Chapter 188: Ghost Ducks

The Archduke is excessively paranoid.

Scratch.

Genevieve scrawled, her quill scratching harshly against the paper.

’He has essentially locked the child in a vault. The child herself is a profound disappointment. She is a mundane, stupid, ill-mannered brat who lacks any semblance of aristocratic grace.

Scratch.

She appears politically useless. She possesses the intellect of a root vegetable, she is too dense to be manipulate

Genevieve smirked.

The child’s attachment to the Archduke remains exploitable.

Genevieve paused, dipping her quill in the inkwell, a vicious sneer twisting her beautiful face.

’If we can isolate the child...’

She dipped her quill.

Then—

Crinkle.

Genevieve stopped.

She looked around.

The sound had been incredibly faint. It sounded like someone slowly crushing a dry autumn leaf.

She looked around the dimly lit room. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn. The door was locked. The silence of the massive estate was oppressive.

Nothing.

"Just the floorboards." Genevieve muttered to herself, rubbing her tired eyes. The stress of the infiltration was getting to her.

She continued writing.

Crinkle.

She froze again.

She looked back down at her letter.

She reached for her quill, which she had set down on the edge of the desk.

The quill was gone.

Genevieve frowned. She patted the mahogany surface, searching the shadows. "Where did I put..."

This time, the sound came from behind her.

Slowly, Genevieve looked into the mirror.

Her reflection stared back.

The room behind her appeared empty.

She looked up at the large, silver-framed mirror mounted on her vanity.

But sitting perfectly still on the very top of her ornate, velvet-canopied bed behind her, was a crisp, white origami duck.

There was a duck.

Sitting on top of her bed.

A small white origami duck.

Its tiny, folded paper eyes were glowing with a faint, pulsing, ominous violet light.

And in its paper beak, it was holding her missing quill.

Genevieve stopped breathing.

"...What?"

A sudden, visceral, icy chill skittered down her spine. The hair on her arms stood up.

’What... what is that?’ Genevieve’s mind blanked. ’Is that... folded paper? How did it get on my bed? Why is it glowing?’

She slowly turned around in her chair.

She looked at the top of the bed canopy.

There was no duck. The space was completely empty.

She looked back at the mirror.

The duck was gone.

Genevieve swallowed, her heart beginning to hammer a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She was a trained spy, educated in the magical arts and psychological warfare. She knew that illusions were common. She knew that fatigue could cause hallucinations.

"I am tired."

She laughed nervously.

"Very tired."

’I am seeing things. It’s just the flickering candlelight playing tricks on my eyes.’

She turned back toward her desk.

Her spare quill was missing.

Her breathing stopped.

"Where..."

Crinkle.

Crinkle. Crinkle.

The sound was louder this time. It wasn’t coming from the bed. It was coming from directly beneath her desk.

Genevieve slowly, leaned forward, peering over the edge of the mahogany desk into the dark space where her feet rested.

Six ducks stared back.

Six.

Perfectly arranged.

Glowing violet eyes.

They were perfectly arranged in a semi-circle.

Their violet, glowing eyes were fixed unblinkingly on her face. They were completely silent.

They didn’t move. They just stared, radiating an aura of profound, aggressive, deeply unsettling judgment.

Genevieve screamed.

"AHHH!"

She kicked her chair backward, scrambling away from the desk until her back hit the wall.

It crashed into the wall.

She pointed a trembling finger at the space beneath the desk. "Who... who is there?! What kind of sick prank is this?! Reveal yourself!"

Silence.

Genevieve grabbed a heavy, brass candlestick from a nearby side table, holding it up like a club. She crept back toward the desk, her breathing ragged, preparing to smash whatever magical construct was hiding in the shadows.

She peeked under the desk again.

"Reveal yourselves!"

The ducks disappeared.

Genevieve stared.

Her breathing became frantic.

"Illusion."

She nodded to herself.

"Obviously an illusion."

"I am losing my mind," Genevieve whispered, her voice cracking with genuine panic.

She was hyperventilating now.

The impenetrable, terrifying reputation of the Nacht Estate was beginning to crush her psyche. The stories of the North’s dark magic, the rumors of blood rituals, they all came rushing back to her in a terrifying flood.

She backed away from the desk, deciding that the intelligence report could wait until morning. She needed to get out of this room. She needed to find the guards.

She turned toward the door.

She needed guards.

Immediately.

She walked quickly toward the heavy oak door. She reached out, grabbing the brass handle, twisting it frantically.

It didn’t turn.

The door was locked. But not from the inside.

It wouldn’t move.

Genevieve pulled harder.

Nothing.

Locked.

From the outside.

Genevieve pulled with all her might. The door refused to budge. It felt as though it had been welded to the frame.

Her face went white.

Then—

Crinkle.

Genevieve whipped her head around, pressing her back against the locked door.

One duck stood in the middle of the room.

Silver-threaded.

It raised a wing.

’Bartholomew,’ the duck’s internal consciousness identified itself.

The duck didn’t just stare at her, but pointed toward the intelligence report.

And then, with a slow, deliberate, incredibly ominous motion, the paper duck dragged its wing horizontally across its own paper throat in a universal, unmistakable gesture of lethal threat.

Genevieve stared.

"...No."

Genevieve let out a high-pitched, hysterical, breathless scream.

The candle on the desk violently, instantly blew out, plunging the room into absolute, pitch-black darkness.

The darkness was not silent.

The room erupted into a symphony of rustling paper. It sounded like a thousand dry leaves caught in a hurricane.

Darkness swallowed the room.

Crinkle.

Crinkle.

Rustle.

Flap.

Everywhere.

Under the bed.

Inside the wardrobe.

Behind the curtains.

Above the ceiling.

Genevieve pressed herself against the locked door.

She screamed, pounding her fists against the locked door, tears of pure, unadulterated terror streaming down her face.