The heavy doors creaked open, spilling pale morning light into the grand hall. Ira stepped inside slowly, her bare feet soundless against the polished stone floor. Her eyes quickly swept the space, taking in the tapestries, the cold fireplace, and the figure waiting near the window—Sigrid.

He stood still, silver hair tied loosely at the back, his ice-blue eyes unreadable as they fixed on her. In daylight, he looked even less real. Like a man carved from moonlight and frost.

“Come closer,” he said, voice quiet but clipped.

Ira obeyed.

“I hope your short rest helped clear your thoughts,” he added, his expression unmoved. “Because mine has only raised more questions.”

“I didn’t sleep much,” she replied honestly. “Too many thoughts.”

“Then let’s get to it.” His eyes narrowed. “Are you ready to tell me what game you’re playing?”

“I already told you,” she said, trying to steady her voice. “I’m not Millicent Grace. My name is Ira. I don’t know how I got here, but I’m not the person you think I am.”

He tilted his head slightly, then turned away and walked to the table where a few scrolls lay open. “And yet, you wear her face, bear her voice, and entered this manor with her family.”

“I didn't ask for this,” she snapped, then immediately softened. “But I know enough about the Graces to help you. If you let me.”

That made him pause.

He turned his gaze slowly toward her. “You know about them?”

“Yes,” she said carefully. “Enough. But I won’t say more unless my family is released from that cell. Moved somewhere safe. Somewhere with food, at least.”

He stared at her for a long, long time. Cold calculation in every glance.

“You expect me to release four potential accomplices because you say you ‘know something’?”

“I’m not asking you to trust me,” she said, meeting his gaze. “I’m offering information in exchange for their safety. A trade. That’s how these things work, right?”

Sigrid walked toward her slowly until he stood just a few feet away. She could see the faint scar near his right temple, the tense line in his jaw.

“You presume a lot for someone I could hang on a whisper.”

“Then hang me,” she said. “But it won’t get you what you need.”

A tense silence filled the air between them. Finally, Sigrid turned and walked to a small cabinet. From it, he drew a slender scroll sealed with a faded sigil.

“This is a provisional binding,” he said. “A magically sealed promise. You write your terms. I sign.”

Ira blinked. “Just like that?”

“Don’t mistake it for trust,” he said. “It’s a delay. Nothing more.”

She nodded and stepped forward, writing in careful script:

> Sigrid Blackthorn shall not harm, imprison, starve, or allow harm to come to the four individuals currently held in the west tower, believed to be the family of the woman identifying as Ira, until further negotiation or evidence proves otherwise.

He read it, took a blade to his finger, and pressed a drop of blood on the parchment. It flared softly, sealing the pact.

“It’s done,” he said coldly. “Now speak.”

Ira exhaled. “I’ll share what I know. Gradually. Not because I want leverage—because it’s safer that way.”

For now I know Lillian is not dead.

Now let me see my family and let them free first . Once I confirm I will tell the rest.