CHAPTER 155: SECRETS, SASS, AND A SPIRIT BIRD

[Lavinia’s POV—The Whisper Cellar]

The moment I stepped through the hidden door behind the bar, the air changed.

Literally.

Gone were the smells of cheap ale and roasted meat. Down here, it smelled like secrets—like parchment and candle wax and the faint trace of something burnt. The stairwell was narrow and damp, the stone walls lined with glowing mushrooms (why is that always a thing in fantasy basements?) and carvings I couldn’t read. Ancient symbols. Wards, maybe.

"Third left... Knock twice, once... and hum," I muttered under my breath, counting doors.

Behind me, Osric followed like the ghost of overprotectiveness.

"You know," he whispered, his voice a low warning, "this entire situation feels like the start of one of those cautionary bard tales. The princess sneaks off. The cat is cursed. The bodyguard gets blamed for everything."

"I didn’t know you were so poetic," I replied sweetly. "But if I’m the heroine. I never die this early."

"...That’s not comforting."

We reached the door.

Plain. Wood. Heavy.

I knocked twice.

Then once.

Then... hummed. A soft little melody from the court—my old lullaby. It felt like treason humming it here.

Click.

The door creaked open, revealing—

Nothing.

Just shadows.

And the vague scent of ink and something metallic.

I stepped inside.

"You’re not seriously going in there?" Osric hissed.

"Too late," I whispered, already halfway in. "Stay here if you’re scared."

"I’m not scared. I’m responsible."

"Same thing."

He groaned. But he followed.

Good.

Because the moment we stepped into the room... we both stopped.

And stared.

Hard.

The dim, dusty stairwell had led us here, and here was... not what I expected.

Velvet chaise lounges. Gold-detailed walls. Floating crystal lanterns. A roaring fireplace. Art—actual framed oil paintings—hung like someone had robbed three noble estates and built a bachelor lounge from the loot.

Osric blinked at the plush surroundings. "...So the Guild Master is corrupt."

I nodded, eyes wide. "Corrupt and... weirdly excellent at interior design."

That’s when the sound of polished boots echoed in.

And he arrived.

A man stepped out of the backroom like he owned time itself.

Dark blue hair swept back like midnight waves. Ocean-blue eyes so cold and clever they could slice through lies. His robes? Casual, loose, expensive. Silk. Definitely enchanted. Every movement he made was liquid charm wrapped in barely leashed menace.

I blinked.

He doesn’t look like a bartender. It feels like a ’secret noble who probably plays chess with death’ energy.

He glanced at us—smiling like he knew our secrets already—and walked, slow and deliberate, toward the velvet couch. He didn’t sit. He sprawled.

Then he rested his chin on his knuckles, eyes glinting with amusement.

"Well," he said, voice like gravel wrapped in velvet and arrogance. "If it isn’t the Crown Princess, dressed like a tragic side character from her own funeral."

Osric bristled beside me. "How did he—"

But the man turned to him, tone maddeningly calm.

"And Lord Osric. Rynthall’s only heir. The shield of the Crown Princess. And the Empire’s next Grand Duke."

Osric opened his mouth, closed it, and muttered, "I hate him."

I wasn’t surprised he recognized us, because Rye Morven wasn’t just a guild master. He was also an unregistered mage.

Not sanctioned. Not bound by the Circle. But undeniably powerful. And for whatever reason—probably because he’s shady with a flair for drama—he kept his magical abilities hidden from the world.

And then I smirked and stepped forward.

Confident.

Calculated.

Deadly polite.

And sat down directly across from him, legs crossed, chin high, and spine straight.

"I see it didn’t take long for you to abandon your bartender disguise, Rye Morven," I said smoothly. "Fascinating. I expected someone less... decorative."

His smile twitched.

But I wasn’t done. I leaned forward slightly, my tone cooling like frostbite behind silk.

"...What I didn’t expect was such a blatant display of arrogance."

He raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

I tilted my head, eyes sharp. "You didn’t bow."

Silence.

Heavy.

Dangerous.

Even Marshi, still curled inside my satchel, stopped grooming his paw.

I continued, voice slow and crisp as crushed glass. "You’re in the presence of the Empire’s Crown Princess. And while your furniture may be velvet and your ego stitched in gold, your spine is still expected to bend."

Rye’s amused expression wavered.

Just slightly.

And then—

He stood.

No words.

And knelt.

One knee to the rug, head bowed low, voice steady but no longer cocky.

"My deepest apologies, Your Highness," he said quietly. "This unworthy servant of the Empire greets you with proper reverence."

I leaned back, watching him, letting the power settle in the room like dust.

Then smiled.

"Good," I said. "You may rise. I prefer my informants alive and respectful."

He stood slowly.

Eyes warier now. But a flicker of admiration shone behind them, too.

That’s right, Whisper Man.

You may know secrets, but I own the throne, and I hadn’t even gotten serious yet. He shifted slightly, lips curling back into that lazy, serpent smile.

"So..." he drawled, settling into his velvet throne like we were having afternoon tea instead of tiptoeing near treason. "Why would the Crown Princess of Elorian soil her boots and royal dignity to visit such a lowly, common... creature?"

His voice was silk-wrapped mockery.

I tilted my chin and met his eyes with ice. "I came for information."

He made a soft, thoughtful sound. "Mmm. Dangerous things, princess. Information. They burn more than fire."

"I’m immune to fire," I replied smoothly. "Born in it."

His smile grew wider. "...And I wonder about who our princess is curious about."

I was about to say it. To say her name, when—

WHOOSH!

Something massive slammed through the upper window like a golden sunbeam armed with talons and attitude.

Before Osric could even blink—

SLAM.

A colossal golden eagle descended from the shadows and landed—regally, dramatically, and unapologetically—on his head

.

"WHAT—" Osric staggered backward.

The eagle let out a sharp, piercing screech that echoed through the chamber like a war trumpet before battle. Wings wide. Feathers gleaming like burnished gold. Eyes glowing with ancient judgment.

Talons?

Comfortably stabbing his scalp.

There was a silence.A heavy, stunned, awkward silence.

I blinked. "...What the hell?"

Osric stood motionless, arms rigid at his sides like a man trying very hard to pretend his life wasn’t spiraling into absurdity. "Is something... on me?"

I tilted my head. "Yes."

"And?"

"She’s majestic."

Osric turned to Rye—who, for the first time since we met, looked genuinely rattled.

The usually smooth, shadow-slicked Whisper Man blinked like he’d just been personally attacked by destiny. "Why... why do I feel stabbed?" he muttered, hand on his chest like the drama king he clearly was.

"Probably ego damage," I said sweetly.

"Why," Osric asked through clenched teeth, "is a warbird nesting on my head?"

"Maybe she likes you."

"She’s stabbing me."

"Affectionately."

Solena, the golden eagle, squawked once more—loudly, imperiously—and then hopped off his head, feathers ruffling in annoyance. She landed on his shoulder with all the weight of judgment and then, very delicately, nudged his cheek with her beak.

"She’s showing affection," I whispered. "Look, she’s cuddling."

Osric looked like he might pass out.

Rye finally exhaled. "She’s... Solena. A spirit-bound familiar. Old. Very old. Very proud. Very selective."

Osric groaned. "Wonderful. So, I’ve been chosen. Like a magical hat. Without permission."

Solena fluffed her wings smugly and preened a glowing feather. Her entire aura screamed, You belong to me now.

"She was looking for her master," Rey murmured, watching her nuzzle against Osric again. "And I guess...she found him."

Osric looked absolutely offended by the entire sequence of events. "But why me?"

Rye hesitated.

Avoided Osric’s eyes.

Then cleared his throat and said, deadpan: "Well... legend says Solena only chooses the most handsome man in the empire."

Osric went still.

Dead silent.

Jaw slightly slack.

"...I should feel proud," he said at last. "But I feel deeply uncomfortable."

I burst out laughing.

Like, actual laughter. Not a royal giggle. Not a ladylike chuckle. A full-on, very inappropriate wheeze.

"Oh no," I gasped, tears in my eyes. "You’ve been pretty-picked by an ancient bird. This is the best day of my life."

Osric turned slowly to Solena. "I don’t suppose I can give you back?"

Solena let out a warning chirp and jabbed her beak against his cheek. Not hard. But pointed.

"She doesn’t take rejection well," Rye added helpfully.

"Of course she doesn’t."

"And," Rye continued, like a man gleefully passing off a cursed object, "now that she’s chosen you, Lord Osric... you are, uh... responsible."

"Responsible? For what

?"

"For her care. Her training. Feeding her spiritually aligned seeds. Letting her perch on your head during high council meetings."

"I’m going to die," Osric whispered. "I’m going to die before thirty, and it’s going to be because of a pigeon with an ego."

"She’s a celestial eagle," I corrected.

"She’s a feathered overlord," he hissed, as Solena smugly flapped once and settled in.

Rye grinned like he’d just witnessed divine comedy. "Anyway, congratulations. You’ve been soul-bonded by a creature of ancient prophecy."

"I hate this."

"She loves you."

"I hate this."

I gave Osric a little pat on the shoulder. "Welcome to the magical chosen ones club."

He looked dead into my soul. "I didn’t apply."

I chuckled. Marshi, still curled in my satchel like a deeply judgmental loaf of fluff, was staring at Solena with an expression that could only be described as offended avian disbelief.

Before the bickering could resume, Rye Morven cleared his throat, voice smooth as ever. "So... your highness," he said, folding his hands like a polite shark. "Shall we resume our conversation?"

His eyes glinted. "Tell me. Who exactly are you hunting today?"

I looked at him.

And then, with deliberate weight, I said the name.

"Elaenia Velcorin—no. Elaenia Talvan."

Rye tilted his head, interest sharpening like a drawn blade.

I pressed on, every word laced with steel.

"The adopted daughter of Count Talvan. I want her entire history. From birth to adoption. Every scrap of paper. Every lie she ever told. Every place she ever lived. Every person she ever manipulated. I want it all."

For once, Rye looked genuinely impressed. He leaned back, lips quirking with amused reverence. "Well... this just got interesting."

"It was always interesting," I muttered.

He opened his mouth to name a price—

And I didn’t let him.

I pulled three heavy pouches from my satchel and dropped them onto the table with a thud that echoed like a royal declaration.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

"Advance payment," I said coolly. "You’ll get the rest after you bring me something worth hearing."

Rye Morven beamed like a man who’d just sold a nation its own crown back. He swept the pouches off the table like a greedy magician and bowed slightly. "Then this humble servant," he purred, "is at your disposal, your highness."

I rolled my eyes. "Stars. You really are corrupt."

Rye winked. "Only fashionably."

I turned, flicking my cloak behind me with a very regal swirl. "Let’s go, Os—"

But I stopped mid-sentence.

Osric wasn’t following.

He was frozen.

Still as a statue. Eyes wide.

Expression unreadable.

"Osric?" I asked, frowning.

He didn’t blink. "Why..." he began, voice low, careful, stunned. "Why do you need information about Elaenia, Lavi?"

The question pierced cleaner than Solena’s talons. My fingers twitched at my side, curling into fists I hoped he wouldn’t notice.

And just like that... the room wasn’t so warm anymore.

Marshi’s ears twitched. Solena turned her golden eyes toward me, quietly observing.

And Osric?

He was no longer just my Protector. He was someone who suddenly wanted answers.

And maybe—just maybe—he’d start demanding them soon.