“Nirveli… is that you?” The whisper, so soft it was nearly lost in the market's sudden stillness, landed like a thunderclap. Every tendon in her borrowed body stiffened. The bundle of treasonous scrolls crackled in her tight grip. Dakor’s eyes, usually a placid, deep lagoon, were now a roiling tempest, reflecting the flickering lamplight and her own bloodied hands. He knew. How could he know? “Wha—who? Me?” Her voice, when it came, was a gravelly croak, utterly unlike Nirveli’s once-melodious tones. She threw her shoulders back, adopting a caricature of a brutish sentinel. “Yer Grace must be mistook! I’m your most loyal, uh… guard-person. Just doin’ my duty. Fiercely, mind you. For you. Because you’re the Duke, and I’m the guard, and it’s my job.” She thumped her chest with a fist, managing to look less like a seasoned warrior and more like a confused swamp-rhino. Dakor’s gaze, unblinking, traced the furious set of her jaw, the way her knuckles pinched the treasonous parchment, the fierce, possessive glint in her eyes that had been so absent in his previous guard. A faint tremor passed through his lips. It wasn't a frown. It was the ghost of a smile, fleeting yet unmistakably there, softening the grim lines around his mouth. The first genuine one she’d seen since her supposed death. “Of course,” he said, the amusement now audible beneath the carefully neutral tone. “My apologies. My mind wanders.” He gestured to the unconscious cutthroat. “This one, I presume, had a rather public, shall we say, *encounter* with your unique brand of loyalty?” “He spoke ill of you, Yer Grace!” she boomed, pointing a bloodied finger at the crumpled figure. “And then he tried to run! A grave offense! The Duke’s honor demands swift, utterly non-stealthy retribution!” Dakor’s smile deepened, a spark of something warm entering his dark eyes. “Indeed. A most unique approach to discretion.” He took the parchment roll from her, his fingers brushing hers, warming her calloused skin. “Come. Yulza will want to see this. And I suspect, after such a… vigorous patrol, you’ll want to clean up.” Later that day, the Tribunal of Tides was in full, agitated session. Grand Maester Yulza, his ancient face a mask of serene neutrality, addressed the assembled nobles. “The Duke’s personal sentinel displayed exemplary, if unconventional, zeal in apprehending a would-be killer this morning.” A few nobles shifted, glancing at the battered ruffian now displayed in a magically suspended cage, still unconscious. “Her… *enthusiasm*… led to the discovery of this.” He held up the bound sheets, the parchment now crisp and pristine, thanks to some unseen magic. “A conspiracy of staggering perfidy, aimed at our beloved Duke Dakor.” The murmurs escalated. Yulza let them rise, then brought his staff down with a sharp *thwack*. “The records implicate several individuals, including Lord Kaelan of the Azure Shoals, Baroness Faelan of the Reed Marches, and Sir Garan of the Whispering Isles. All, curiously, known associates of Lord Chardak.” A gasp rippled through the hall. “Their swift apprehension is paramount. The accusation: treason against the Monsoon Throne and the systematic destabilization of the Sunken Citadel.” Within the hour, three separate squads of Citadel guards, moving with a disciplined precision that Nirveli found strangely irritating, swept through the Juthar court. Lord Kaelan, a pompous man with a perpetually damp cravat, was dragged from a heated game of tide-chess, sputtering about his ancient lineage. Baroness Faelan, caught mid-sip of fermented kelp-wine, shrieked about slander. Sir Garan, found practicing his sword forms, went quietly, his face ashen. Yulza, watching from a high balcony, gave a slow, satisfied nod. Nirveli’s explosive market display had not merely caught a killer; it had, quite elegantly, decapitated three key political arms of Chardak’s emerging faction. Dakor, standing beside Yulza, watched the spectacle with a grim satisfaction that Nirveli found immensely gratifying. The evening’s banquet, held in the iridescent Grand Coral Hall, was thick with tension. Dakor, impeccably dressed in his formal ducal silks, moved through the glittering crowd like a somber current. Nirveli, in her regulation shadow guard attire, stalked behind him, a dark, growling shadow. Every time a noblewoman, her silks rustling like dry leaves, approached Dakor with simpering smiles and carefully rehearsed condolences, Nirveli’s presence intensified. She’d position herself directly between them, her gaze a laser beam of suspicion, her hand hovering over the hilt of her dagger. A low, guttural growl, barely audible, would escape her lips. “Yer Grace looks… well, considering,” Lady Serina of the Riverbend whispered, her fan fluttering dangerously close to Dakor’s arm. Nirveli took a menacing step forward. “He is *fine*,” she rasped, her voice edged with something wild. “And he doesn’t appreciate fawning.” Lady Serina backed away, chin dipping low, her fan fluttering in frantic arcs. Dakor merely offered her a curt nod of dismissal. This scene repeated itself with Lady Vael, then Dame Lyria, each time more aggressively from Nirveli. Dakor, though outwardly stoic, kept sending her sidelong glances, a hint of something akin to exasperation—and something else, something softer—playing on his features. Lord Chardak, having arrived late and alone, his usual retinue noticeably absent, watched the unfolding drama from across the hall. His eyes, cold and calculating, fixed on the unruly guard, then on Dakor. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. He lifted a hand, signaling for silence. The murmurs died down, everyone turning to face him. He surveyed the assembled nobility, his gaze lingering on Dakor. He took a deep, theatrical breath. “My lords, my ladies,” Chardak’s voice, clear and resonant, cut through the hushed hall. “I come tonight with grave tidings. For too long, we have mourned the loss of the esteemed Duchess Nirveli, swallowed by the cold waters of the Sarosian Current. But tonight, I bring you the truth. I have uncovered the true villain, the true betrayer.” His eyes gleamed with malicious triumph as he pointed a finger directly at Dakor. “The true murderer of Duchess Nirveli… is Duke Dakor himself!”

The Maester's Purge