CHAPTER 38: CAPTURING ARLOS [1]

"There you are, my children," King Francis said. But almost immediately, his gaze sharpened as it settled on me—the obvious intruder among his three offspring. A slight frown creased his brow, not hostile but certainly curious. "And who might this young man be?"

Before I could formulate a response, Queen Emma stepped spoke.

"This is Harold, the young man who was present during the incident I mentioned to you earlier," she explained, her tone suggesting that my presence had already been discussed and, presumably, approved.

I realized she must have briefed King Francis about the kidnapping of Judith, likely seeking his cooperation in investigating threats within his capital.

"Ah, interesting indeed," King Francis said, his penetrating gaze lingering on me/ "I do hope my children haven’t caused you any difficulties, Harold."

Despite the friendly tone, I could hear the subtle test in his words. He was gauging not just my response, but how I carried myself under the scrutiny of absolute authority.

"Not at all, Your Majesty," I replied, offering what I hoped was an appropriately respectful smile while meeting his eyes directly—deferential but not cowering. "The Prince and Princesses have treated me with nothing but kindness and courtesy. They are a credit to your guidance."

"Haha, excellent then," King Francis chuckled, and I caught a glimmer of approval in his expression—perhaps he appreciated that I hadn’t groveled or stammered under pressure. But then his attention shifted, and his demeanor became more formal as he turned toward his son. "William, I believe it’s time for you to meet the Princess of Briaran properly."

He gestured toward Judith who had been standing slightly behind Queen Emma who had something like reservation in her expression—a careful mask that suggested she was as uncomfortable with this arranged introduction as William appeared to be.

An awkward silence descended over the garden as William and Judith regarded each other.

William straightened his shoulders and offered a polite bow. "Your Highness, it’s an honor to make your acquaintance."

Judith curtsied gracefully in return, and when she spoke, her voice was carefully modulated. "The pleasure is mine, Your Highness. I’ve heard many good things about the Kingdom of Lorendia."

The exchange was perfectly correct and utterly devoid of warmth. Judith didn’t seem any more enthusiastic about this potential marriage than William, but she managed a small, diplomatic smile. It was clearly a political arrangement designed to benefit both kingdoms, with little regard for the personal feelings of those most directly affected.

King Francis seemed to recognize the stilted nature of the interaction, but he continued. "Queen Emma, please know that you and your daughter have every comfort of my castle at your disposal while your knights deal with our mutual... problem. I pledge my full cooperation in this matter, as it seems we both have a vested interest in seeing it resolved."

He was clearly referring to Arlos, and the barely controlled anger in his tone suggested that the very presence of such a man within his capital was taken as a personal affront to his authority.

"I thank you most sincerely for your cooperation, Your Majesty," Queen Emma replied with a gracious smile, though I noticed her eyes briefly sought out Oliver’s position near the garden entrance.

Oliver caught her glance and nodded almost imperceptibly, then looked directly at me with an expression that clearly communicated our next course of action.

The message was clear for me: it was time to hunt down that bastard Arlos.

The thought sent a cold satisfaction through me. The sooner that particular threat was eliminated, the better I would sleep. I couldn’t sleep well until making sure that rat was dead.

Recognizing that this was my cue to withdraw gracefully, I stepped forward and placed my hand over my heart in a gesture of formal farewell. "Your Highnesses, it has been truly a pleasure and an honor to make your acquaintance."

William’s entire demeanor brightened, and he offered me a genuine grin that was worth far more than any royal protocol. "The pleasure was entirely mine, Harold. Thank you for your counsel—it’s given me much to think about."

I was gratified to see that the dejected, defeated look he had worn earlier was completely gone, replaced by something that looked remarkably like hope and determination.

"I did nothing remarkable, Your Highness but I will certainly support you," I said subtly.

"Yeah." William smiled pleased.

"For me as well, Harold," Eleanora added, and I was charmed to notice a slight blush coloring her cheeks as she waved farewell. "I do hope we’ll have the opportunity to speak again."

"Take care of yourself, Harold," Arabella chimed in, waving enthusiastically with that radiant smile that made her mismatched eyes sparkle like jewels in the afternoon sunlight.

As I walked away from the royal garden, I was very pleased.

I had genuinely befriended three members of the Lorendian royal family—no small feat for someone who had supposedly arrived as nothing more than a humble village commoner.

Not bad at all, I thought with satisfaction.

"You certainly didn’t waste any time," Oliver observed dryly as we made our way through the castle’s corridors.

"I don’t have many friends back in my village," I replied honestly, "so it was genuinely nice to spend time with people closer to my own age who actually seem to enjoy intelligent conversation."

Oliver glanced at me sideways with an expression that suggested he was trying to solve a particularly complex puzzle. "I wonder why that might be."

I couldn’t suppress a small smile. "Most of them are simply too immature and, frankly, too stupid for meaningful interaction. They’re more interested in petty village gossip and juvenile competitions than in anything of real substance."

"You are only thirteen yourself," Oliver pointed out, though there was no real criticism in his tone—more like genuine curiosity about this apparent contradiction.

"Do you really think age matters all that much in determining a person’s capacity for thought and judgment?" I asked, meeting his gaze directly.

Oliver studied me for a long moment, his blue eyes searching my face as if trying to see past whatever facade I might be maintaining. "In your case," he said finally, "I suppose it doesn’t."

The admission seemed to surprise him as much as it pleased me.

He wasn’t such a bad guy after all.

As we continued walking, I decided to test the waters with a question that had been forming in my mind for a while. "By the way," I said, adopting a casual tone that belied the calculated nature of my inquiry, "hypothetically speaking, if I were to court your sister in a few years’ time, would you support such a suit?"

The question wasn’t entirely mercenary, though I couldn’t deny its strategic value. Olivia had impressed me with her strength, her integrity, and her clear-eyed assessment of situations. For the goals I was pursuing in this new life, I needed allies who possessed those qualities—and what better way to secure a permanent alliance than through marriage?

This was a very James Trevills-like method and I wanted to adopt it because I knew it worked though I wouldn’t cast the women away like on Earth. I didn’t need to in this world since polygamy was very common here.

Oliver stopped walking entirely, his eyes widening in what appeared to be complete shock. "W...what?" He stammered, clearly caught completely off guard by my directness.

"Is that a no?" I asked, raising an eyebrow with apparent innocence.

Oliver took a moment to compose himself, running a hand through his blond hair in a gesture that spoke of genuine bewilderment. "Harold, even if you are remarkably... talented for your age, you must remember that my sister comes from a high noble house. The social barriers involved are not trivial matters." His expression grew more serious, and I could hear genuine concern in his voice as he continued. "Since you’re still young and it’s only me you’re speaking to, this conversation is harmless enough. But you should be very careful about raising such topics with other nobles. The nobility can be absolutely ruthless toward commoners who are perceived as reaching above their station."

His advice was sound, and I appreciated both his honesty and his apparent desire to protect me from social missteps that could have serious consequences. But he was missing a crucial element of my long-term planning.

What Oliver didn’t understand was that I had no intention of remaining a mere commoner. I was going to build power, influence, and status until even the most entrenched nobles would be forced to take notice. I would make myself so valuable, so formidable, that they would have no choice but to accept me as an equal—perhaps even as a superior.

It was the same approach that had taken me from an orphaned street child to a multimillionaire in my previous life, and I saw no reason why similar principles wouldn’t apply in this world of magic and monarchy.

"Thank you for the advice," I said sincerely. "I’ll certainly keep it in mind and be more circumspect in the future."

Oliver nodded approvingly, apparently satisfied that his warning had been taken to heart.

After leaving the castle proper, we both changed into more casual clothing—rough-spun tunics and worn breeches that would hopefully allow us to blend into the common crowds of the capital. Though, if I was being honest, I doubted our disguises were particularly effective.

Both Oliver and I were simply too distinctive to disappear completely into a crowd. His neat look, striking blond hair and piercing blue eyes marked him as nobility just as clearly as my unusual white hair and pink eyes made me memorable to anyone who saw me. The common clothes might tone down our appearance somewhat, but they couldn’t entirely mask the fact that we both carried ourselves with a confidence and bearing that set us apart from typical street dwellers.

"Do you have any idea where we should begin looking for Arlos?" I asked as we emerged onto the bustling streets of the capital, already scanning the faces around us for any sign of our quarry.

"Yes," Oliver said, lowering his voice just enough to seem serious, "we have a lead. There’s a tavern nearby—someone there might know something."

I narrowed my eyes. "Wouldn’t that lead recognize you?"

Oliver shook his head without hesitation. "No. I wasn’t the one who came through this place last time."

"Still," I said, thinking aloud, "we need to think about blending in. If we walk in looking like ourselves, someone’s bound to take notice."

He glanced at me with a furrowed brow. "Blending in? How do you mean?"

"Identities, stories. We need something that makes sense—something that fits the place. Our clothes, our posture... we look too polished, too clean. People like that stand out in places like this."

He tilted his head, considering the idea, and after a moment, a sly smirk curved on his lips. "What if I’m a slaver—and you’re my slave?"

My stomach twisted with annoyance, and I had to fight to keep my expression from showing it. "You want me to be the slave?"

"It’s believable," he said, far too quickly. "Look, slavers are a common sight among certain nobles, and you—you could pass as a runaway noble’s brat I managed to capture. It fits. And people won’t ask too many questions."

His tone stayed serious, but I could see the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. This was payback—for the kick I gave him back then.

I didn’t answer right away.

"Fine," I muttered at last. I didn’t like it, but he wasn’t wrong about needing a cover.

Without skipping a beat, Oliver reached into his coat and pulled out something metallic—cold, simple, and terrible in its implication. An anti-magic collar. "Wear this," he said, holding it out. "It’ll sell the act even better."

I stared at it in disbelief. "You want me to wear that? I won’t be able to use magic if I do."

He held up the key alongside it. "You keep the key. It’s only for appearance. No one’s going to check your pocket."

I hesitated before I even touched it. Still, I took it, wrapped it around my neck, and clicked it shut. The collar sat heavily at my throat. I slipped the key into my pocket where my fingers could still feel its cool edge.

"Alright," he said, his tone suddenly colder. "Stay close to me."

I nodded silently, and we stepped through the tavern’s door.

It hit us like a wave. Noise, smoke, and the thick scent of sweat and ale rolled over us. Laughter and shouting filled the air, mugs slammed against tables, dice tumbled over worn wood, and the occasional burst of raucous singing spilled from one corner or another.

We drew some eyes, of course—any new face does in a place like that—but the clamor quickly swallowed us up again.

Oliver led the way to the bar.

He played the slaver role like it fit him too well.

"A mug of ale," he told the barkeep.

"I’ll take water—"

Before I could finish, Oliver snapped his head toward me and snarled, loud enough for the surrounding tables to hear, "You dare ask for water? You’re just a slave!"

I had only asked for water!

But I bit my tongue. He was playing the part—and I had agreed to this.

A few of the nearby patrons turned to look. Some shook their heads. Others gave me small, pitying glances before turning back to their drinks. One woman mouthed something I couldn’t hear but her eyes said it: poor thing.

The bartender returned and slid a cup toward Oliver, who took a sip—and immediately grimaced. He coughed into his hand and muttered something under his breath. From the look on his face, it was probably the first time he’d tasted the local brew.

Still coughing lightly, he leaned closer to the barkeep and spoke in a low, serious tone. "I’m looking for someone by the name of Arlos. I’ve got a deal he’ll want to hear. It involves gold."

The man behind the bar didn’t blink. "Never heard of him."

Oliver narrowed his eyes, reached into his coin pouch, and slid a few silver coins across the counter. "You sure?"

Before the bartender could answer, a rough hand clapped down on Oliver’s shoulder.

"You lookin’ for Arlos, friend?" A voice asked behind us. A man stepped forward—brown-haired, wild-eyed, and grinning like a wolf. His arm draped around Oliver like they were old drinking buddies.

"Yeah," Oliver said cautiously. He turned just in time to see the bartender’s hand sweep away the silver. No refund.

The man behind us chuckled. "Then you’re comin’ with us."

Oliver stiffened. "I’d prefer to meet him in private—"

"Didn’t you hear me?" The man’s grin vanished. Cold steel flashed in the dim tavern light—a knife, pressed against Oliver’s gut. His voice dropped to a growl. "You’re going to follow us."