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Chapter 39: Antietta
The news of Borg Nesson’s deceased wife came as a surprise to Brandon. He had hoped that the nobleman’s will might lead to an unexpected windfall—after all, some noble families in Eruin traced their lineage back centuries. If Borg Nesson’s ancestors had once been prominent, it was possible his estate held hidden treasures.
Moreover, Brandon reasoned that if this weren’t the case, the will wouldn’t have specifically mentioned it.
But as Lorne the cripple had pointed out, their only hope now rested with the man’s surviving daughter.
Lorne informed them that the nobleman’s daughter was named Antietta. Rumors suggested she lived alone on Gray Rat Street in the Saint Anthony District, adjacent to Black Pepper Alley. Over the years, she had led a reclusive life, rarely appearing in public. While it was unusual for a frail young woman to live so isolated, her noble heritage afforded her some protection in Eruin’s rigidly stratified society. Few would dare offend someone of her standing.
Besides, such secluded noblewomen were not uncommon in Braggs, especially to someone like Lorne, who made a living peddling rumors. Most of what he heard carried at least a grain of truth.
After some consideration, Brandon concluded that Lorne might indeed be telling the truth—for all his cunning, the cripple was notorious for swindling people. Tales abounded of him cheating even dragons and wizards, earning him a reputation as utterly unscrupulous. Brandon was well aware of this, which was why he pressed his gleaming sword against the balding man’s neck, compelling him to guide them personally.
Meanwhile, Barthom, with his fiery red beard, had given a sound thrashing to a few of Lorne’s idle henchmen. Once they realized Brandon and Barthom were no ordinary visitors, they quickly fell in line, allowing the trio to leave Lorne’s lair without further trouble.
…..
By the time the three reached Gray Rat Street, dusk was settling in.
The bronze light of the setting sun spilled over the rooftops, casting deep shadows across the rows of wooden buildings. With no one to light the street lamps, the entire thoroughfare was cloaked in an eerie silence. As Brandon walked through the deserted streets, the hem of his cloak stirred up a faint breeze that scattered fallen leaves.
He couldn’t help but glance back.
Barthom, seeing the desolate scene, frowned and tugged at his fiery beard. “This place wasn’t like this when I came here a few years ago.”
Gray Rat Street lay near Cavalry Avenue, close to the old site of the Noble Council Hall in Saint Anthony District. Once part of Braggs’ prosperous old town, it had been home to affluent nobles. However, after the city’s last urban planning overhaul, the area had fallen into decline. Now, it was little different from Black Pepper Alley—quiet, neglected, and perhaps even more desolate.
Unlike its neighbor, though, Gray Rat Street saw none of the adventurers, mercenaries, or prostitutes who frequented Black Pepper Alley.
Still, it wasn’t entirely abandoned.
Brandon breathed in the dusty air and suddenly recalled something. “It’s probably because of the underground cemetery.”
“Exactly,” Lorne stammered, his grin faltering as the cold edge of the sword pressed against his neck. “You may not know this, Brandon, but two years ago, something strange happened in the underground catacombs. A group of monks and holy disciples of the Havriel Faith entered to perform their usual cleansing rituals and vanished without a trace. Among them were two high-ranking monks and a priest, causing quite the uproar in Braggs.”
“And then? Surely the temple didn’t let Earl Nakin off the hook,” Barthom interjected.
“Of course not. Under pressure from the temple, Earl Nakin ordered the Silver Wing Cavalry to send a detachment to investigate. But they were ambushed by monsters, and only one man returned—barely sane.” Lorne shivered.
“Damnation,” Barthom muttered under his breath.
As they spoke, Lorne led them down a dark staircase into an ancient apartment building. The three-story wooden structure groaned underfoot, its floorboards creaking as though the entire building were shivering with cold, ready to collapse at any moment.
Seeing this, Brandon paused and poked at the cobweb-covered ceiling with Lustrous Stinger. “Lorne, is this really where we’re headed? From what I recall, Borg Nesson, despite disappearing years ago, shouldn’t have fallen so far as to leave his daughter in such squalor.” He coughed as dust filled the air.
“She moved out of her family home over a year ago, apparently after being swindled,” Lorne replied.
“A noblewoman, reduced to this?” Barthom grumbled.
Brandon glanced at Barthom but said nothing.
They finally stopped before a door at the end of the corridor. Brandon sheathed his sword and knocked. For a moment, he suspected the wily old fox had deceived them again. But soon, a soft voice, accompanied by a fit of coughing, called out from behind the door: “Who is it?”
Brandon hesitated, turning to ask, “Is she unwell?”
“I’m not sure,” Lorne shrugged.
Brandon thought for a moment before replying, “Lady Antietta? I am a friend of your father, Lord Nesson. I have something of his to give you.”
There was a pause, followed by a gentle inquiry: “What is it?”
Brandon produced the letter.
“A letter from him.”
From behind the door came the sound of a chair scraping against the floor, then a long hesitation. Finally, footsteps approached, along with another bout of coughing. The girl’s voice, tinged with cautious hope, asked softly, “Forgive me, but could you slide the letter under the door?”
Brandon glanced at the gap beneath the door. The girl’s vigilance was impressive, though understandable given her years of solitude. He nodded. “I understand.”
“Thank you.”
The letter was pushed under the door, followed by the rustling sound of paper being unfolded. After another prolonged silence, just as Brandon began to wonder if she was plotting something, the door creaked open.
Standing there was a young woman clad in a pale, moon-colored nightgown.
Her delicate hands clutched the doorframe, her breathing labored but her expression calm. She was petite, barely reaching Brandon’s chest. Her cascading black hair shimmered faintly in the dim candlelight, falling past her waist. Her large, obsidian eyes regarded the three men with a mix of curiosity and apprehension.
“My father…” Her gaze finally settled on Brandon.
Brandon nodded.
Her thick lashes fluttered downward.
After a moment, she spoke. “I suppose I should have expected this. Still, it’s comforting to think that Father and Mother are together now.”
Antietta’s composure surprised Brandon. He had expected a fragile, helpless noblewoman incapable of handling adversity. But as his eyes swept past her into the cramped room, he saw how sparse her surroundings were—a worn bed, a rickety desk, and a half-burnt candle illuminating scattered papers. This was all she possessed.
The conditions were dire, just as he’d imagined. Yet the thick books stacked on her desk hinted at scholarly pursuits. Could this girl be a scholar? Brandon wondered.
“My condolences, Lady Antietta,” he said finally.
She looked up at him, coughing softly. “Are you here about the property mentioned in my father’s will, sir?”
Barthom and Lorne exchanged puzzled glances.
“Yes,” Brandon admitted after a brief hesitation. Completing tasks felt natural to him, akin to striking a deal. Besides, retrieving the inheritance would benefit both him and the young woman.
But Antietta folded the letter, her brow furrowing slightly. “I’ve never heard Mother mention such a place.”
“So it’s debt…” Lorne caught on immediately, his eyes lighting up at the prospect of brokering yet another scheme. “Brandon, leave this to me. I’ll handle it.”
He shot a sly glance at Brandon, trying to gauge his reaction. By now, Lorne had realized that the young man before him was no longer the naive youth he once knew. Especially with Barthom, whose prowess clearly surpassed that of most guards Lorne had encountered. The cripple couldn’t help but compare him to several noble escorts he knew, concluding that Brandon’s companion was superior in every way.
Why would such formidable individuals serve Brandon? Lorne grew increasingly cautious.
“No need, Lorne,” Brandon dismissed him with a wave.
“Debts must be repaid—it’s only fair,” Lorne persisted, though he quickly swallowed his words when Brandon’s hand twitched toward his sword hilt. Still, he muttered under his breath, “Rules are rules…”
Brandon studied the girl’s clear, unwavering eyes, searching for signs of deception. There was worry in her gaze, but no hint of guile. Reluctantly, he sighed. “Never mind. It’s no great matter.”
Brandon couldn’t bring himself to agree with Lorne’s ruthless methods, which often drove people to ruin. Antietta had already lost both parents and now lived in poverty. The thought of pressing her further stirred pity within him. Roma would surely bite his head off if he resorted to such tactics, and Freya… well, that would be even worse.
But the girl began to cough again. When she finally straightened herself, she shook her head firmly. “Sir, I don’t need your charity.”
Brandon blinked in surprise.
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