The sun filtered in through narrow windows, but warmth didn’t follow.

Ira walked quietly between two guards, her hands no longer shackled, but her wrists still remembered the pressure. She’d barely slept. Her family was safe, fed, confused—but safe. That was the only reason she didn’t fall apart.

She was led into the same room as before, heavy with books, shadows, and Sigrid’s presence.

He didn’t greet her. Just stood by the tall arched window, bathed in pale light, looking like a statue carved from ice and war.

“Speak,” he said, not turning around.

Ira swallowed. “If I’m right, Lillian’s in good hands. She was taken in by the Duke of Sol dutchy—Leon Sol.”

Now he turned. Slowly. Watching her, waiting.

“He busted a black market slave auction. Freed everyone and he adopted her.”

Sigrid’s expression didn’t shift much, but something behind his eyes flickered—grief, maybe, or disbelief.

“She’s not just alive,” Ira continued. “She’s protected. But don’t go rushing in. If you try to contact her now, it might harm her. Especially her reputation. You know how nobility works.”

The silence stretched. Finally, he asked, “How do you know this?”

Ira hesitated. Then with quiet confidence, said, “That’s my secret.”

Sigrid’s jaw clenched. “You really expect me to just trust that?”

“No. I expect you to consider what I’ve told you and ask yourself—what do I gain by lying?”

Without a word, he gestured toward the corner. That same ghost of a man reappeared, cloaked in shadow.

“Verify the story,” Sigrid ordered.

The man nodded once, then disappeared like breath on glass.

Sigrid’s cold gaze returned to her. “And if it’s true? What use are you then?”

Ira met his eyes. “More than you think.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“I know things,” she said simply. “Things about what’s coming. I could help you prepare for the future. Build something stable.”

Sigrid laughed—not kindly. “You're either a prophet or a lunatic.”

“Neither,” she said, unbothered. “You saw the food I made. That soup shouldn’t exist here. The spices, the method—your kitchen didn’t even have names for half the things I did.”

He paused. No denial. She had a point.

“So what now?” he asked. “You think I’ll just give you and your family rooms in my manor? Beds? Servants?”

“No,” Ira said. “Just let us earn our keep.”

Sigrid narrowed his eyes.

“I can cook,” she continued. “You’ve tasted that. My brother knows plants— herbs, wild roots, growth cycles. My mother can sew, weave, mend. My father is good with numbers—supply chains, taxes, planning. We don’t want luxury. We just want a way to survive.”

Sigrid studied her, his expression unreadable. The silence hung heavy again before he finally said:

“You’ll all be given temporary duties. You’ll live under watch. Step out of line—one false move—and you’re done.”

Ira nodded. “Deal.”

“But understand this,” he added, voice low, “the moment I sense you’re hiding something dangerous… it ends. No second chances.”

She didn’t flinch. “Then let’s both hope we’re useful to each other.”

For the first time, Sigrid looked at her not like a criminal or a nuisance—but like a puzzle.

One that might be worth solving.