The wheels of the chariot rumbled steadily over the cobbled stone path, each clack echoing like a heartbeat as the massive gates of Valenhold came into view. Morning mist still clung to the outer walls, curling in ghostly tendrils around the ancient stone, but even that could not dim the impression of sheer presence this place commanded.
Valenhold—the seat of one of Lactresia's most powerful noble families. A territory not known for flashy pageantry, but for stability, silence, and unmistakable strength.
The front gates alone were imposing: twin structures of dark, fire-hardened bricks, stacked meticulously without mortar, each stone carved with faint runes only visible when sunlight passed through the mist. Iron-banded hinges as thick as tree trunks held the double doors in place. And above it all, etched into a blackened archway, was the sigil of House Valenhold: a silver helm resting upon a coiled oak branch.
Hundreds of people waited in a long line to enter the city—traders, peddlers, peasants with carts full of fruit or ore, and adventurers in scuffed gear. All murmured quietly among themselves, stealing glances at the sleek black chariot now making its way up the cleared center lane.
Unlike the crowd, the chariot moved unhindered, escorted by two silver-cloaked riders from the Royal Guard.
Inside, Fortis leaned forward slightly, taking in the sight.
"Quite the welcome," he muttered, half to himself.
Ervian Halbrecht—the Fourth Sword—sat across from him, arms crossed. His heavy silver armor gleamed even in the subdued light, etched with pale symbols that shimmered faintly with every shift of the chariot.
"I informed them of your arrival earlier," Ervian said plainly.
Fortis turned to him, an eyebrow raised. "Why? I was just going to take a walk through the city. Nothing grand."
A rare chuckle escaped Ervian's lips. "Dignity, brother. Dignity."
Fortis sighed with a grin, shaking his head. "You sound more noble than the nobles."
As they reached the gates, the guards stationed on either side stepped forward briskly.
"State your business," one began, before his voice faltered. He caught sight of the intricate silver crest on Ervian's chestplate—a roaring lion with wings unfurled. The symbol of the Royal Blades.
His expression changed instantly. He saluted, fist over heart, and signaled to the tower above.
The gates began to groan open, heavy chains pulling them apart as sunlight spilled through the growing crack. A hush fell over the waiting crowds as the royal chariot passed through, vanishing into the city proper.
Valenhold's inner territory unfolded like a painting.
The streets were paved with flat, dark-gray stone, polished smooth from decades of care. The buildings rose in a blend of old stone and new marble—architecture that balanced strength and elegance. Unlike the capital, where every structure vied for attention, Valenhold was grounded. Thoughtful.
Tall buildings—some six stories high—stood beside slender towers that spiraled like silver needles. Between them were homes and shops of various sizes, all designed in harmony, using vertical gardens, climbing ivy, and curved wooden balconies to soften the otherwise martial aesthetic.
Every surface felt lived-in but clean. Vendors hawked salted fish and brewed tea from open stalls designed with minimalist canopies of black silk. Bakeries released the scent of rosemary and spiced flour into the streets. A group of elderly sworders trained in a quiet courtyard off to the left, their movements fluid and unhurried.
The people were just as unique. Pale skin was common, as was ashen brown hair—likely a result of the territory's proximity to the moon Xein. Their clothes were practical: layered robes of dark blue or silver, stitched with sigils that marked their profession or guild.
It was crowded, yes—but not chaotic. There was order. A rhythm to the city.
Fortis leaned against the chariot window, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Isn't the headquarters of the Meric Guild located here?"
Ervian nodded. "Yes. They manage about 40% of the sanctioned expeditions in this quadrant."
Guilds.
Unlike the Royal Expedition Bureau, which monitored the entire country's black stone zones, guilds were rooted in their territories. Each one wielded significant power over their region—providing safety, gear, and organization—but they answered to their noble lords. Mostly.
Fortis saw their crest—an open eye within a mountain—emblazoned above a tall, octagonal tower near the city's heart. Flags fluttered from its balconies, each dyed a deep burgundy. Sworders in charcoal-gray coats moved in and out with purpose.
As the chariot turned onto a sloped marble lane, the streets grew quieter, the stone smoother.
They were approaching the estate.
The Valenhold mansion rose at the end of a long road flanked by flower-lined hedges. The front lawn alone spanned over a hundred meters, its paths branching like veins toward gazebos, koi ponds, and tea courtyards. Even this early in the day, servants were tending the gardens.
Flowers bloomed in every color: azure roses, lavender vines, deep crimson irises that swayed despite the still air. A subtle mist clung to the petals—deliberately sprayed by thin stone pipes that hissed with alchemical pressure.
The entire estate was painted in hues of pure white, accented with thin golden lines that framed windows and cornices. Carvings of leaping stags and winged hounds adorned pillars, while silver lanterns hung at every corner, filled with glowing moss from the southern mines.
To Fortis, it was like a home sculpted by silence. Not flashy, but graceful. Not warm—but undeniably beautiful.
He whispered, "This garden… I could spend a year here reading and drinking tea."
Ervian smirked. "They say the Lady of Valenhold designs it herself. Every week she changes the pattern."
The chariot passed through the final gate, guided by liveried staff in dark velvet uniforms. Waiting at the central path were three individuals.
The first to catch Fortis's attention was a woman—perhaps in her early twenties, her bearing elegant, her expression calm but unreadable. Her long silver hair fell in a precise braid down her back, with tiny sapphire ornaments woven between the strands. She wore a deep blue high-collared dress trimmed with soft silver threads, and her eyes—sharp, clear, almost glass-like—met Fortis's with practiced confidence.
She was beautiful, but in a way that didn't invite attention. She commanded it.
The eldest daughter of House Valenhold.
To her right stood a boy—likely seventeen. His hair was darker, a smoky ash-brown, slicked back, with one lock that defiantly drooped across his forehead. His outfit was elaborate: a violet coat with silver lining, worn with black riding boots. His arms were crossed, posture proud. There was something about his narrowed eyes and faint smirk that screamed entitlement.
And behind them—towering in dark armor polished to an obsidian sheen—was a man clearly in his forties or fifties. His shoulders were wide, his posture stiff, and his gaze piercing. His skin was tanned, marked with faint scars across the cheek and temple. Despite standing silently behind the siblings, it was clear he wasn't just a guard.
He was their shadow. Their protector.
A Prem Search-level sworder.
The chariot slowed to a stop, and one of the servants stepped forward to open the door.
Fortis stepped down with grace, his cloak adjusting naturally to the wind. His eyes met the eldest daughter's again.
She stepped forward, placing her right hand over her heart in the noble
salute.
Her voice was calm.
"Welcome, Second Prince of Lactresia… Sir Fortis Lactresia."