Something was wrong. Duke Theron felt it in his bones.
The grand, wrought-iron gates of Duke Marlowe's estate appeared through the pre-dawn gloom, stark against the lightening sky. They were open. Not just unlocked, but swung wide, an invitation that felt more like a threat. There were no guards on patrol, no servants stirring. The entire estate was cloaked in an unnatural silence.
Elias, riding at the head of their small column, raised a gauntleted hand, signaling a halt. "Stay alert," he commanded, his voice a low growl. "This could be a trap."
Duke dismounted, his eyes scanning the ground. In the soft earth just inside the gateway, he saw what he was looking for: the churned-up tracks of multiple horses, all heading away from the estate. They were fresh.
"Someone left recently," Duke announced, pointing to the tracks. "A dozen riders, maybe more. They left in a hurry."
"Marlowe knew we were coming," Elias surmised, his expression grim.
"Or he was planning to leave regardless," Duke countered. "This might have just accelerated his timeline."
They proceeded with extreme caution, moving through the open gates and into the vast, manicured courtyard. The manor itself was a picture of abandonment. Ornate doors hung open, and not a single light shone from the windows. It felt less like a home and more like a hastily discarded snakeskin.
***
They split into three teams to search the sprawling manor. Elias took a group to the main living quarters, while the guard captain took the rest to search the wings. Duke, with Gareth at his side, made a beeline for Marlowe's private study. If there was any evidence to be found, it would be there.
The study was a scene of calculated destruction. Papers were scattered across the floor, desk drawers were pulled out and emptied, and a small fire smoldered in the hearth, the air thick with the smell of burnt parchment.
"He destroyed his records before he left," Duke said, kicking at a pile of ash.
"Not all of them," Elias said, entering the room behind them. He had found nothing in the main chambers and had come to join their search. He knelt, picking up a half-burnt letter from the floor. "Look."
Duke took the fragment. Most of it was illegible, but a few key phrases remained, written in Marlowe's elegant script. It mentioned "the gathering of the faithful" and "three days hence." The wax seal of another noble house was still partially intact at the bottom.
"A meeting," Duke concluded. "The conspirators are gathering somewhere, and soon."
While Duke and Elias examined the scorched remains of Marlowe's correspondence, Gareth was doing what he did best: looking for what was hidden. He ran his hands along a large, ornate bookshelf, pressing on volumes and tracing the carvings. A section of the wall clicked inward, revealing a small, hidden compartment.
"My Lord," Gareth said, his voice taut.
Inside the compartment was a leather-bound ledger and a stack of letters, all perfectly preserved. Marlowe, in his haste, had forgotten his most secret stash. Elias took the ledger while Duke began to sift through the letters. They were correspondence between Marlowe and several other high-ranking nobles. The names were a roll call of the disaffected and ambitious. Lord Verin's name was there, as expected. So were Count Ashford, Lady Morvane, and Baron Drest.
Duke froze, his eyes fixed on one name. *Count Ashford.* Seraphina's father. The man who had always treated him with a cool, paternal disdain. The personal stakes of this conspiracy had just become agonizingly real.
"This is it," Elias said, his voice grim as he looked up from the ledger, which detailed financial contributions to a "New Regency Fund." "This is the proof we need. Treason, clear as day."
***
As they were gathering the evidence, one of the guards appeared at the door. "Sirs, we found someone. An old servant, hiding in the wine cellar."
They brought the man to the study. He was ancient, his face a roadmap of wrinkles, and he was trembling with a fear so profound he could barely stand.
"Where is Duke Marlowe?" Elias asked, his voice firm but not unkind.
"Gone, my lord," the servant stammered, his eyes wide. "He left three hours ago, just before the sun began to rise. Took his entire personal guard with him."
"Where did he go?" Elias pressed.
"I don't know for certain," the old man whispered. "But… I heard him speaking with his captain. He spoke of the old fortress. In the northern hills."
Duke's game knowledge flared in his mind. There was only one fortress of note in the northern hills, a relic from the First Kingdom, built to be impregnable. "The Blackstone Fortress?" he asked.
The servant's eyes widened in recognition. "Yes, my lord! That's what he called it."
"That's a hard two days' ride from here," Elias calculated, a frown creasing his brow.
"It's where they're gathering," Duke said with certainty. "The conspirators. It's a defensible position, far from the King's immediate reach."
"My lord, please," the servant begged, falling to his knees. "I only cleaned the floors and cooked the meals. I knew nothing of any treason."
"You are not accused of anything, old man," Elias said, helping him to his feet. "But you will come with us. You will testify to what you heard before the King."
***
They returned to the courtyard, the damning evidence secured in a satchel. The sun was now fully up, casting long shadows across the eerily silent estate. They were preparing to mount their horses and ride back to the capital when it happened.
*Thwip.*
An arrow sprouted from the chest of a guard standing near the stables. He gave a choked gasp and crumpled to the ground.
"Ambush!" Elias roared. "Take cover!"
The air was suddenly filled with the whistle of arrows. Figures appeared in the upper windows of the manor and poured out of the stable doors—at least twenty of Marlowe's soldiers, armed with swords and bows. They hadn't all fled. A contingent had been left behind, waiting in hiding.
The courtyard erupted into a maelstrom of violence. The Royal Guards, though outnumbered, were disciplined. "Form a defensive line!" Elias commanded, his sword flashing as he cut down an advancing attacker.
Duke and Gareth found themselves back-to-back, a small island of deadly efficiency in the swirling chaos. Duke, now armed with a proper sword from the armory, moved with a lethal grace that was becoming second nature. He parried, dodged, and thrust, his gamer's mind analyzing attack patterns while his body, honed by years of training he hadn't personally endured, did the work.
But they were losing. They were outnumbered nearly two to one. Duke saw the enemy commander, a brutish man with a scarred face, directing the attack from the steps of the manor.
"Elias!" Duke shouted over the din of battle. "We need to break their coordination! Their leader, on the steps!"
"Cover me!" Elias yelled back.
With three of his remaining guards forming a flying wedge, Elias charged headlong into the enemy ranks, a force of righteous fury. He carved a path straight toward the enemy commander. Duke and Gareth held their position, desperately fending off the soldiers trying to stop the Hero's charge.
The battle was fierce. Another Royal Guard went down, then another. But Elias reached his target. The duel between the Hero and Marlowe's captain was short and brutal. Elias was faster, stronger, and more skilled. With a final, decisive blow, he ran the commander through.
The moment their leader fell, the enemy soldiers lost their cohesion. Their organized attack dissolved into panicked, individual fights. Seeing their advantage gone, the remaining attackers began to fall back, retreating into the manor to escape. The fight was over.
***
The aftermath was grim. Eight of Marlowe's men lay dead in the courtyard. But the cost to the Royal Guard was high: three dead, and five more with serious wounds.
Elias stood over the body of one of his fallen men, his expression dark. "They knew we would come," he said, his voice thick with anger. "Marlowe left them here as a sacrificial rearguard."
"He was buying time," Duke said, cleaning his blade on a dead soldier's tunic. "Time to reach the fortress and gather his allies."
"We should return to the King with the evidence we have," Gareth advised, gesturing to the wounded. "We cannot press on like this."
"If we ride back to the capital, it will be a day's journey," Duke argued. "Another day for the King to deliberate. By the time we get approval to move against the fortress, Marlowe and the conspirators will be fully entrenched. They'll have time to prepare their defenses, or scatter to the winds."
"What do you suggest, Theron?" Elias asked, turning to him.
"We pursue," Duke said without hesitation. "Now. With whoever can still ride."
Elias stared at him. "We're down to nine effective fighters, including ourselves. You want us to ride against a fortress that could be filled with a hundred traitors?"
"If we wait, they consolidate their power," Duke insisted. "If we strike now, while they are still arriving and unprepared, we have the element of surprise. We can catch them before they even know they've been discovered."
Elias was silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on Duke. "You are asking me to disobey the King's orders. He said to investigate and report back, not to assault a fortress on my own authority."
"I'm asking you to finish what we started," Duke replied.
The decision hung in the air. Finally, Elias made his choice. "Six guards will stay here," he commanded. "Tend to the wounded, secure the evidence and the prisoner, and ride back to the King as fast as you can. The rest of us… we pursue Marlowe."
***
A small, determined group of six riders galloped north from Marlowe's estate: Duke, Gareth, Elias, and three of the remaining Royal Guards. They pushed their horses hard, the need to make up for lost time a burning urgency.
Duke rode beside Elias, the wind whipping at their cloaks.
"Thank you," Duke said. "For trusting me."
"Don't thank me yet," Elias replied, his eyes on the horizon. "We might be riding to our deaths."
Duke glanced at the System interface, which had appeared unbidden.
**[QUEST UPDATE: UNCOVER THE CONSPIRACY]**
**Progress: 90%**
**Final Objective: Confront Duke Marlowe at Blackstone Fortress.**
**Warning: High mortality risk. Recommend extreme caution.**
He dismissed the notification. It told him nothing he didn't already know.
"My lord," Gareth said, riding up beside him. "If this goes wrong…"
"It won't," Duke said, his voice filled with a conviction he didn't entirely feel. "It can't."
They rode hard toward the northern hills, leaving the rising sun behind them. Two days to the fortress. Two days to end this conspiracy. And Duke knew, with a chilling certainty, that there would be no more loops. This had to work.