Raised From The Wild-Chapter 424: The Spy

After dinner, Marx led Amaya to a secluded part of the garden, where the scent of night-blooming jasmine hung thick in the air. The flickering lanterns cast long shadows over the cobbled pathway, adding an air of secrecy to their conversation.

Prince Raquim traced the path a few paces behind, his jaw set in a taut line that betrayed his feelings of jealousy. Shadows danced around him, accentuating the sharp angles of his face as he eyed the two people talking at the far end of the garden.

Marx turned back, and Prince Raquim felt an undeniable pressure as the Usturian glanced in his direction.

He turned around and retraced his steps back to the sitting room. There, he found his sister examining the design drafts sketched by Princess Amaya for the upcoming jewelry series, which will be released to commemorate the opening of the second branch of Simply Jewel.

Back in the garden, Marx leaned closer to Amaya.

"Aya," Marx said in a low voice, "that servant you call Manna—wasn’t she originally from Ra-Iya?"

Amaya’s brows lifted slightly in surprise. "You remembered? Yes, she served me during Zanzara’s wedding to King Ralden. She was mistreated by Sophia and left the palace the first chance she got. I ran into her in Albanya last year. She was working at a small restaurant. She asked if I needed a servant, and I hired her since I was short on help."

Marx fell silent, his fingers tapping absently against his wrist. Something gnawed at his gut—a whisper of instinct warning him that Manna’s presence was no mere coincidence. He wanted to dismiss the thought, but doubts crept in like shadows at dusk.

They returned to the parlor, where the air was still thick with unsaid words.

Prince Raquim, perhaps sensing Marx’s unease, smiled gently at Amaya. "Princess, how about a round of chess?"

Marx wanted to protest, but another thought crossed his mind. He wanted to see Raquim humiliated.

"I’ve been practicing against a computer while recuperating in Albanya," Raquim added, a touch of pride in his voice.

Amaya merely smiled, serene as ever.

The game began. At first, Raquim dominated the board, his confidence swelling. But fifteen minutes into the game, Amaya moved her bishop, and the entire momentum shifted. Raquim hesitated, his fingers hovering over his next move. He spent an excruciatingly long time thinking—too long.

In the end, he lost.

Marx chuckled under his breath.

Raquim’s jaw tensed. "Again?"

Marx stepped forward, his grin widening. "Why don’t I play with you this time?"

Raquim hesitated but refusing would be an insult to his pride. He had no idea how skilled Marx was in chess, but it shouldn’t be that good, right? He was trained as a CEO, and CEOs were always busy. He, however, as a monarch, was trained by chess masters from a very young age

"Fine, " he replied, arranging the white pieces on his side. He wanted to make the first move.

The match was brutal. After ten minutes, Marx announced in a smug voice, "Checkmate!"

Tamara leaned back, arms crossed over her chest. "Brother, you might consider firing those chess masters you hired to tutor you. Losing twice in one night? Embarrassing."

Raquim sighed, rubbing his temples. "It’s late. We have an early flight tomorrow. Let’s get some rest."

...

Later that night, after leaving the White Mansion, Marx descended into the dimly lit basement. Rows of monitors glowed against the walls, casting eerie reflections on the glass wall on the opposite side of the room.

Ren and Ava were still at their computers. When he peeped at their screen, they were playing games. He realized that they were still children after all.

Marx smirked. "Why are you still up?"

"It’s still early," Ava replied, eyes glued to her screen and her hands moving fast on the game control. "Why are you here, Uncle Marx?"

"I need to check on someone."

He tapped his watch, and a hologram flickered to life—an AI with sharp, calculating eyes. "Nine, access the palace database. Analyze all calls and messages sent or received by the servant Manna."

The AI swiftly analyzed the server data, its circuits buzzing with efficiency. In mere moments, it delivered its assessment: "All messages appear to be casual. She occasionally mentions the Princess, but nothing suspicious or harmful."

Marx frowned as Nine sifted through the security footage. Manna’s daily activities flashed across the monitors. There was nothing suspicious—just routine tasks.

Had he been wrong? Were his suspicions unfounded?

Ren, who had been casually listening, suddenly straightened. His eyes sharpened on one of the clips.

"Wait," he muttered. "Pause that."

The footage showed Manna in the garden, feeding the pigeons—a mundane sight. But something about it nagged at Ren.

Nine, however, did not react as he was only programmed to recognize Marx and Princess Amaya’s voice.

Ren’s fingers flew over the keyboard, grabbing control from the AI. He replayed the scene where Manna was feeding the birds, zooming in and slowing the video.

Manna never touched any of the birds. But one pigeon pecked at something small, something that glinted in the light before it took off.

A capsule.

Ren rewound the footage and played it again. And again.

Then suddenly, he burst into laughter. It was sharp and rich, filled with a depth of understanding that sent a shiver down Ava’s spine. She turned to him, her brow furrowing in confusion. Ava glanced at Ren like he’d lost his mind.

"Brother, what’s so funny? You, laughing like that, sounds so scary."

Ren wiped a tear from his eye, still grinning. "It is no wonder we don’t find anything on her cellphone. What a smart move. In times like this, who would have thought of sending messages using birds as carriers."

Ren smirked. "She was using carrier pigeons." He repeated as if it was something extraordinary.

Marx studied Ren. The kid was indeed a genius. That mad scientist who experimented on his mother must have injected in his genes.

Marx exhaled sharply. His instincts had been right.

"You have a great eye, kid. You spotted it so easily." Marx, who usually is not fond of giving praise, offered one.

"Of course! I am a genius!" He said, full of pride.

Now the real question was—who was she sending messages to?