"My lord… what do… you mean?" Gareth asked along with Tomas.
It was already late at night, and he had brought them to Eliana's room, where his three younger siblings were asleep in the bed in chaotic, dead-to-the-world positions. In this era, grown adults—unmarried, no less—sleeping in the same bed was a scandal, but these three clearly didn't care.
"Each of you, carry these fools to their own rooms. Lia needs to clean up, too," Marcus said.
Gareth and Tomas turned to Helen, who was patiently waiting on a couch with a basin and towel on the center table.
"Should we clean them up as well?" Gareth asked.
"There's no need for that. Just dump them in their own rooms so they can rest properly. You all should rest after, too," Marcus said.
"Ah, I see… then, please excuse us, my lords…" Gareth said, and hefted Kaelen like a sack of potatoes.
Tomas mustered his last strength of the day to haul Rhys up. "Then we'll be leaving," Tomas said, bowing his head. The father and son left the Duchess's room, carrying the two sleeping brothers.
"Helen, Lia doesn't have severe wounds. They're just cuts, and she needs rest. Make her comfortable and leave her be," Marcus instructed.
"I understand, my lord…" Helen said.
"Then, please see to it," Marcus said, and left.
Helen clasped her hands to her cheeks and sighed deeply. "Okay, time to clean Her Grace!" she said, picking up the basin and towel and moving to Eliana's side.
She carefully removed Lia's clothes, one piece at a time. Just as before, when she had nursed her wounds, the moment the clothing left her body, it dissolved into blue holographic cubes.
"There it goes again. What kind of magitech did Her Grace and Their Lordships purchase for this? It's kind of amusing," Helen murmured as she carefully dabbed Eliana's fair skin.
"Ha… look at you. You could barely lift a cup of tea before, but now you're ragged and covered in cuts, acting like it's the end of the world. Before, you'd cry over a small skin irritation…" Helen whispered.
"Your Grace… do you want to know why I followed you here? It was actually ordered by His Grace to follow you everywhere… to protect you while he is busy in the West…" Helen's voice grew soft. "He may act distant, and he may have ignored your letters before, but His Grace is not totally indifferent to you… So why did he let you come to this place?"
She sat next to her and looked at her sleeping face. "You are still young. I know you were hurt, thinking His Grace only saw you as a baby-maker after he fled to the West right after your marriage and couldn't come to you for almost a year now… But I thought he at least cared enough not to put you in danger. I'm honestly mad at His Grace…" Helen then smiled faintly. "But I've seen you more alive here. You don't look sad anymore. You may appear cold and a bit crazy, but you are so warm in this freezing region."
She then dressed her in a delicate white nightgown and left once she was clean.
"Good night, Your Grace."
—NEXT MORNING….
Eliana stretched her entire body in bed as she slowly woke to the world. "Ugh…" she moaned.
[ADMIN A: NOW YOU'RE AWAKE? YOU AND THE OTHER TWO WERE DEAD TO THE WORLD ALL DAY YESTERDAY.]
"MY BODY HURTS…" she murmured.
[ADMIN A: THAT'S THE AFTER-EFFECT OF THE MANA BOOST. MOST OF IT WASHED AWAY ALREADY WHILE YOU SLEPT THE WHOLE DAY. YOU DIDN'T EVEN BOTHER WAKING UP.]
"GIVE ME A BREAK, OKAY? WE DID OUR BEST IN THAT HELLHOLE," Eliana said, sitting up.
[ADMIN A: TSK. I'LL NOW OPEN THE SYSTEM MESSAGES.]
Look at this shit, did it just click its tongue at me? Tsk.
[SYSTEM: CONGRATULATIONS FOR COMPLETING THE RESCUE MISSION!]
[REWARD: 200,000 EXP]
[REWARD+: 15,000 x2 SYSTEM POINTS]
[REWARD++: MANA MP INCREASED BY 40. 160/160 >> 200/200]
[REWARD+++: (???) [ON COUNTDOWN]]
[PERSONAL BONUS: PURIFY SKILL, LVL 1]
"WHOA, IS THIS TRUE? THANKS, SYSTEM GOD!" Eliana said, smiling at the increased mana pool. "What about this Personal Bonus? Does it mean my brothers also get distinct bonuses?"
[ADMIN A: RIGHT, AS I SAID, THE SYSTEM RECOGNIZES WHAT IT THINKS SUITS YOU BEST. +40 INCREASE IN MANA POOL IS QUITE GENEROUS, HUH.]
[ADMIN A: AH, RIGHT! YOU HAVE 15,000 SP. YOU USED 5,000 SP TO UPGRADE YOUR TWO WEAPONS' DAMAGE.]
"I have 10,000 left, plus the 30,000 SP now—a total of 40,000. I'll give it to the System for giving us doubled SP."
[ADMIN A: THEY SURE DID. WHAT ABOUT UPGRADING YOUR TWO WEAPONS AND WRAITH TACTICAL HARNESS?]
"Hmm…" Lia crossed her arms, thinking. "It would be nice if I could lower their mana usage. It'd be less of a problem in a long battle."
[ADMIN A: YOU CAN TONE IT DOWN BY 20%. 5,000 SP PER WEAPON. SO?]
"Alright. Do it," Lia said, looking bored.
[ADMIN A: OKAY, HERE WE GO.]
[WINTER'S HOWL: 5 MP/SEC SUSTAINED FIRE TO 4 MP/SEC]
[STINGER: 15 MP/SHOT TO 12 MP/SHOT]
[WRAITH TACTICAL HARNESS (FULL GEAR): 70% MANA USAGE TO 56%]
[ADMIN A: ALL DONE!]
"Speaking of, is the tactical gear's resistance to heat and cold rendered if it's damaged?"
[ADMIN A: ONLY THE DAMAGED PART. BUT THE REST STILL FUNCTIONS. THE GEAR NEEDS TO BE SUMMONED BACK TO THE SYSTEM FOR IT TO BE REPAIRED.]
"Alright. Whatever."
❈.❈.❈
Eliana walked the halls in her usual black tactical pants, a loose, tucked black shirt, and her black fur coat draped casually over her shoulders. The heavy fabric hung like a cape, unbuttoned and untethered, a gesture of comfort rather than necessity against the castle's chill.
"So, you're telling me Marcus and the Duke had a… hot exchange of words?" she murmured, her tone more curious than concerned.
[ADMIN A: I'M TELLING YOU! IT WAS LAST NIGHT. WELL, ADMIN B SAID HE HEARD AND SAW THE WHOLE THING.]
"Geez. That must've been awkward."
[ADMIN A: REALLY? THAT'S YOUR REACTION? HEY, IT'S YOUR BROTHER AND YOUR 'HUSBAND'.]
"I'm not kidding when I said I can't recall his face. Seriously. I was too occupied in my years here before to think about some puppy love. And my life back on Earth was more about living in the moment and living in the past. He was nowhere in either."
[ADMIN A: …SILLY GIRL. lies.] *Uncapped words are inaudible to the Users.
Eliana turned the corner toward the doors that led to the Dark Corner. She went down, and what had once been oppressively dark was now softly lit. Every open cell housed a wolf.
"Good morning, Your Grace!" Cris greeted her the moment he saw her.
"Looking brave. It's good to see you not shivering," Lia remarked.
"Well, I had enough of that yesterday, and Havec keeps nagging me, so I just gave it up," Cris said.
"Did you rest well, Your Grace? Worry not—everyone here has been fed. Lord Marcus set aside half of the meat supply the envoys brought for the Tribe. We also attended to those needing medical attention. Although the physician isn't well-versed in their anatomy, he did provide first aid, and they are doing well," Cris reported.
"That's good to hear. Are the little ones faring well? Did you keep the furnace burning to warm them?" Lia asked, then added, "Well, I can feel it is warm."
Then a young priest emerged from another cell, looking in disbelief. Catching Eliana's presence, he smiled and bowed deeply.
"Greetings, Your Grace."
"Oh, Priest Reno!" Cris called. "This young priest also helped in healing the Silver Tribe."
"Thank you for your continuous help, Priest Reno," Lia said, smiling.
"It is the least I could do to give back the generosity you have been giving to us in the temple. Lord Rhys also talked to me about the reparation of the temple. I couldn't ask for more…" he said, smiling warmly.
"It is nothing, Priest Reno… the existence of the Silver Tribe is not yet to be officially introduced to the citizens. Can I trust you to keep this confidential… somehow?"
"Of course, Your Grace's order is mine to follow. Please rest assured," Priest Reno replied.
"Thank you, dearly," Lia said.
"Then, I will come back tomorrow to check on them. I will go and help the rations distribution in the Central Town," Priest Reno said.
Lia and Cris just nodded, and Priest Reno bowed and left.
Another figure approached them, this time bigger. It was Havec.
"Liana… we thank you again," Havec rumbled, his great head dipping slightly. "Worry not. This wimpy child right here treats us well. Although the soldiers assisting us are still shivering in fear, everything is well. They are all resting. We owe a lifetime…"
"You owe us nothing but honesty and your strength when the time comes," Lia cut in, her tone pragmatic but not unkind. "We're allies, not debtors. Protection goes both ways."
From the shadows of a larger, open cell, a second silver form emerged. Varric padded forward, his posture less aggressive than before, though a wary pride still stiffened his movements. He stopped beside Havec, his eyes fixed on Eliana.
"My brother speaks true," Varric said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "The Law is broken. The world is new. We… we judged you by the shadows you wore. But you fought for us. You bled for us. The pups and elders live because of you." He dipped his head, a gesture that seemed to cost him great effort. "The Silver Wolf Tribe pledges its fangs and its breath to the Blood of Javier. Our den is your wall. Our hunt is your defense. Until the last star dies, or the rot consumes all."
It was a vow, ancient and profound, pulled from a time before the First Law was even whispered. Havec echoed the sentiment with a deep, resonant growl of affirmation.
"We will hold you to that," Lia said, accepting the pledge with a simple nod. There was no grand ceremony, just a grim understanding between survivors. "Rest now. We'll need your hunters' eyes soon enough."
As she turned to leave, Cris scurried after her. "Your Grace, about the envoys… They're in the dining room. Lord Marcus and Lord Rhys are already there. Lord Kaelen is… still asleep, I think. Lord Marcus said you should join them when you were able."
Lia's expression didn't change, but a flicker of tired resignation passed through her eyes. "Of course he did. Time to face the music. Or the cutlery, at least."
She adjusted the black fur coat on her shoulders, a silent armor, and followed Cris out of the warm, wolf-scented dark and into the cold, formal heart of the castle.
—DINING ROOM—
The big dining room felt suffocating in the presence of four men. A fire crackled in the hearth, fighting a losing battle against the stone's deep chill. The table was set with simple fare: dark bread, hard cheese, a pot of thin porridge. It was a stark contrast to the lavish spreads of the capital.
Marcus sat on the left side, his cup of steaming tea untouched before him. He was clean but wore no noble finery. His black tactical pants and boots were the same as those he'd fought in, but above them he wore a pristine white long-sleeved shirt, neatly tucked in, with a dark grey tie knotted precisely at his throat.
Rhys at his side gave off the same vibe—same black tactical pants and boots, but his top was a heather-grey long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, over which he wore a fitted black wool vest.
And across from them, looking profoundly out of place, sat Jill and Deitre in their formal, capital-style noble attire.
The tension in the room was a physical thing, thick enough to choke on.
The door opened.
All eyes swung to Eliana as she entered.
She was a vision of controlled contradiction, dressed in the attire that now felt more her than any silk gown ever had. Her hair was in a messy bun, her face bare.
Deitre looked at her with confusion. Yesterday, he'd grasped the oddity of her combat gear, but now… especially Jill, who stared as if seeing a ghost. He had been with Eliana for a whole year in the capital, fielding her endless demands for luxury clothes for his master to pay for.
She walked to the head chair of the table and sat. "What's with this tension? Not so cool," she said. Merlin then served her porridge and bread.
"Please eat well, Your Grace. You need strength," Merlin said.
"Thank you, Merlin," she said, smiling.
She turned to her right side. "So, how are you, Jill?" she asked while tasting her porridge, but the question was directed at Deitre.
The two men looked at each other, confused.
"It's Lord Deitre, Lia," Rhys said, plucking a piece of crumb from his bread.
Lia turned to Rhys, looking more confused.
"Who?" she said. It was obvious she didn't remember him.
"Seriously, you don't remember that kid? Tan skin, gold eyes? Doesn't ring a bell?" Marcus pressed.
"Gold eyes? Tan skin? Ah!" She even pointed a finger. "Back to December."
Rhys couldn't hold his laughter and choked on his porridge. "It's Taylor Swift, you idiot."
Lia just pouted.
"Lia, tan skin and golden eyes are the trademark of Wykenight. That young man on your side is Deitre Wykenight, your husband's younger brother. The one to his side is Jill Teleston," Marcus explained patiently.
Lia then looked at Jill. "No kidding. You look younger than I remember you."
"How old do you think that guy is?" Rhys asked.
"Hey, guessing someone's age is rude. Knock it off," Lia said, then turned to the confused envoys and mimed the words 'don't mind him.'
"You don't even remember him," Rhys shot back.
Jill, the ever-professional right hand, looked as if he'd been politely informed the sky was now green. Deitre just stared, his earlier analytical curiosity replaced by pure, unvarnished shock.
"You… don't remember me, Your Grace?" Jill finally managed, his voice strained.
Eliana took another spoonful of porridge, chewing thoughtfully as if trying to place a minor character from a play. "I do, yeah. It's just, uhm… Well, what do you expect from a spoiled brat?"
[ADMIN A: NICE WORD PLAY.]
SHUT UP, YOU ARE NOT MAKING THIS EASY.
Deitre found his voice, leaning forward. "And me, Your Grace? Truly nothing?"
Eliana studied him, her blue eyes scanning his face with the detached focus of a scout assessing terrain. "You see, I don't remember faces well. But let's admit it—what I had with your brother is something you can't really call a marriage."
Eliana's words hung in the air, not as a confession of sorrow, but as a simple, clinical fact. "What I had with your brother is something you can't really call a marriage."
Jill looked as if he'd been slapped. The emotional detachment was more terrifying than any hatred. Deitre's face cycled through shock, offense, and a dawning, uncomfortable understanding.
Marcus didn't sigh. He just watched, his expression unreadable. Rhys stopped fiddling with his bread, his gaze sharpening on the envoys' reactions like a scientist observing a stress test.
Before the silence could curdle further, the door to the breakfast room banged open.
Kaelen filled the doorway. He was a storm cloud of morning irritation. His hair was a mess, his eyes bloodshot and shadowed. He wore the same black tactical pants and boots. The tight black compressed turtleneck strained across his shoulders, the sleeve shoved up over a fresh, bulky bandage on his forearm. He smelled of soap, sleep, and lingering ozone.
He ignored everyone. His eyes, glazed with residual exhaustion and pain, landed on the sideboard. On the porridge pot.
He walked in, his steps heavy. He didn't look at Jill or Deitre. He didn't greet his siblings. He went straight to the pot, picked it up, and grabbed the bread.
He turned, pot in hand, and his gaze—flat, animal, and utterly devoid of social grace—swept the table. It passed over the envoys without seeing them. It landed on the empty chair next to Rhys.
He dropped into it, not gracefully, but like a sack of bricks hitting the ground. He set the pot directly on the polished wood table, not on a plate, and began eating. He used the large serving spoon. He didn't speak. The only sounds were the scrape of metal on ceramic, his chewing, and the tearing of bread.
Jill and Deitre were frozen. This was beyond rudeness. This was the complete dissolution of context. The legendary Knight-Captain, the man who had commanded the Empire's finest, was shoveling porridge like a starved miner, in full view of foreign nobility, and seemed genuinely unaware they were there.
"Have you forgotten your manners in the void yesterday?" Rhys barked, irritated with his barbarity.
"Shut up, nerd," Kaelen shot back.
Marcus took a slow sip of his tea, his eyes on Kaelen. Not judging. Assessing. "Your arm."
Kaelen grunted, not looking up. "It itches, but as you can see, it functions well." His voice was a sandpaper rasp.
"Have the physician check it after the wall walk," Marcus said, his tone that of a commander giving a routine order.
"Tsk." Kaelen ripped off another chunk of bread.
"What are you, a pig?" Lia said, as Rhys began absently feeding him pieces of fiddled bread. "Anyway, Lord Deitre, and Lord Jill. What's with the sudden visitation? What is your real objective here?"
Kaelen, busy stuffing himself, looked up at the two envoys, waiting for their answer.
"My brother is simply worried about you, Your Grace," Deitre replied, choosing his words carefully. "He wants to know if you are faring well."
"If you came here to say that crap, you could have just asked for our orb code," Rhys said flatly. Marcus and Kaelen also looked not pleased. "Isn't the reason you're here because of my letter? What about reading my letter made your perfectly composed duke break his fucking façade?"
"Lord Rhys—" Jill began.
"Wait up. What letter are you talking about, Rhys?" Marcus asked, his voice cutting through.
"Ah. It was a request for Lord Jill to sell the seaside mansion in the West. Lia agreed to it," Rhys explained.
"That seaside mansion she never got to use? Yeah, you better sell it," Kaelen grumbled around a mouthful.
"I see," Marcus said, then turned his cool gaze back to the envoys. "Is there a problem with my sister selling an asset she owns?"
"Ahem, Lordships, please don't take this the wrong way. His Grace is merely curious and worried about what is happening here in the North. You all suddenly resigned, putting us in a pin—"
Jill was cut off when Kaelen put his spoon down on the table with enough force to rattle the silverware. "Don't make me lose my patience, Lord Jill. I've had enough of that fucking West."
He stood up and left the room with half of the bread in his hand.
Silence descended, heavy and complete.
Eliana sighed. "Gentlemen, please deliver my words to your duke. We are faring well. If you have any further arrangements or questions, talk to Marcus or Rhys about it."
She also stood up. "Or if it is something personal, you may talk to me about it."
"Where are you going? You barely touched your food," Marcus said.
"I lost my appetite. This atmosphere isn't healthy for my already troubled mind." She turned and left.
Silence filled the room, thick and clotted like the cold porridge in Kaelen's abandoned pot. The door had barely clicked shut behind Eliana before the air curdled with the unspoken.
Jill looked as if he were recalculating the structural integrity of a fortress that had just turned to smoke in his hands. Deitre had lost all pretense of amusement. His face was pale, his eyes wide with a kind of horrified fascination.
Marcus took another slow, deliberate sip of his tea. The sound of the cup settling on the saucer was obscenely loud.
Rhys broke the quiet, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. "So. The dowry supplies. Medical herbs, steel ingots, hardy seed grain. A practical selection. My compliments to your quartermaster." He leaned back, his grey-shirted arms crossed over his black vest. "It suggests you either expected a protracted siege or a long-term rebuilding project. Which was it?"
The question was a trap, disguised as small talk. It forced the envoys to admit they'd expected the North to be either a warzone or a ruin. Both were insults.
Jill recovered first, his diplomat's mask slamming back into place, though it was cracked. "His Grace wished to send support that would be of immediate and tangible use, regardless of the… specific circumstances."
"How thoughtful," Marcus said, his voice dry as desert bone. He finally looked directly at them, his spectacles glinting in the firelight. "You have seen our 'specific circumstances.' You have witnessed the primary threat. You have met our new… citizens." He let the word hang, emphasizing the absurdity of calling giant, intelligent wolves 'citizens.' "You have now shared a meal with the ruling council of the Javier Dukedom. Your mission of observation is, by any reasonable standard, complete."
It was a dismissal. A cold, elegant shove toward the door.
Deitre found his voice, though it lacked its usual polish. "Lord Marcus. With all respect. What we have seen… it raises more questions than it answers. You fight like no soldiers we have ever seen. You command loyalty from creatures of myth. You treat with a sovereign duke—your sister's lawful husband—as if he were a hostile envoy. My brother will not accept a report that says, 'All is well, they are just very eccentric and good at killing monsters.' The Empire's stability depends on understanding what is happening here."
"The Empire's stability," Rhys echoed, a sharp, humorless smile touching his lips. "The Empire which left this land to rot for a generation. The Empire whose other pillar is apparently more concerned with my sister's legal right to sell a house than with the fact that we are just trying to revive this dying land. Forgive us if our priorities have… diverged."
The bluntness was a weapon. It stripped away the pretense of unity.
Marcus stood, smoothing his already-perfect shirt. "Your report can be simple, Lord Deitre. Inform Duke Wykenight that the Northern Dukedom is under new management. We are aware of our obligations to the Empire. We are also aware of the threat at our gate, which is, I assure you, a more pressing concern than marital politics. The dowry is accepted with thanks. It will be put to use securing the territory he claims to be so concerned about."
He walked to the door, then paused, looking back. His gaze was not that of a noble to his peers, but of a general to foreign auxiliaries. "You are welcome to stay and observe our efforts at 'stability.' But you will not interfere. You will not question my sister's authority in her own house. And you will not send any more dramatic late-night summons. Are we clear?"
It wasn't a question. It was the laying down of law.
Jill, ever the loyal servant, gave a stiff, shallow bow. "Perfectly clear, Lord Marcus."
Deitre merely nodded, his golden eyes shadowed with a turmoil of thought. He was no longer just an envoy. He was a witness to a schism, and he knew it.
Marcus left. Rhys lingered a moment longer, his artificer's eyes cataloguing the envoys' shell-shocked expressions as if for later study. "The west wing is yours. If you need anything, ask Cris. Try not to get eaten. The wolves are still adjusting."
Then he, too, was gone.
Jill and Deitre were alone in the echoing room, the ghost of Kaelen's porridge spoon still rattling in the silence.
"They are not what we came to find," Jill said quietly, stating the devastatingly obvious.
"No," Deitre agreed, his voice barely a whisper. He stared at the empty chair at the head of the table. "I think I get it now, back at the temple… the soldier's reaction… It seems like Lady Eliana never once used or introduced herself as 'Wykenight'…" He finally looked at Jill, a grim realization dawning. "We didn't bring a dowry. We brought an apology to a woman who doesn't think she's owed one, from a man she barely gives a care about. We are standing in the middle of a story where we are not even side characters. We are footnotes."
Jill said nothing. There was nothing to say. The carefully drafted report in his mind—full of tactical assessments and political recommendations—was ashes. How did you explain a war that was personal, cosmic, and utterly indifferent to the rules of their world?
All they could do now was wait, watch, and try to understand the terrifying, fascinating storm that had settled in the North, and decide what to tell the Duke who had sent them into its eye.
—BATTLEMENTS—
Lia saw Kaelen standing with his coat now on, watching the soldiers at the front gate of the fortress collecting the dead bodies of monsters from yesterday. Gareth and Tomas were with them, assisted by Havec and Varric for safety.
"It's good to see those pups getting along with them," Lia said as she reached his side.
"Yeah. Those monster gems are going to cost a lot," Kaelen replied, his voice flat.
"So… what was with that outburst earlier?" Lia asked, reaching for the cigarettes inside her fur coat and lighting one up.
"You're smoking again?" Kaelen said.
"It's the mind talking to my body," Lia said, taking a drag.
"Give me one." Kaelen held out his hand. Lia offered the pack, and he took one.
"It wasn't an outburst," Kaelen said as he savored the smoke. "It's just… getting on my nerves."
"That's not like you, to get so serious." Lia took another drag. "Are you going to tell me what's the reason for this cold war if I ask?"
"Not now," Kaelen said. "Later."
Lia just looked at him and smiled. "Well, I'm all ears whenever you're ready, Lester."
Kaelen just scoffed and blew smoke in her face, making Lia scowl. "Hey, second-hand smoke is deadly."
They stared at each other for a second and then…
They both laughed.
In the corner by the stairs, Deitre stood listening and watching them. So, something happened between my brother and Lord Kaelen? What could it be?
— To Be Continued… —