left alone in the courtyard, Dorothea let out a quiet sigh. His teasing lingered in her mind, and though she would never admit it aloud, she found it mildly vexing. She turned toward the training dummies and unsheathed her sword, muttering under her breath.
"Insufferable man."
And with that, she began to train alone, but focused, determined not to waste the morning she had so fiercely defended.
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Dorothea spent the entire morning training. Her breath came in slow exhales, still warm from exertion, while the chilly morning air clung to her damp hair. Weak sunlight filtered through the clouds as she noticed one of the grand commander's trusted knights, Arnold, walking down the corridor with a serious expression and a scroll in hand.
He approached her. "You're Dorothea Lindhom, right? The new recruit?"
"Yes, Sir," She answered with courtesy, wiping sweat from her brow. "What business do you have with me, Sir?"
"The grand commander's come down with a cold," Arnold said with a sheepish look. "I was going to fetch him some medicine, but the thing is, I don't know what would actually help."
Dorothea gave him a puzzled look, her brows knitting slightly. "But I'm not an apothecary. Why not just ask one in town?"
Her tone might have seemed blunt for someone speaking to a superior, but she was simply being honest.
"I know," Arnold replied, a faint smile playing on his lips, clearly unbothered by her tone. "But the truth is, I just wanted you to come along. You're his favorite, after all. He turns down everything we bring him, so I figured he might accept the medicine if it comes from you."
"You just have to be more stubborn than he is," She shot back, arms tightening over her chest. "And I'm not his favorite. He just enjoys toying with me."
Arnold's smirk widened. "Maybe. But I'm not made for stubborn battles. You, on the other hand..." He let the thought hang. "So. Will you come?"
Dorothea sighed in defeat. "Alright. I've got nothing else to do anyway."
Together, they set off, boots crunching along the gravel road that wound downhill toward the village. The scents of woodsmoke and rising bread wafted through the air, and the chatter of the early market rose with each step.
"Frederick's a capable leader," Arnold said in between their walks. "But he pushes himself too far. I heard he only agreed to rest after you gave him an earful."
"But he's now sick," Dorothea muttered under her breath.
"Still, thank you. Without you, he'd still be pushing himself. Especially now, he won't rest until he finds whoever caused the death of his prey."
Dorothea blinked. "Prey?"
"Marquis Valegrim," Arnold replied. "Frederick's probably frustrated he couldn't make use of him before he died."
Make use of him? Dorothea frowned, puzzled by the wording. It made her wonder if the grand commander had a deeper connection to the marquis. She recalled how during her kidnapping, the two men had spoken and Frederick mentioning it wasn't their first meeting.
"Did they know each other?" Dorothea inquired, unable to hide her curiosity.
Arnold drew in a breath, then released it with quiet reluctance. "That's not my story to tell. If you want to know, you'll have to ask him yourself."
Dorothea fell silent after that. They reached the town square, now buzzing with hawkers and the clatter of carts. The rich smells of herbs, spices, and animals filled the air.
They reached the apothecary's shop, where the air was thick with the scent of crushed herbs and simmering oils, the fragrances lingering like ghosts of past remedies. The walls were lined with shelves of glass jars, each holding roots, powders, and bizarre floating things that shimmered in the morning light streaming through warped panes.
Dorothea entered cautiously, her footsteps muffled against the creaking wood floor. Commander Arnold stood beside her, imposing in his dark cloak, his posture firm and eyes already scanning the room's contents. "Stay here," he instructed. "I'll handle the purchase and payment."
"Then why bring me at all?" Dorothea complained, but Arnold was already striding toward the counter.
Crossing her arms, Dorothea let her gaze wander to the elderly apothecary busy wrapping bundles of dried herbs. The faint rustle of leaves and the soft clinking of glass filled the quietness of the shop.
From outside, the hum of the market drifted in. The rumble of carts, the cries of vendors, the laughter of children weaving through the crowd. Then, a sudden shout pierced the peaceful air.
"Thief!"
Dorothea turned sharply toward the street. A noblewoman had stumbled, arms reaching out in vain. Her velvet handbag, adorned with gold embroidery, was gone. In its place, a blur of movement of a boy, barefoot and no older than twelve, tore through the crowd with the stolen bag clutched tight against his chest, eyes wide with desperation.
She charged through the shop's entrance like fire racing through dry brush, her fingers automatically brushing the hilt of her short sword though she had no plans to use it on a child. The boy darted through the crowd with the agility of a stray cat, toppling a barrel of apples as he whipped around a sharp corner.
"Stop!" Dorothea shouted, her boots thudding against the stone pavement. Shoppers turned in surprise, stepping aside as she dashed past.
The boy threw a quick glance over his shoulder, fear flickering in his eyes. He ducked into a narrow alley wedged between two buildings, hoping to shake her in the twisting alleys of the town's underbelly but Dorothea had both training and resolve on her side.
Her breathing was controlled and even, her focus unwavering. The alley reeks of wet timber and spoiled fruit, but her gaze stayed fixed on the swaying edge of the noblewoman's handbag, still gripped tightly in the boy's hand.
But then, he slipped up.
At the far end of the alley, he scrambled up a stack of crates, aiming for a low rooftop. The wood shifted beneath him, and a couple of oranges spilled to the ground. Dorothea surged forward, seizing his arm and yanking him down with practiced precision.
He let out a yelp and squirmed in her grasp, but Dorothea held him tight.
"That's enough," she said, her voice calm but commanding. "You're not going anywhere."
The boy trembled, eyes darting wildly like a trapped animal. "I didn't mean to... I'm sorry... Please don't hurt me... I never wanted this!"
"If that's true, then why steal?" she asked sharply. "Did someone force you? Don't tell me it was your parents."
"No! It was because of Master Rave!"
"Who?"
"I did it because..." he stammered, barely louder than a whisper. "I did it because I needed the money."
His bottom lip quivered as he continued. "They said I had to bring a thousand rigsdaler. If I didn't..." His voice cracked as tears welled. "They said something would happen to my mother."
Dorothea's brow furrowed. "Who said that?"
"Master Rave Westgaard," the boy choked out. "My father was working under the Westgaard Trading Company. He died last winter from fever, so my mother and I tried to carry on his work. I thought his job was respectable, but all we found was endless labor with no pay and no rest. And we couldn't leave. If we tried, they will kill us."
Dorothea's expression hardened. "Are you saying they're enslaving their workers?"
The boy gave a shaky nod, and the tears he held finally spilled over. "It's worse than that. When I tried to break the rules and speak out, they took my mother. I begged them to spare her, but they said if I didn't deliver one thousand rigsdaler in three days, they'd make an example of her. I tried going to the noble houses for help, but none even let me in. They looked at me like I didn't matter."
"And the Order?" Dorothea asked softly. "You chose to steal instead of going to us?"
"I wanted to," he admitted. "But I was scared. I thought you'd toss me in the stocks or worse. You're knights. You protect the castles, the nobles and the king. Why would you listen to someone like me?"
Dorothea slowly loosened her grip, her eyes never leaving his face. He wiped his nose on his sleeve, bracing himself as if expecting another blow.
She crouched down so she was on an eye level with him. "Yes, what you did was wrong," she said gently. "But you weren't without reason. And you're mistaken about something important."
The boy's gaze wavered as he looked at her.
"We don't guard the halls of power," she told him. "The Order exists to protect the people from that power when it's misused and to uphold peace in this land."
Rising to her feet, Dorothea extended her hand to him. "Come. You'll return the handbag and then we're going to have a word with this trading company."
His hand hovered in the air for a moment, trembling slightly, before he finally grasped hers and following her lead.
The soft chime of a bell marked their entrance into the apothecary. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of dried lavender and medicinal herbs, meant to calm, though they offered little comfort now.
A noblewoman sat on a cushioned bench by the window, her gloves twisted nervously in her hands, her eyes swollen from tears. She looked up sharply at the sound of the door opening. Beside her, Arnold rose from where he'd been kneeling, his hand resting gently on her arm.
"Dorothea," Arnold said, a wave of relief washing over his features. "Where did you go? You suddenly ran off, and this lady's purse was stolen..." He trailed off, eyes landing on the boy behind her. "Who is he?"
"The thief," she said plainly, stepping aside to show the boy at her side. His head hung low, footsteps dragging. "And he's here to return what he took."
With trembling hands, the boy extended the embroidered handbag. Its once-rich velvet now dulled with age, but still clearly of noble make. The noblewoman stared at it, then at the boy, her expression flickering between confusion and unease.
"I-" she started, but said nothing more as she took the purse, clutching it tightly, almost as if ashamed. "Thank you."
Dorothea shot her a quick look, then faced Arnold. "I'll explain everything once we're back at headquarters. He's coming with us."
Arnold studied her face, then glanced at the boy, seeming to read the unspoken weight in the moment. He nodded. "Understood."
They returned to the street, the boy walking between them, his eyes flicking nervously from Dorothea to Arnold, filled with silent questions.
The Order of the Vildblod's stronghold rose above the haze of the capital, its towers etched in the golden light of late afternoon. It resembled a fortress more than a symbol of prestige. Its heavy stone walls bearing the weight of purpose, built not for show but for justice.
Dorothea guided the boy through the vaulted entrance, her hand steady on his shoulder. Arnold stayed at their side, silent and alert, his eyes sweeping across the marble corridor as if sensing tension beneath the quiet elegance.
They passed two knights standing sentinel in their ceremonial armor before entering a smaller, more intimate room known as the debriefing chamber, lined with weathered oak benches and warmed by a modest hearth.
Dorothea recounted everything on how she encountered the boy, what he confessed, and what his story.
Arnold stood across from her, arms crossed, his face unreadable. When she finished, he exhaled slowly. His jaw tightened as the weight of her words settled between them.
"I manage all the information in this town, but I've never heard of the Westgaard Trading Company," Arnold muttered, skepticism creeping into his voice.
"Are you sure you're not lying?" He glanced at the boy, who sat quietly by the hearth, fingers clutching the worn edge of his clothes.
"No!" The boy denied. "I wouldn't lie about something like that."
Arnold place his gloved finger against his chin, deep in thought. "If that's true, then my guess is that this company isn't operating legally. Every legitimate business here is registered, so if Westgaard Trading Company isn't in the records, it makes sense the king and the Order wouldn't know about this matter since no one's reported it to us."
"So, what now? Can we just storm the place and teach the leader a lesson?" Dorothea asked, itching to confront those scoundrels immediately.
"I'll look into this further," Arnold said. "I'll check the records again and try to gather more information." He then looked at the boy with kindness. "For now, you'll stay here. Is that alright?"
"B-but..." The boy hesitated.
"You'll be fed and watched over. No one will harm you here. I promise we'll save your mother," Arnold reassured him.
The boy nodded quietly. Arnold smiled at him, then turned to Dorothea with a knowing look. "But before we make any moves, we'll need permission from the Grand Commander."
Dorothea nodded. "I figured as much."
Arnold's tone turned playfully casual. "Which means you'll be the one to speak it to him."
She was taken aback and blurted out, "What? Why me? Isn't it your job to inform the Grand Commander about new missions since you're the informant? Why would Frederick, I mean the grand commander want to hear that from a new recruit like me?"
Dorothea found it confusing since Arnold could just report the mission himself.
A mischievous sparkle appeared in Arnold's amber eyes. "I'll be busy taking care of this boy and investigating, so my hands are full. I'm sure the Grand Commander will be pleased to see you in his resting chamber. He'll be quite thrilled."
Dorothea accused him sharply. "You're just trying to get us alone together, aren't you?"
"I just want to keep my superior happy." Arnold confessed, not refuting any of her accusations.
He stood up, retrieved a bottle of cold medicine already prepared by the apothecary from the paper bag, and handed it to her. "And while you're at it, give this to him. Consider this your first order from me as your superior."
Dorothea had no choice but to obey. Refusing a superior's command was out of the question, so she quietly said, "Fine."
With her cloak swirling behind her, she turned and strode down the marble hallway toward the Grand Commander's resting chambers. At the heavy, iron-bound door, Dorothea lifted her hand and rapped a single, deliberate knock.
From within, a voice, rough and gravelly as worn stone, rumbled, "Enter."
She slipped inside.
The chamber was bare, almost monastic, except for maps scattered across the table and the faint aroma of ink and steel lingering in the air. Grand Commander Frederick Andersen rested on a modest yet dignified bed. His eyes opened gradually, keen and piercing like a hawk's. At first, they showed a flash of surprise, then mellowed into a glowing, heartfelt smile — a warm light in the stark, plain room.
She was irritated that Arnold had guessed correctly.
"Dorothea," he lit up, his voice light despite the weariness clinging to him. "What brings you here? Were you so worried you just had to come check on me?"
His playful tone made her roll her eyes in exasperation. Even looking like an ailing man, pale, exhausted, a slight sheen of sweat on his brow—he still found a way to tease her. And, of course, he remained infuriatingly handsome, like a painting that refused to fade no matter how weathered the canvas became.
She closed the door behind her, a bottle of medicine in hand. "I brought you your medicine."
Frederick's face twisted into a grimace, his eyes narrowing at the bottle like it was a sworn enemy. "I don't like taking medicine. I've heard it tastes really bitter."
"And yet," she replied, her voice lilting with irony, "you expect to defeat a cold with sheer willpower alone?"
She set the bottle down on the bedside table with a gentle clink, as if the sound might coax him into accepting it.
"I've never been sick before. This is my first time catching a cold."
"I'm guessing it's because you haven't been getting enough sleep or rest."
Dorothea stepped closer— close enough for her presence to steal his breath. Her hands rose to cradle his face, thumbs brushing the curve of his jaw. She leaned in, pressing her forehead gently to his, feeling for the fever with the quiet intimacy of someone who cared more than she dared admit.
Frederick froze, caught off guard by the softness of her touch and the nearness of her breath. Her touch short-circuited every ounce of protest he might have had. He could feel her heartbeat in the space between them, steady and maddeningly close.
"You're burning up," she murmured, her breath mingling with his. "You stubborn, sleepless fool."
Dorothea stepped back and picked up the bottle of medicine from the table. "You're running a fever," she said gently, her voice a mixture of concern and authority. "You need to take this."
When she turned back to him, Frederick was staring at her like he'd seen a ghost or worse, something that had completely undone him. His cheeks had turned a deep shade of crimson.
"What's with that look?" she asked, tilting her head.
He opened his mouth, but the words seemed to stick to his tongue. "It's… that thing you did just now..."
"What thing?"
"You... held my face," he said quietly, eyes flicking away, "and then you pressed your forehead against mine."
"Oh?" She blinked, confused at his hesitation. "That's just something my mother used to do when I was sick. It helps check for fever."
Her tone was innocent and earnest. She had no idea what that moment had done to him.
"Is something wrong with it?" she asked, noticing his awkwardness.
"No!" he said too quickly, then added, softer, "It's not weird. Just... don't do that to anyone else. Alright?"
Her brows drew together. "Why?"
"Just... promise me." His gaze flicked back to hers, smoldering despite the fever. "Please."
There was a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes—curiosity, maybe, or annoyance. "Fine," she replied, still not quite grasping what he was getting at. "Anyway, take the medicine already. The longer you wait, the worse you'll feel."
Frederick pushed the bottle away with a wave of his hand. "Not a chance. That stuff's bitter. I'm not drinking it unless you give me a better reason."
Dorothea narrowed her eyes, her patience fraying. "Frederick, just drink it. Refusing won't make it taste any sweeter."
He leaned back against the headboard, his usual smirk playing on his lips. "Alright, I'll take it..." he paused, mischief dancing in his eyes, "but only if you give me a kiss on the cheek."
Her eyes flared with irritation. "Are you kidding me? You're sick, half-delirious, and you still have the audacity to flirt?"
He gave a soft chuckle, one that stirred the space between them. "What can I say? Near-death brings out my charm."
Dorothea sighed, exasperated, but her gaze lingered on him a heartbeat too long. His eyes were dancing not with fever, but with mischief, with the quiet thrill of getting under her skin. And she knew, with maddening clarity, that he wanted her flustered and he's enjoying her reaction far too much.
A mischievous idea sparked in her mind. She could play his game but on her own terms, just to throw him off balance.
Without warning, Dorothea closed the distance between herself and the ever-annoying Frederick, a sly smile tugging at the corner of her lips. And she pressed her lips firmly to his cheeks. The kiss was soft, fleeting, yet lingering with an unexpected warmth that felt more healing than any medicine.
Frederick froze mid-breath, his eyes widening as the playful glint in them flickered and then smoldered into stunned disbelief.
'Not what you expected, huh?' Dorothea thought with a secret thrill.
She smirked quietly to herself as she pulled away, feeling victorious for outwitting his teasing.
Handing him the medicine bottle, she spoke calmly, as if the kiss hadn't affected her— because it hadn't. It was just a quick peck, like a simple touch of skin. "I've already done what you asked. Now, drink it."
Frederick blinked, shaking off his shock as a slow, amused smile curved his lips. "I never expected you to actually do it," he admitted, taking the bottle from her and swallowing the bitter medicine.
"I only did it because you were driving me nuts," she confessed with a grin. "I wanted to savor the surprised look on your face and I nailed it."
Frederick laughed, clearly delighted. "Well played."
Dorothea rolled her eyes and shifted the conversation, eager to move past the moment. "Anyway, I didn't just come to deliver medicine. I've got news for you and it's something more serious this time."
Frederick's demeanor shifted instantly, his playful smile fading into a look of serious intent. "Tell me everything."
Dorothea took a deep breath, steadying herself before recounting the events. "Earlier, when Arnold and I went to town, we caught a boy stealing a noblewoman's purse. When I captured him, he said he needed money to save his mother from the clutches of the Westgaard Trading Company. He claimed the company was cruel and exploited its workers. So, we planned to look into it and visit the company ourselves and uncover the truth behind these claims."
Frederick nodded thoughtfully, the wheels turning behind his calm exterior. "So, I figured that you wanted my permission so you could investigate further."
"Yes."
He considered her words carefully, then gave a decisive nod. "Very well. I grant you that authority. Leave the official paperwork to Arnold. He will ensure the king receives a full report." His tone left no room for argument.
"I appreciate your trust, Sir," Dorothea said with a respectful bow, her posture regal yet determined. "Thank you for hearing us out."
"It's a responsibility we carry. If this fever hadn't knocked me down, I would have gone with you myself." Frederick said softly, his voice steady but tinged with regret.
Dorothea's eyes flickered with concern as she shook her head firmly. "No, you must prioritize your recovery. The Order cannot afford to lose its Grand Commander at this critical juncture."
Frederick inclined his head in acknowledgment, offering no objection. "Indeed, you are right."
"I'll be on my way then. Rest well, Grand Commander." Dorothea took the bottle of medicine from his hand and began to turn away, but he called out just as she reached the door.
"Wait." Her footsteps paused, and she glanced back over her shoulder.
A genuine smile broke across Frederick's face. "Be careful out there," he said quietly, voice filled with worry. "And thank you for the medicine and the kiss. I look forward to the next time." he added, a mischievous glint lighting his eyes though his eyes lingered on her with unexpected tenderness.
Dorothea's cheeks flushed with irritation. She shot him a sharp glare before stomping out, her footsteps echoing down the hallway. From inside, she caught the sound of his quiet chuckle. Even in her moment of anger, she couldn't deny Frederick's knack for getting under her skin.
Meanwhile, Frederick sank back into his bed, the gravity of Dorothea's report weighing heavily on his mind. A trading company exploiting its workers and worse, using blackmail to keep them trapped in servitude. The pieces nagged at him, pulling at memories of a shadowy figure he had been tracking for yet he couldn't confirm the connection between them.
He sighed, rubbing his temples. All he could do now was hope Dorothea's courage would carry her safely through whatever darkness awaited.