Chapter 28: Arrival

Far in the north, beneath the bitter chill of a winter night, Galehelm slept.

​The stone manor stood nearly silent, wrapped in deep shadow. Throughout the administrative wing, the candles had long since burned out, leaving only pale moonlight to filter through the tall archways and pool across the floorboards.

​Yet one room remained illuminated.

​Gareth sat alone behind his desk, illuminated by the solitary, flickering flame of a brass oil lamp. Cold drafts slipped through the stone masonry, dancing across the papers spread out before him, tax ledgers, population figures, and military expenditures. 

His immediate attention was fixed on the latest report from the Dunmere Mine, sent by Baron Alric earlier that week.

​He read through the numbers carefully, occasionally dipping his quill to make a precise note in the margin. Iron yield was up, the first silver ores had been extracted. The workforce had expanded. Most importantly, fatal accidents had dropped significantly despite the deeper excavation.

​Gareth paused, tapping the end of his quill against the parchment. "Not bad, Alric," he murmured to the empty room.

​He set the report aside and reached for the next file when a faint sound broke the stillness.

​Tap.

​Gareth froze, his eyes shifting toward the dark window pane. Nothing but snow falling against the glass. He lowered his gaze back to his desk.

​Tap.

​This time, the sound came from the threshold.

​Gareth didn't reach for a blade, nor did his posture break. He calmly dipped his quill back into the inkwell. "Come in."

​The heavy oak door glided open without a sound. A tall figure stepped into the study, draped in a long black cloak that absorbed the surrounding light. 

A deep hood cast his face into total shadow, but at his chest, the faint glint of silver caught the lamplight, a small brooch depicting a crow perched atop a skull.

​The sigil of the Order of Crows.

​The intruder closed the door behind him, sealing them in quiet isolation. Gareth didn't look up from his ledger.

​"You've been quiet, Gareth," the man rasped, his voice sounding like iron scraping across stone.

​"I've been busy." ​Gareth finally glanced up, his expression smooth and unbothered. "Why are you here?"

​The hooded figure remained unmoving, a cold pressure radiating from his dark silhouette. "The Council has heard from you for months, they grow impatient."

​"Is that so?"

​"Indeed."

​"I was occupied," Gareth replied smoothly, leaning back into his high-backed chair and steepling his fingers. "We've been hard at work for the past few months, in case you hadn't noticed, the territory is undergoing rapid improvements."

​"You have forgotten your real purpose here," the man said, his voice hardening into a low threat. He reached into the folds of his cloak, and Gareth watched his hands carefully. "You were sent here because of a contract."

​The figure produced a folded parchment sealed with black wax and held it between two fingers.

​"Yet, the Marquess still lives," the man stated flatly.

​A heavy silence settled over the chamber. The air grew perceptibly colder as the flame atop the lamp flickered wildly. Gareth’s expression didn't shift; his eyes merely drifted down to the black wax seal stamped with the crow and skull.

​"You are summoned by the Council," the hood figure continued, placing the parchment squarely on the edge of the mahogany desk. "They expect you at the Great hall, post haste."

​Gareth reached out, picking up the letter with deliberate, unhurried ease. "To what end?"

​"You'll find out soon enough," the man replied. "Their patience is exhausted."

​Gareth let out a quiet breath through his nose, turning the parchment over in his hand. "And if I refuse? What if I stay here where I'm comfortable?"

​The hooded figure offered no verbal response. He simply stood in total stillness, the void beneath his hood fixed onto Gareth with lethal intent.

​Gareth waited, meeting the unreadable stare for a long, drawn-out beat. When no attack came, a faint, cold smile returned to his lips.

​"I see."

​Without another word, the agent of the Order melted back into the shadows near the doorway, opening the oak door and slipping out into the dark corridor. The door clicked shut, returning the study to absolute silence.

​Gareth sat alone once more. He broke the black seal with a flick of his thumb, unfolding the parchment to scan the brief, uncompromising text. 

The directive was absolute: Return to the Council. Answer for your delay.

​He had known this confrontation was inevitable. For months, he had intentionally ignored their demands, offering nothing but silence while he worked closely with Edric. 

But the Order had its limits, and he had finally pushed them to the brink.

​Gareth folded the letter carefully and placed it into the desk drawer beneath his ledgers. His fingers lingered on the brass handle for a moment before he pushed it closed with a firm click.

​He stared into the dancing flame of the oil lamp, his blue eyes hardening into cold resolve.

​"I suppose I can't keep them waiting any longer," he whispered.

​It was time to face the Crows.

Meanwhile to the West, the morning sun had just risen. Inside the grand halls of Rosehall, Duke Sterling sat at the head of the receiving chamber as Viscount Roland Arby was ushered inside. 

The high vaulted ceilings bounced the faint echo of footsteps across the polished floorboards, while sunlight filtered through the tall arched windows, casting golden light across the intricate rose sigils carved into the stone.

Duke Sterling offered a warm, polite smile as the noble party came to a halt before his oak desk.

"Viscount Arby," the Duke greeted him warmly, gesturing toward the comfortable seating across the hall. "Welcome to Rosehall. I trust your journey along the Western roads was smooth and without incident?"

Roland offered a deep, formal bow, leaning lightly on his brass-headed cane. "It was indeed, Your Grace. The weather held, and the highways were remarkably peaceful. Though I must confess, at my age, even the finest carriage begins to feel like torture after three days on the road."

Duke William let out a quiet, booming laugh, a rare, genuine sound that briefly chased away the tired lines around his eyes. "Ah, Roland. You haven't changed a bit. I remember when you would ride three days straight on horseback without a single complaint."

"That was thirty years and forty pounds ago, your Grace," Roland chuckled, waving a hand airily before his expression softened into one of earnest sincerity. He straightened his posture, looking Duke Sterling directly in the eye.

"House Arby stands behind House Sterling, your Grace. Whatever these troubling times may bring, we are at your command."

Duke William looked at his loyal vassal, a swell of deep, genuine gratitude warming his chest. "Your words carry great weight, Roland. A loyal bannerman is a most welcomed gift in these dark days, and I am honored to count House Arby among my closest allies."

The Duke paused, offering an apologetic gesture. "Though I must ask your forgiveness that Duchess Alyna and my daughter Elena are not here to greet you properly. They are currently occupied with the debut preparations, my wife insists that every single ribbon and table setting must be absolute perfection."

Roland chuckled warmly. "There is nothing to forgive, Your Grace. Debut preparations are a storm best left to the ladies of the house." He stepped aside slightly, gesturing toward the young man standing at his right. "Ah, that reminds me, allow me to introduce my son and heir, Sullivan."

Duke Sterling’s eyes shifted toward the youth, a look of quiet approval sweeping across his face. "Ah, Sullivan. You’ve grown into a fine young man since last we met. Time has served you well."

The Duke offered a lighthearted grin, raising an eyebrow at the young noble. "You must be fast approaching marrying age yourself, Sullivan. Tell me, is there a fortunate lady to whom you are betrothed?"

Sullivan offered a graceful bow, a modest smile touching his lips. "Not yet, Your Grace. My father insists on keeping me focused on my studies and duties before I settle down."

"A wise approach," Duke William laughed softly, before signaling an attendant.

Sullivan gestured to two attending servants, who stepped forward carrying a polished hardwood box bound in brass. Sullivan took the small chest and presented it toward the Duke. "On behalf of House Arby, please accept this modest offering for Lady Elena's upcoming debut."

The Duke opened the lid slightly to reveal a dazzling array of cut, precious gems harvested directly from the Arby family mines, glinting brilliantly in the sunlight.

"A most generous gesture," Duke Sterling said, his voice laced with warmth. "House Sterling deeply appreciates your generosity, Sullivan."

"We are honored, Your Grace," Sullivan replied smoothly, offering another bow of respect before stepping back into formation.

It was then that Duke Sterling’s sharp, experienced eyes drifted past Sullivan, landing on the third member of their party, a young man clad in fine yet simple attire, who maintained a disciplined, erect posture.

"And who might this be?" the Duke asked, leaning forward slightly.

Arden took a steady breath and stepped forward, bowing deeply. "I am Arden, Your Grace. A student of the Royal Capital Academy."

Recognition flickered in the Duke's eyes. "Ah. So you are the commoner who earned a full scholarship." Duke Sterling studied the boy carefully, his expression unreadable. "Tales of your accomplishments have reached even my ears, brought by none other than my daughter, Elena."

At the mention of Elena’s name, Arden’s ears flushed a faint crimson. He quickly looked down, trying and failing, to hide his sudden embarrassment. Beside him, Sullivan caught the reaction immediately, casting Arden a sly, teasing side-glance with a barely suppressed smirk.

"You have my gratitude for taking care of my daughter at the Academy." The Duke continued.

"I... I am humbled, Your Grace," Arden stammered softly, offering a profuse bow to cover his red face. "Though I assure you, it was Lady Elena who took care of me at the Academy. Her guidance was most invaluable."

Duke Sterling watched the boy’s flustered posture, catching the subtle shift in his tone and the careful way he held himself at the mere mention of his daughter. 

The veteran ruler needed no further confirmation, the commoner boy clearly harbored deep feelings for Elena.

A quiet, heavy beat passed. The Duke chose not to voice his realization, keeping his expression calm and dignified as the heavy reality of his daughter's upcoming political betrothal lingered at the back of his mind.

Instead, Duke Sterling offered a gentle, reassuring nod. "Regardless, you have my gratitude, Arden. Any friend of my daughter is a welcome guest in my domain."

The Duke stood up from his heavy chair, spreading his hands in a gesture of open welcome. "Lady Elena's debut is still a few days away, so please, make yourselves at home. The hospitality of House Sterling is entirely yours."

"Gratitude, your Grace." Roland answered as he offered yet another deep bow.

The heavy oak doors of the palace receiving hall closed quietly behind them, shutting out the formal air of the court.

Viscount Roland Arby took a deep breath of the crisp morning air, leaning comfortably on his brass-headed cane as they stepped out onto the wide stone terrace overlooking the lower courtyard. 

Beside them walked four Arby house servants carrying their luggage, flanked closely by three armored personal guards bearing the Arby crest. 

Sullivan stretched his arms with a dramatic sigh.

"Well, that went exceptionally well," he remarked, a swift grin playing on his lips. "Though I must say, Arden, your performance was something else."

Arden, who was walking slightly behind them alongside them, adjusted his tunic and gave a flat look. "I didn't perform anything."

"Oh, please," Sullivan chuckled, turning around to walk backward down the terrace steps. "'Her guidance was most invaluable.' Your face was redder than a ripe pomegranate, mate. I thought His Grace was going to call for a healer."

"I was merely being respectful," Arden muttered, rubbing the back of his neck as his ears warmed again. "His Grace asked a direct question."

"And you practically melted into the floorboards," Sullivan teased, winking. "Don't worry, I'm sure Lady Elena will be thrilled to hear how you flattered her before her father."

"Sullivan, leave the boy be," Roland said with a quiet laugh, shaking his head as they reached the cobbled courtyard. "Though I must admit, Arden, you do wear your heart on your sleeve."

Before Arden could offer a blushing defense, a low, sharp blare of brass horns cut through the morning air, echoing off the high granite walls of Rosehall.

"Make way!" a guard bellowed from the gatehouse towers. "Captain Kerwin's company enters! Clear the courtyard! Open the gates!"

The heavy gates creaked as it ground upward. Arden and Sullivan exchanged a quick, puzzled look as they stepped back toward the perimeter wall, their personal guards instinctively moving in front of Viscount Roland and the servants.

Captain Kerwin rode through the now opened gates, leading his company into the cobbled courtyard.

A heavy, instinctive silence fell over the gathered guards and servants. Kerwin’s forces looked severely battered. Their silver-plated armor was caked in dried black mud, their cloaks were frayed and scorched, and several men rode slumped in their saddles with hastily wrapped bandages bound around their arms and torsos.

"What in the heavens happened to them?" Sullivan whispered, his lighthearted demeanor vanishing instantly. "Did they run into a fight?"

"Look behind them," Arden said softly, his auburn eyes narrowing.

Riding closely behind Kerwin’s battered company was a massive, disciplined convoy. At the head of the procession fluttered tall silk banners bearing a striking, chilling sigil: two silver serpents coiled around a golden sword.

"House Artos," Roland murmured, his brow furrowing as his tone turned dead serious.

Arden stiffened, his jaw tightening.

"So he's also here." He thought to himself.

Directly behind Captain Kerwin rode the vanguard of the Artos entourage. At its center sat a tall young man clad in dark, heavy fur-trimmed riding robes. The sunlight caught his silver hair, framing sharp, pale features that seemed entirely carved from marble. Beside him, riding with a sharp and vigilant posture, was a female Knight whose vibrant crimson hair fluttered against the wind.

"Is that...?" Sullivan started, squinting in genuine disbelief. "Is that Edric?"

Arden said nothing, watching the silver-haired noble closely. It was indeed Edric Artos, but he barely resembled the vain, arrogant heir they had known at the Royal Academy. 

The pampered, lazy demeanor was entirely gone. His posture in the saddle was rigid, and his golden eyes swept over the crowded courtyard with an icy, unblinking focus that sent a sudden chill through the air.

Edric rode past Arden and Sullivan without so much as a glance, treating the surrounding crowd like background scenery.

Captain Kerwin pulled his stallion to a sharp halt near the main palace stairs, sliding off his saddle with a heavy clatter of armor. 

"Guard," Kerwin called out urgently to the station commander. "Inform His Grace that I have returned. We must speak with him in haste."

"At once, Ser Kerwin!" The guard answered as he stepped inside the palace.

Edric smoothly dismounted his dark steed, with the crimson-haired Knight following suite.

"Serah," Edric said as he dismounted, his voice quiet, but commanding. "Have someone handle the luggage and secure the transport wagons."

"Understood, My Lord," Serah replied with a crisp nod. She immediately turned toward the nearest Artos soldier. "Rorik! Assemble a detail. Have four men carry the wooden crates up behind us. Keep them steady."

"Right away, Lady Serah," Rorik barked, swiftly signaling a team of Artos men to carefully unload a few long wooden boxes draped in canvas from the lead wagon.

Recognizing the highborn rank of the newcomer, Viscount Roland immediately smoothed his tunic and stepped forward, clearing his throat.

As a Marquess, Edric outranked everyone present, and etiquette dictated proper acknowledgment. Roland's guards and servants instinctively stepped back behind their master.

"Lord Edric," Roland greeted, offering a deep, respectful bow. "I am Viscount Roland Arby. It is an honor to once again meet you. I hope your journey from the Northern frontiers was without trouble."

Edric stopped in his tracks, turning his head slightly. His sharp golden eyes swept over Roland with quiet indifference. "Viscount Arby," he acknowledged, his voice smooth, low, and completely devoid of warmth. "Nothing we couldn't handle."

"Still as arrogant as ever" Sullivan seemed to say with his eyes to Arden.

Roland offered a polite nod, gesturing slightly to his side. "Lord Edric, this is my son Sullivan and his companion Arden, you may know them from the Academy."

Sullivan offered a deep, disciplined bow and Arden followed suit, though his hands remained clenched lightly at his sides.

Then, Edric’s gaze drifted past Roland and landed directly on Arden.

Silence stretched for a long, heavy second. Arden kept his gaze steady, his heart hammering subtly against his ribs. 

He remembers the duel, Arden thought, bracing himself for an arrogant insult or a bitter jab about their humiliation back at the Academy.

"Excuse me, Viscount," Edric finally said, breaking the brief spell as he turned back to Roland without addressing Arden or Sullivan directly. "I have urgent business with Duke Sterling."

Without waiting for a response, Edric turned on his heel and strode up the grand marble staircase toward the palace entrance. Serah followed half a step behind him, followed closely by Rorik and the guards carrying the heavy wooden crates.

Arden and Sullivan stood in the courtyard alongside Viscount Roland, their guards, and their servants, watching the palace doors open and swallow Edric’s entourage whole.

"Did you see him?" Sullivan breathed out, exhaling a breath he didn't realize he was holding. He looked at Arden with wide eyes. "What the hell was that? Where is the fat, loud-mouthed lard who used to scream at the instructors?"

"He's completely different," Arden admitted softly, his gaze lingering on the closed palace doors. The childish, spoiled noble they had beaten at the Academy was gone. 

In his place stood someone cold, dangerous, and utterly calculating.

As the rest of Edric's supply wagons and heavy carriages filed past them toward the outer stables, Arden stood quietly in the morning sun, a growing knot of unease twisting in his chest.