Village of Newport

Trowa Barton trudged into the foyer of his family's stately home, his worn leather boots leaving a trail of mud on the floor that would have normally earned him a scolding from his mother.

But from the strains of sobs he could make out as he passed the staircase leading up to his parents' chambers, it was clear his mother had retired for the night.

He found the Duke Barton seated in his favorite armchair in front of a roaring fire, a mug of ale in his hand. On the end table beside him, a bowl of stew sat untouched. The duke's complexion was pallid, his usual wrinkles more pronounced, and his shoulders sagged, as if he wore the stress of the past few days as a cloak.

Trowa paused in the doorway, and his father addressed him without raising his head. "Well?"

"The thieves are still at large," Trowa said, and his father's shoulders buckled even more. He wished he could be delivering better news, that he had managed to find and apprehend the culprits himself. "The garrisons are moving their search to the forests," Trowa added, trying to sound more optimistic than he felt.

His father frowned, raising his eyes to Trowa as he set down his mug. "What of the surrounding villages? They must be searched thoroughly as well." The Duke threw up his hands, scowling. "The bastards could be halfway to Guildhold by now."

Trowa clenched his teeth at the mention of the town that was a known haven for criminals, assassins and other lowlifes. "That may very well be. A few of the villagers I spoke with, including the innkeeper at The Heavyarms, did say that they saw a few unfamiliar faces these past few days…"

The Duke's frown deepened. "There are always travelers, new faces frequenting the inn. What made these folks so unusual?"

"Apparently, it was the manner of the company," Trowa said, folding his arms and leaning against the doorjamb. "Two young men and one older, all rugged in appearance, with a young, attractive woman dressed in man's clothes." His father arched a brow at that.

"That does sound like quite the motley crew," Duke Barton said. His green eyes narrowed. "And where are they now?"

"That's anyone's guess," Trowa said glumly. His father's scowl returned in full force.

"Well, where were they headed?" Trowa shook his head, and the Duke's face reddened. "What, no one bothered to ask? That fool Remy is so incompetent, it's any wonder he continues to draw business to that godforsaken hellhole he likes to call an inn..."

Trowa rolled his shoulders. "He said the strangers kept rooms for several nights. And they spent a small fortune on baths, meals and spirits." His eyes tightened. "It seems they had an endless supply of gold…"

"Well, where do you suppose the vermin got it from?" the Duke spat.

"Remy said they'd paid in full when they first arrived," Trowa said. His father's eyes rolled.

"Of course they did. Because they are career criminals, Trowa! You'd think years in the castle guard would have taught you better," he thundered. Trowa shrugged off the reproach.

"I have learned to give people the benefit of the doubt, until they are proven guilty," he said calmly. It was his time as a guard that had taught him to do so; he'd seen more than one person hanged for crimes they did not commit, an injustice he knew still gnawed at Relena to this day. "But in this case," Trowa continued, "I think it's safe to consider this particular group as our suspects."

Duke Barton sighed and nodded, leaning forward in his chair. "They were likely here plotting their heist for days. And to slip in and out of the manor unnoticed... " He pressed his lips into a hard line. "Whoever they are… they're good," he concluded. "Very good."

"They must have known we were going to be away," Trowa added. "Someone must have tipped them off… someone with ties to the palace, no doubt."

His father frowned, stood, and began to pace in front of his chair. "Only the king knew of our plan to call upon the Blooms. Since he was the one to arrange it…"

"Gossip spreads like wildfire at court," Trowa cut in. "If word got out around the castle, it could have reached the village before we even left."

"But who at court would want to set us up?" Duke Barton stroked his chin.

"Some petty lord with a grudge?" Trowa guessed. "Someone you owe a debt to?" The Duke waved a hand.

"I settled any debts from my youth years ago. The question remains, who would go to such lengths as to hire a team of thieves to rob us blind?"

His words chilled Trowa. "Surely what you kept in the vaults… that wasn't the entirety of your fortune…"

"No," the Duke gritted out, his face darkening. "But a good portion of it. You know I've never trusted the banks." He heaved a deep sigh and sank back down into his chair, reaching for his mug and taking a hearty gulp. Trowa watched his father silently for a moment before speaking again.

"You could start selling off your holdings," he suggested. He was met with a stony glare.

"Never. The lands pay for themselves," his father grumbled.

"But how will you pay the workers?"

"We'll cut back in other places," the Duke said, his features heavy as his voice. "Less exotic holidays. Less furs and jewels and fancy hats for your mother. She'll adjust; she'll have to... " From the weary look on his face, it was clear he was already dreading that conversation. "But that's for me to worry about. I haven't concerned you with the financial details of our estate since you chose to leave home and become a guard."

Trowa clenched his jaw. "A position we agreed would be advantageous to this family," he said.

"It was," the Duke groused. "Until you bungled your betrothal to the princess. A princess, Trowa." His father shot him a look that suggested he wanted to strangle him. Trowa straightened his back. "Who knew Marticus had the Arabian Sultan's ear all this time? You should have known," he seethed. "You should have had your eyes and ears everywhere, as we discussed."

"I'm a guard, not a spy, father," Trowa said, working to keep his voice level.

"You have forgotten your place," his father snarled. "In any event, your chance at becoming king consort is ruined. You'll have no choice but to marry the Bloom girl, despite her paltry dowry…"

A knock at the front door sliced through their conversation, and Trowa was immediately grateful for the interruption. He turned and headed back into the foyer, his father not far behind him.

"A visitor? At this hour?"

"Perhaps one of the garrisons, with news," Trowa said, approaching the door. He reached for the knob, his dominant hand straying to his side, touching the hilt of his sword.

He opened the door to reveal a young page he instantly recognized, wearing a cloak of crimson and gold- the colors of the castle guard and the Peacecraft family crest.

"Phillipe. What brings you here at this late hour?"

"I've a message for you," the boy said, breathless. Beyond him, one of the castle steeds was tethered to the front gate. Trowa frowned as the page reached into his cloak and held out a parchment, closed with the familiar, blood-red royal seal.

The duke tried to sidestep Trowa, reaching for the envelope. "A message from the king? Give it here," he barked.

"It's for Sir Trowa," Phillipe protested, taking a step back on the threshold.

Luckily Trowa was faster than his old man, and snatched the letter from Phillipe's hands before his father could lay a finger on it.

Moving to the side, Trowa slid his finger under the seal and opened the letter. As he read, his lips curved upward.

Come home. I have a proposition for you.

That was all. It was unsigned, but Trowa knew from the neat, girlish handwriting exactly who had written in it.

Trowa folded the letter back up and tucked it inside his tunic.

"Well?" The Duke crossed his arms across his chair, cutting a glare in his son's direction. "What does it say?"

"I must return to the castle at once," Trowa answered. The Duke's frown deepened.

"And bring further humiliation to our family? I won't allow it," he growled.

Trowa matched his father's steely gaze. "It wasn't a request," he said. With that, he brushed past his father and joined the page outside. Duke Barton reached out and snatched his son's sleeve.

"You have to stay and help find the thieves!" he hissed, green eyes wild. Trowa turned his head and smiled half-heartedly over his shoulder.

"I have orders that supersede yours." He shrugged off his father's grip. "Good luck with the search."

He could feel his father's eyes boring a hole in his back as he walked away, towards freedom- or at least, the closest thing to it for a nobleman's son.

"You must speak with the king!" his father called after him. "Ask him to lend his guards!"

Trowa scoffed. "I wouldn't bother the king with our family troubles. I'll just get my horse," he added to the page, who nodded and hurried over to his own steed.

And then Trowa made his way through the darkness to the stables, ignoring any further protests from his father.

A/N: 2020; what a year. We're still alive, though, and so is this story. We hope you are doing well in these crazy times, and we hope to continue to be able to update again soon.

Stay safe and healthy!

- RGS