The heavy wooden door creaked open with a loud groan, and the knights stepped inside, their boots echoing against the polished stone floors. The room was dim, filled with the scent of old leather and ink, and the walls were lined with tall shelves of ledgers and scrolls. In the far corner, behind a large desk cluttered with papers and half-drunk bottles of wine, sat the financial advisor.
Lord Vindor's chief advisor was a tall man with sagging features, his eyes bloodshot and glazed over from too many sleepless nights spent at the desk, or perhaps from the endless bottles of cheap liquor that seemed to litter his workspace. His hands trembled slightly as he swirled a glass of wine, staring into the depths of it as if seeking answers.
When he finally looked up, his expression was one of mild annoyance, though his tone suggested otherwise.
"Well, well... the knights have arrived," he muttered, his voice slurring slightly as he reached for the half-empty bottle beside him. "I suppose you're here to discuss business, hm?"
The butler, who had been walking ahead of them, paused briefly but said nothing. His face remained neutral, as if this scene—this grotesque spectacle of a supposed financial advisor—was nothing new.
Markam stepped forward, his voice firm. "Yes, we're here to speak about the financial state of the lord's household."
The advisor grinned—too widely, too unnervingly. He waved his glass in the air like a careless man holding onto his last remnants of sanity.
"Ah, financials... such a boring topic, don't you think?" he said with a derisive laugh, his breath smelling strongly of alcohol. "But you know, boys, you've come at the perfect time. I was just thinking about how much more... comfortable this place could be. Some of you might want to get comfortable, eh?"
His gaze lingered on the knights, particularly Ram, who felt a chill run down his spine as the advisor's leer rested on him for a little too long.
"I could use some... company, you know?" The advisor slid a hand across the desk, knocking over a bottle of wine, spilling it across the papers. His gaze flickered toward the maids in the room, who stood there, their eyes blank, unmoving.
"Bring me another bottle," he ordered one of the maids, who scurried to comply. The tension in the air thickened, and the knights exchanged uneasy glances.
The butler, standing in the corner, didn't flinch. He didn't even seem to notice the advisor's inappropriate behavior, as though it was just another part of his daily routine. His face remained a mask of indifference, and he spoke only when necessary.
"Please, Sir Knights. Sit, and let the Lord's financial advisor explain the current situation," the butler said, his voice as calm as ever, his hands folded neatly in front of him. There was no emotion in his voice, not even a flicker of hesitation, despite the disgusting scene unfolding before them.
As the advisor continued to leer at them, his finger tracing the rim of his glass, Ram's temper flared. But before he could voice his anger, the advisor raised his hand, silencing the room with a sickening smile.
"Don't mind me, I'm just... a bit of a lonely soul, you know?" he said, his words slurring again. "But where were we? Ah yes... financials."
He stood up slowly, his tall figure staggering slightly as he approached the knights. As he passed by, his hand brushed against one of the maids, who flinched but said nothing.
Ram clenched his fists, but Markam shot him a glance, signaling him to stay quiet. They had a job to do here, and this... disgusting man wasn't going to deter them.
"Enough of your games," Markam finally said, his voice low and sharp. "Let's get down to business."
The advisor chuckled, his laugh too high-pitched for comfort, before he seated himself behind the desk again.
"Ah, yes, business," he said with a mock bow. "Let's talk money, shall we?" He reached for a nearby ledger, flipping it open with a dramatic flourish. "You'll find that the lord's expenditures are quite high. Not that it matters much, I suppose... the money's always there, isn't it? You knights, you just keep doing what you do best." His eyes flickered over to Ram again, a glint of something darker hidden behind his watery gaze.
The air in the room grew heavier as the conversation continued, each word spoken laced with disdain, and each sentence a reminder that this man wasn't just corrupt in business, but in character. His presence was revolting.
After a brief discussion on financial matters, the butler stepped forward, breaking the growing tension in the room. "The Lord is expecting you, Sir Knights. We'll handle the details from here."
With a wave of his hand, the advisor dismissed them, already losing interest. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes half-lidded, clearly already lost in the haze of his next drink. As they filed out of the room, Ram couldn't shake the feeling that something more sinister was at play here. This was just the tip of the iceberg.
The butler remained silent as they stepped back. The butler was induring this and Ram was not sure when he would reach bottleneck. It was as if even he couldn't stomach the scene inside.
The atmosphere in the financial chamber grew denser by the second. Gold-trimmed ledgers and half-empty goblets littered the tables. Stacks of paper were soaked with spilled wine. The Financial Advisor himself, a disheveled man with greasy silver hair and a glassy gaze, swayed on his feet, chuckling at nothing.
A knight's boot scuffed the marble floor—too loud.
"Huh? What was that?" the Advisor slurred, turning toward the sound with a lopsided grin. "Are my guests unhappy?"
One of the guards—larger than the others, with knotted forearms and a scar over his left eye—stepped forward. "You got a problem, tin can?" he said, jerking his chin at Markram. "You and your boys look like you're itching for something."
Markram's eye twitched. Not because of the insult—but because he could smell the stench of blood beneath all the wine.
"I'm not here for games," he said coolly, "and I won't tolerate disrespect toward my men."
The guard snorted. "You think your rank gives you weight here? This ain't the front lines, old man—this is Neandth's vault, and we guard the gold."
He reached for his weapon.
Wrong move.
Before the steel left the sheath, Markram had closed the distance. A flash—an elbow to the face, cracking bone. The guard stumbled back with blood pouring from his nose.
Another lunged from the right—Markram grabbed his wrist mid-swing and twisted. A snap echoed. The man howled.
Two more charged. Markram drew his blade, clean and fluid. In three swift arcs, he disarmed both and sent them crashing into the decorative stands behind.
Silence.
The Financial Advisor blinked, stunned. A drop of wine fell from his goblet. His lips trembled—but he said nothing.
Then—
CLACK.
The sound of a cane. The butler entered, slow and unfazed, like he'd seen this before.
"That is quite enough," he said, voice low. "Please, Sir Markram. Let us not turn discipline into a spectacle."
Markram stood still, breathing steady. His blade gleamed in the light. "You keep strange men in your vault, Butler."
The man's expression didn't change. "We do what we must to protect... assets."
Ram, standing behind, narrowed his eyes. He'd seen the look in Markram's face. Something had clicked.
The knights shifted. The ones who had remained silent now glanced at each other uneasily.
"There's blood here," Markram said, scanning the room. "Old blood. Faint, but it lingers."
"And chains," Ram added quietly. "Barely visible. But those walls... they've held more than treasure."
The Advisor hiccuped, trying to laugh, but it came out as a choking sound.
Markram sheathed his sword, then turned to his men. "Spread out. Inspect every inch of this place. Don't trust what you see—trust what you smell, what you hear, what you feel."
The knights moved.
The tension didn't fade.
The Financial Advisor wiped sweat from his temple, suddenly far more sober. The butler simply stepped back, blending into the shadows again.
Something was deeply wrong here.
And whatever it was, it wasn't just about gold.