The road stretched long behind us, and the journey south took several days. The further we traveled, the warmer the air became, the frozen bite of the north giving way to the crisp autumn chill of the Slate-controlled lands. The forests here were different—denser, older, with towering trees covered in deep green moss. The roads were well-kept, patrolled occasionally by Slate mercenaries who barely gave us a second glance.

As we neared Garvin’s family estate, the first thing I noticed was the land itself. It was massive. Rolling hills, stretching vineyards, and thick woodlands surrounded a towering stone manor built into the side of a small ridge. The structure was elegant but fortified—less a noble’s estate and more a stronghold disguised as a home. It stood three stories tall, its high windows covered with thick shutters, the main entrance guarded by two men in polished but practical armor. Unlike the city guards I had seen before, these men were trained warriors.

Garvin led us forward, his usual grin absent as he adjusted his coat. “Alright,” he muttered. “Let me do the talking.”

Drea scoffed. “That’ll be a first.”

Garvin ignored her as we reached the gate. One of the guards—an older man with a sharp gaze—stepped forward, looking Garvin over before bowing slightly. “Welcome home, my lord.”

Garvin sighed. “Please, don’t call me that.”

The guard smirked but said nothing, stepping aside to allow us in. We passed through the main courtyard, which was far too large for just a family estate. The grounds were well-maintained, with servant quarters, stables, and even a small barracks. This wasn’t just a noble’s home—it was a military estate.

Drea gave him a look. “Your family’s a little more… established than you let on.”

Garvin sighed. “Yeah, well. I like to keep expectations low.”

The main hall was just as grand as the outside. Large banners lined the walls, each bearing the crest of House Veyren—a silver falcon over a black shield. The floors were polished stone, and the vaulted ceiling made the space feel almost too large.

Before any of us could take in more, a booming voice filled the hall. “I was wondering when you’d finally crawl back home.”

We turned to see a man standing at the top of the staircase. He was older, broader, and dressed in fine but practical clothes. His short beard was streaked with gray, his sharp blue eyes scanning us with calculated interest.

Lord Veyren. Garvin’s father.

Garvin muttered under his breath before forcing a tight smile. “Hello, Father.”

Lord Veyren descended the stairs, his steps slow and deliberate. “You’re weeks late on your last letter. Your mother was convinced you were dead.” His gaze flicked to the rest of us. “I see you’ve picked up some strays.”

I tensed, but Garvin just shrugged. “What can I say? I make friends easily.”

Lord Veyren’s eyes lingered on me for a moment longer than I liked. He wasn’t an idiot—he knew there was more to our arrival than a casual visit. After a long pause, he turned and waved a hand toward one of the servants. “Prepare the east wing. My son’s guests will be staying for a while.”

With that, he walked past us, disappearing down one of the halls.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

“Charming,” Drea muttered.

Garvin ran a hand down his face. “You have no idea.”

Malric, who had been silent up until now, glanced around the massive hall before looking at Garvin. “So. We’re safe here?”

“For now,” Garvin said.

I exhaled slowly. I hated the idea of hiding. But for now, this was the best place to regroup. We weren’t running forever. We just needed time.

The estate was overwhelming in both size and presence. Every inch of it spoke of old wealth, not the kind flaunted in city markets, but the kind that had been carefully cultivated over generations. The walls of the main hall were lined with tapestries depicting battles and hunts, each woven with exquisite detail. Tall windows stretched up toward the vaulted ceiling, their thick iron frames giving the impression that this place had once been built to withstand more than just time. The floors were polished stone, layered with richly embroidered rugs that softened our footfalls as we moved through the corridors.

As Garvin led us deeper into the estate, we were met by a small army of staff, all dressed in refined yet practical attire. A few servants bowed their heads slightly as we passed, but none spoke unless addressed directly. Despite their formal demeanor, I noticed some glancing at Garvin with genuine familiarity. He wasn’t just their employer’s son—he had grown up here, and for some of them, he was likely still the boy they once helped raise.

After winding through a few more corridors, we reached a smaller, more private section of the estate. A pair of heavy oak doors swung open, revealing a comfortable sitting room, far less grand than the main hall but no less refined. A roaring fireplace dominated the far wall, the deep orange glow casting warm shadows across the dark wooden furniture and deep green upholstered chairs. Bookshelves lined one side of the room, filled with leather-bound tomes that looked as though they had been read more than once.

Waiting inside was a tall, stoic-looking man, dressed in a dark gray waistcoat and pressed shirt. He stood with perfect posture, his hands neatly folded behind his back. His hair was neatly combed, not a strand out of place, and his sharp eyes studied each of us in turn before settling on Garvin. Then, just slightly, the edges of his mouth curled into a subtle, knowing smirk.

"Master Garvin," he said smoothly, his voice calm but carrying a certain dry amusement. "I had assumed you'd return home under more conventional circumstances."

Garvin sighed. "Good to see you too, Weslan."

Weslan Voss. Garvin’s personal butler, attendant, and—if I had to guess—one of the only people in this entire estate he actually liked.

The butler glanced over the group before stepping forward. "I see you've been busy. Shall I assume your guests will require fresh clothes, hot baths, and perhaps an explanation as to why House Veyren is suddenly hosting a band of traveling mercenaries?"

"That would be nice, yes," Garvin muttered, rubbing his temples.

Weslan’s expression didn’t change, but something about his tone softened. "Your father has arranged for you all to dine with the family tonight. I imagine you'll be expected to explain yourself then."

Drea raised an eyebrow. "Is this a normal thing for you? Running off for months and then showing up unannounced?"

Garvin groaned. "You have no idea."

Weslan stepped aside, gesturing toward the adjacent rooms. "I have arranged for separate chambers to be prepared. There are bathing quarters down the hall, should you wish to refresh before dinner. I expect Lord and Lady Veyren will be eager to see you presentable."

"Great," Garvin muttered under his breath. "Can’t wait."

As Weslan led us to our rooms, I couldn’t help but glance at the massive paintings lining the halls. They were portraits—generations of Veyren lords and ladies, each depicted with the same sharp blue eyes Garvin had inherited. There was something intimidating about them, as if their gazes followed you down the corridor.

By the time we reached our chambers, the tension in Garvin’s shoulders had only grown worse.

Later that evening, we gathered outside the estate’s grand dining hall. The doors were carved with intricate detailing, displaying the crest of House Veyren—a silver falcon perched over a black shield, its wings outstretched as if ready to strike. Light spilled from inside, and the sound of quiet conversation filtered through.

Garvin let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders. "Alright. Just… let me do the talking."

Drea smirked. "That’s what you said earlier, and look where that got us."

Garvin shot her a glare but didn’t argue. Instead, he reached for the handle and pushed the doors open.

Inside, the dining hall was as grand as I expected. A long polished table of dark oak stretched nearly the entire length of the room, lined with high-backed chairs upholstered in deep red velvet. A massive chandelier of iron and glass hung from the ceiling, its candles casting a warm, flickering glow. The walls were decorated with ancient weapons mounted on display, each placed with deliberate care.

At the head of the table sat Lord Veyren, now dressed in a formal but practical navy coat, his silver-threaded cuffs barely visible under the heavy sleeves. Beside him sat Lady Veyren, a striking woman with auburn hair pulled into an elegant braid, her features sharp and regal. Her blue eyes—the same as Garvin’s—studied us carefully as we entered.

Neither of them rose.

Garvin straightened, putting on his best noble’s smile. "Mother. Father. Lovely to see you again."

His mother sipped her wine without looking away. "We’ll determine whether it’s lovely once you explain why you’ve brought a group of armed mercenaries into my home."

Garvin sighed. "This is going to be a long dinner."

The dining hall was silent as we took our seats. The polished table stretched long before us, set with silverware so finely crafted that it felt out of place in my hands. Servants moved with quiet efficiency, pouring wine and setting down dishes—roasted pheasant, braised vegetables, a spread of cheeses and fruits—but no one reached for them.

All eyes were on Garvin.

He sat near the head of the table, directly across from his parents, his usual relaxed demeanor stiffening under their gaze. I was seated beside him, Malric and Drea on either side, and despite the warmth of the candlelit room, a cold tension sat in my chest.

Because I knew what was coming.

I wasn’t sure if I wanted him to say it.

Garvin set down his goblet with a quiet clink, exhaling as he leaned back. “Alright. Here it is, then. I’m being hunted.”

His mother didn’t react. His father barely raised an eyebrow.

Garvin continued, carefully watching them. “There’s a group—an organization, maybe—called the Ashen Court. No one’s ever heard of them, but they’re real. They came after us in the north.” He hesitated, glancing at me. “They’re hunting Outlanders.”

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I tensed.

He had just said it.

I expected a reaction. Shock. Suspicion. Something. But neither of them so much as blinked.

Lady Veyren idly ran a finger around the rim of her goblet. “And this… Ashen Court. You’re certain they exist?”

“They nearly killed us,” Garvin said flatly. “Yes, I’m certain.”

Lord Veyren set his knife down, folding his hands in front of him. “You say no one knows who they are?”

Garvin nodded. “Not even Sid. And trust me, he would have found out if anyone could.”

Another moment of silence stretched between them.

Then Lord Veyren gave a slight nod. “I’ll make inquiries.”

That was it. That was all.

No questioning, no disbelief, no concern. Nothing.

It took me a moment to realize my fists were clenched under the table. I had expected—I don’t know what I had expected. But not this. Not this casual acceptance.

I was an Outlander. In their house. In their presence. And they barely acknowledged it.

The firelight flickered, casting shadows along the high stone walls. Lady Veyren took a slow sip of wine before finally speaking again. “You’re certain this Sid is dead?”

The question was cold. Matter-of-fact. Like she was asking about the weather.

Garvin hesitated. “No. But we had no choice but to leave him behind.”

“Then he’s dead,” she said simply.

A slow, deep anger curled in my stomach.

Garvin’s jaw tightened. “We don’t know that.”

Lady Veyren didn’t argue. She just tilted her head slightly, as if indulging a child’s fantasy. “And if he’s not?”

“Then we’ll find him,” I said before I could stop myself. My voice was steady, but my hands had curled into fists in my lap.

For the first time, she actually looked at me.

Her gaze was sharp, calculating. There was no malice there, no open hostility—just an unsettling indifference. Like she was trying to decide if I was worth her time.

Then she simply turned back to her plate.

Lord Veyren, meanwhile, was already moving on. “I’ll send word through my contacts. If this Ashen Court exists, I’ll find out who they are.” He picked up his knife again, cutting into his meal as if we had just finished discussing a minor trade dispute.

And that was it.

The conversation was over.

I exchanged glances with Drea, who looked just as unnerved as I felt. Malric remained quiet, unreadable as always.

Garvin’s grip on his goblet was just a little too tight. “So that’s it? No questions? No concerns?”

Lord Veyren looked at him evenly. “You’re alive. That’s what matters.”

Garvin let out a breath, shaking his head. “Right. Of course.”

The rest of dinner continued as if nothing had happened. The conversation turned to trade agreements, border conflicts, and the state of the family vineyards. Nothing about the Ashen Court. Nothing about Outlanders.

Nothing about me.

I kept my head down, eating in silence, but the unease in my chest didn’t fade.

Lord Veyren would send inquiries. He would find out who they were.

But I had the sinking feeling that he already knew more than he was letting on.

I didn’t sleep well that night.

Something about dinner sat wrong with me. It wasn’t just the casual dismissal of the Ashen Court or the way they barely reacted to me being an Outlander. It was the way they expected it. Like this wasn’t even the most interesting thing they’d dealt with this week.

By morning, I knew I had to start asking questions.

The estate was quiet as I wandered through the halls, the early morning light spilling in through the tall windows. Servants moved briskly but efficiently, acknowledging me with polite nods before going about their business. The place ran like a well-oiled machine.

I found Garvin in one of the smaller lounges, feet kicked up on a low table, staring at the ceiling like it had personally offended him. A fresh plate of bread and sliced meats sat untouched on the table beside him. He glanced over as I walked in.

"You’re up early," he muttered.

"Didn’t sleep much," I admitted, sitting across from him.

Garvin smirked. "Estate life not treating you well?"

"Your parents are unsettlingly calm about all of this," I said. "Like this isn’t a big deal."

Garvin let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, well. They have bigger things to worry about."

I frowned. "Like what?"

For a moment, he hesitated, and I saw something flash across his face—something frustrated, bitter. Then he let out a dry chuckle.

"You really don’t know, do you?" He sat up, resting his elbows on his knees. "My family isn’t just some minor nobility. They’re high-ranking members of the Phoenix Dawn."

The name didn’t mean anything to me, but I could tell from the way he said it that it should. He saw my blank expression and sighed.

"Right. Outlander. Okay, lesson time. The Phoenix Dawn is a Dungeon Guild. One of the biggest. They specialize in deep delves, rare loot, and taking on things most sane people run from." He leaned back in his chair. "They’re one of the reasons the Empire stays stocked with enchanted weapons and high-tier materials."

That explained the banners, the fortified estate, the fact that his father barely blinked at the idea of unknown assassins hunting his son. If they were part of a dungeon guild, they weren’t just nobles. They were warriors.

I folded my arms. "So they expected you to follow in their footsteps?"

Garvin scoffed. "Expected? They spent years making sure of it."

I glanced at him, waiting for him to continue.

He sighed, rolling his shoulders. "My whole childhood was training. I had the best tutors, the best instructors. Swordplay, tactics, mana reinforcement, field survival. They shaped me into a front-line tank, meant to lead dungeon dives for the guild. I was their investment." He huffed a laugh, but there was no humor in it. "Then, when it came time to ‘officially’ join, I didn’t. Instead, I took my training and joined the Mercenary Guild."

Now that I understood.

"You wanted out," I said.

Garvin grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "I wanted freedom. I didn’t want to be a walking shield for a bunch of relic hunters who see people as ‘acceptable losses.’ So I left." He stretched his arms behind his head. "Safe to say, they didn’t take it well."

I thought back to the way his father spoke to him. There was no anger, no disappointment. Just… acceptance. As if Garvin’s decisions were already irrelevant.

"You don’t talk to them much, do you?" I asked.

Garvin smirked. "Nope."

I let that sit between us for a moment.

"So," I said, leaning forward, "your family runs one of the most powerful dungeon guilds in the Empire, controls an estate that could house an army, and has access to rare artifacts and weapons."

Garvin raised an eyebrow. "That about sums it up."

I met his gaze. "And we’re just going to let your father look into the Ashen Court for us?"

His smirk faded.

We both knew the answer. Lord Veyren wasn’t just looking into them for our sake. He had his own reasons—reasons he wouldn’t share with us.

Garvin sighed and rubbed his temples. "Yeah, it’s a problem."

I nodded.

"Good thing I’m used to pissing him off."

Three days passed since Lord Veyren had sent out his inquiries, and the waiting had been suffocating. Every hour that stretched on felt like we were inching closer to a noose we couldn’t see. No one in the estate spoke of it, but we all felt it. There was no safety here, only the illusion of it.

That illusion shattered when the Ashen Court arrived at the gates.

We had been in one of the upper chambers when we saw them through the window—four of them, standing at the entrance to the estate, clad in their dull gray armor, their smooth featureless masks revealing nothing. The way they stood was unnatural, perfectly still, as if they were waiting for something unseen.

Drea stiffened beside me, her hand twitching toward her axe. Malric had already stepped back into the shadows, his instincts taking over. Garvin went rigid, his breath slow and deliberate, but his eyes burned with something sharp and bitter.

“They’re here,” I muttered, barely above a whisper.

Garvin swallowed hard, then turned sharply. "We need to move. Now."

He led us out of the room, down a side passage that Weslan had shown us our first night here. It connected to a hidden alcove near the main hall—a space tucked between the walls, out of sight but within earshot of the entrance.

We pressed ourselves against the cold stone, listening as the heavy front doors opened. Footsteps echoed against the polished floor, slow and deliberate.

A voice—low, calm, and emotionless. "Lord Veyren."

His reply was just as steady. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"You received a summons from us three days ago," the agent continued. "You were asked to report any information regarding the fugitive Outlander."

Silence stretched, the weight of the moment pressing against my ribs. I could feel Garvin tensing beside me, his breath uneven.

Then, he whispered, so quietly I barely heard it.

“He turned us in.”

The words made my stomach drop.

Lord Veyren exhaled slowly. "And you have come to see if I have turned my own house upside down on your behalf?"

"The King’s orders are absolute," the agent replied. "An Outlander is a threat to the Empire’s stability. If you have any knowledge of his whereabouts, it is your duty to share it."

The silence stretched too long. My pulse pounded in my ears. This was it.

Then, Lord Veyren lied.

"I have received no such reports of an Outlander in my lands."

My breath caught in my throat.

The Ashen Court didn’t answer right away. I could hear the pause, the way they processed his words, measured them, searching for deception. My hands curled into fists as I waited for the inevitable challenge.

But it never came.

"Very well," the agent finally said. "If you do receive word, you will report it immediately."

Lord Veyren’s voice was smooth. "Of course. I am ever loyal to the Empire."

Footsteps. The sound of movement. Then—the heavy doors shutting.

I stayed frozen in place, unable to believe what I had just heard.

Garvin turned toward me, his face a mixture of shock and confusion. His father had lied. He had protected us. But why?

A moment later, the hidden panel slid open, revealing Weslan standing there, his expression carefully neutral. "You may come out now," he said.

We stepped forward, each of us tense as we followed him back into the main hall. Lord Veyren stood by the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable. He didn’t look at us right away, only watching the flames flicker against the stone.

Garvin finally spoke, his voice hoarse. "You… you lied."

Lord Veyren turned to him. "Yes."

Garvin shook his head, stepping forward. "You were willing to throw me into dungeons for refusing to join the Phoenix Dawn, but now, suddenly, you’re protecting me? Why? Why would a father refuse to protect his son, but protect an Outlander instead?"

Lord Veyren studied him for a long moment before answering. "Because this is bigger than you."

Garvin flinched, like the words had physically struck him.

Lord Veyren didn’t soften. He turned toward me instead. "I made inquiries, and I found my answer. The Ashen Court serves the King."

My throat went dry.

Drea crossed her arms, her expression dark. "And yet, they work in secret?"

"Precisely," Lord Veyren said. "If they truly served as royal agents, they would operate with full authority, using the King’s name to carry out their work. But they don’t. They hide in the shadows, operating outside the laws they claim to uphold. That tells me this is something the King does not want known."

Malric spoke for the first time. "If the King ordered this, then why doesn’t he want the world to know?"

Lord Veyren let the question hang before answering. "Because kings do not like their subjects asking questions. If word spread that Outlanders were being systematically hunted, the nobility would demand to know why. The people would want answers. That is something the King cannot afford."

I swallowed hard. "So what do we do?"

"You go to the capital," Lord Veyren said. "If the Ashen Court serves the throne, then you must learn what the throne is hiding."

He walked to a nearby table and unrolled a map of the Empire. His finger landed on the massive walled city at its heart—the capital of the known world.

"I have a contact there," he continued. "Someone who owes me a considerable favor. They will know the whispers that move through the court. If there is a truth to be found, it will be in that city."

I stared at the map, my heart pounding.

We had been running, hiding, surviving. But now, we had a path forward. A chance to uncover the truth.

Lord Veyren looked at each of us in turn. "You have a long road ahead of you. And you will not like what you find."

Garvin exhaled slowly, staring down at the map. "That’s never stopped us before."

Lord Veyren gave a slight nod, then turned back to the fire. The conversation was over.

The capital awaited.