The next morning, Gideon returned, his tall, imposing figure unmistakable as he entered the small, crumbling room that Ronan had spent his last night in. Beside him stood the same woman from the previous day, her face as impassive and unreadable as ever. Without much preamble, Gideon’s voice cut through the silence. “Have you packed all your belongings?”
Ronan stood there, his eyes flicking down to the floor for a moment. He didn’t have anything to pack. Nothing material, nothing of any real value. He had never owned much, and what little he had was either broken, lost, or too useless to even think about bringing. But there were two things he would take with him.
Around his wrist was a braided bracelet, worn and frayed from years of wear. It was small, simple, but meaningful. His mother had made it for him years ago, before she got sick. Before everything fell apart. Well, everything had always been apart. The rough threads of the bracelet rubbed against his skin, a reminder of the life he had lived and suffered, with his poor mother and sister.
In his hand, he held a small, torn-up teddy bear, barely recognizable as a toy anymore. Its fabric was matted with dirt, its seams threatening to split open at any moment. But it had belonged to his sister. It had been hers until the very end, and now, it was the only thing of her that remained. The last connection he had to her.
He looked up at Gideon, who stood silently watching him. Gideon’s gaze moved over the bracelet and the teddy bear, a faint crease forming between his brows. For a brief moment, it seemed like Gideon might say something, some passing comment about the pitiful state of Ronan’s “belongings.” But instead, Gideon simply raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. He said nothing.
“Come,” Gideon said, turning sharply on his heel. His long coat swept behind him as he moved toward the door, the woman silently following in his wake.
Ronan hesitated for a moment, his eyes lingering on the room that had been his home for so long. It wasn’t much—a dirt floor, crumbling walls, the stench of rot always present in the air—but it was all he had known. And now, he was leaving it behind. He clutched the teddy bear tightly in his hand and followed Gideon out the door.
The streets of the slums were just as filthy and crowded as always, but today, there was something different in the air. The usual noise—the shouts, the coughs, the constant desperation—was quieter, more subdued. As Ronan walked behind Gideon, he could feel the eyes of the people around him, their gazes following him, lingering on the strange sight of a boy from the slums walking side by side with a man dressed in gold.
Some of them looked at him with amazement, their faces showing disbelief, as if they couldn’t quite comprehend what they were seeing. To them, it must have seemed impossible—someone from the slums, leaving with a noble. It wasn’t something that happened everyday, or ever. People like Ronan didn’t leave. They stayed here, trapped in the filth and grime, scraping by day after day, with no hope of ever seeing a world beyond the narrow, decaying streets, only to slowly fade away from existence.
Others, however, weren’t so awestruck. Glares followed Ronan as he walked, their eyes hard with resentment and bitterness. It wasn’t difficult to understand why. Why him? Why did he get to leave when they were still stuck here, still living in the same misery, the same hopelessness? The unspoken accusations were palpable in the air. Ronan could feel them like daggers aimed at his back, but he kept his gaze forward, refusing to acknowledge them.
Then there were those who seemed more hesitant. Fear filled their eyes, and some of them looked as though they wanted to approach him, to say something, to warn him maybe. But they didn’t. Whether it was fear of Gideon or something else, they stayed back, watching him from a distance but never daring to take that step closer.
As they walked further from the heart of the slums, the air around them began to change. The narrow, filthy streets began to widen, the buildings gradually becoming more well-kept. The further they walked, the less of the slums remained, the familiar rot and decay fading behind them. The smell of filth and waste that had clung to Ronan all his life slowly gave way to something cleaner, fresher.
It felt like stepping into a different world, one that Ronan had never been a part of.
Once they were clear of the slums, Gideon slowed his pace, glancing down at Ronan as if considering something. “How do you want to travel?” he asked, his voice casual, as though this were a simple, everyday question. “By Dimensional Gate or by carriage?”
Ronan blinked at the question, caught off guard by it. Travel? He had never thought about how to travel before. He had never been given a choice about anything in his life, let alone something as foreign as this. Dimensional Stone? Carriage? They were just words to him. Concepts that belonged to a world far removed from his own.
He didn’t know how to answer. What difference did it make?
Seeing his hesitation, Gideon smiled faintly, as if amused by Ronan’s confusion. “No matter,” he said smoothly, brushing the question aside as if it had never been asked. “We’ll take the carriage for a while. It will give you time to see the world outside the slums. Then, when we’re in Silverwood, we’ll use the Dimensional Gate to reach the Vandross territory.”
Ronan let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Ah, the world outside the slums? What a privilege,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I can’t wait to see what I’ve been missing—clean streets, real food, people who don’t stink of desperation. Truly a dream come true.”
Gideon’s gaze remained steady, unfazed by the edge in Ronan’s tone. “I imagine it will be... enlightening,” he replied, his calm smile never wavering.
Ronan scoffed but gave a nod, his smirk not fading. “Yeah, sure. Enlightening.”
Ronan followed Gideon to the carriage, his steps heavy with a mixture of disbelief and apprehension. When they reached it, he froze for a moment, staring at the sleek black carriage that stood before him. It was unlike anything Ronan had ever seen—elegant, polished, and far too pristine for the filthy streets of the slums. Its dark, gleaming surface reflected the dull sunlight, and the silver accents along the edges glinted sharply, giving the entire vehicle an almost regal appearance. The horses, tall and muscular, stood perfectly still, their glossy coats gleaming, their bridles adorned with intricate, finely crafted designs.
The carriage doors were engraved with subtle patterns, delicate spirals and curves that seemed to dance across the surface, details Ronan would never have imagined could exist. The wheels looked almost too clean to be real, their spokes crafted from some kind of polished wood, reinforced with metal that shone even in the fading light of the day. Everything about it screamed wealth and power—two things that had always been distant concepts to Ronan.
When Gideon opened the door, the interior seemed even more surreal. Stepping inside, Ronan felt out of place. The seats were made of soft leather, their plush cushions sinking slightly under his weight as he sat down. They were smooth to the touch, without the rough, ragged feeling of the broken-down things he had grown accustomed to in the slums. It felt foreign and luxurious in a way Ronan couldn’t quite comprehend. The carriage walls were lined with rich, dark wood, polished to a gleam, with intricate designs subtly embedded in the grain, a level of craftsmanship Ronan had never seen before.
Ronan sat stiffly, feeling like an intruder in a world that wasn’t meant for him. A small lantern fixed to the carriage wall cast a warm, gentle light over the interior, making the space feel almost unreal—like something out of a dream rather than his gritty reality.
With a dry chuckle, he leaned back slightly, the smallest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Well, this is a bit much for a ride, isn’t it? Should I expect gold-plated cushions next?”
Gideon glanced at him, his lips curving into a faint smile, clearly unbothered by the sarcasm. "We reserve those for longer journeys," he replied smoothly, his tone light and easy. "But I’m sure you’ll find this comfortable enough."
Ronan rolled his eyes, though he couldn’t help but feel that he was rubbing off on the noble.
The exchange, as brief as it was, almost felt normal. He shifted his gaze back to the window, not expecting much—but the moment he did, the world outside grabbed his attention. Even though he tried to suppress it, Ronan couldn’t help but feel a small sense of awe creeping in.
The winding roads were flanked by towering trees, their leaves shone with a faint silver hue as the sun rose behind them. Beyond the road, vast fields of blackened earth stretched into the horizon, dotted with towering smokestacks billowing thin trails of smoke into the sky. The air seemed to hum with the distant clang of metal striking metal—though faint, it was constant. Shadows of figures, blacksmiths perhaps, moved like ants, hammering away at molten steel.
The land was a curious mix of industry and nature. For every patch of trees which were shining silver, there was a forge or a mine, veins of industry cutting through the otherwise quiet landscape. Streams of water flowed lazily through the fields, their surface shimmering under the dull sky. Ronan could make out strange, intricate metal structures by the roadside—what they actually were, he couldn't tell.
Even though he didn't fully understand what he was seeing, Ronan couldn't deny the strange allure of it. This was the world outside the slums, a world he had never seen, and no matter how much he hated to admit, it was beautiful.
Without turning from the window, Ronan asked, “Where are we?”
Gideon shifted in his seat, his eyes following Ronan’s gaze outside. "This is the Ironhold. The territory of Earl Tavin Draven," he explained. "The Ironhold is known for its blacksmiths and metalwork. They produce some of the finest weapons and armor in all of Ravencia. Most of the empire’s military supplies come from here."
Ronan’s eyes flicked to the dark smoke curling into the sky from the distant forges, the clang of hammers faint but constant. He nodded, more to himself than to Gideon, as the carriage rumbled along the road.
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"We'll be taking the Dimensional Gate soon," Gideon continued. "It's in Silverwood, just beyond Draven's lands."
Ronan thought back for a moment, his mind connecting a faint memory. "I might've kicked out someone who used that Draven name," he said, almost offhandedly.
There was a momentary pause, and Ronan noticed Gideon's eyes narrow ever so slightly. A flicker of concern crossed his otherwise calm expression, but it vanished just as quickly as it had appeared. "It's alright," Gideon replied with a small, controlled smile, though the faint hint of worry lingered beneath his calm tone. "Earl Draven has many servants. I'm sure it won’t be a problem."
Ronan raised an eyebrow, sensing that Gideon was choosing his words carefully, but he let it go, returning his gaze to the window as the scenery passed by.
But he did hear the almost barely perceptible whisper of him saying, “Maybe we should have used the Dimensional Gate.”
What the hell deal was up with this Dimensional Gate anyway?
***
“I’m sorry, sir. We are not allowed to let you pass,” came the voice of a soldier, firm and unyielding.
Gideon’s gaze turned to the window as the carriage slowed. He exhaled sharply, his irritation barely concealed as he turned toward Ronan. “Stay here,” he ordered, his tone low but absolute. “No matter what, do not come out.”
Before Ronan could respond, Gideon stepped out of the carriage. Ronan leaned forward, careful not to make any noise, his eyes narrowing as he peered through a small gap in the curtains, watching the scene unfold from the gap.
Gideon approached the commotion with a calm yet dangerous presence. “What’s the issue here?” he asked, his voice sharp as steel.
The soldier at the border straightened, though he still looked uneasy. "Apologies, my lord, but I have strict orders. The boy in your company—Ronan—is not allowed to pass. He is part of the Ironhold territory, and I’ve been commanded to ensure he stays within our borders."
Gideon maintained his composure. But his eyes, cold and calculating, locked onto the soldier. "By whose orders?"
The soldier hesitated, clearly out of his depth, before responding, "Earl Tavin Draven, my lord."
Ronan watched intently from the shadows of the carriage, his heart pounding as Gideon stepped forward.
"Do you know who I am?" Gideon’s voice had taken on a dangerous edge as he pulled out a scroll bearing his sigil, flashing it before the soldier’s eyes. "I am Marquess Gideon Vandross, and I will not be delayed by such trivial matters. If you think to bar me from passing, then you overstep your place."
The soldier paled instantly, stammering as he tried to explain, "I—I’m sorry, my lord, but these orders—"
Before the soldier could finish, the Earl himself approached. Earl Tavin Draven, a lean but commanding figure, emerged from the shadows, his presence immediately drawing attention. He wore a long, charcoal-gray coat adorned with silver filigree, the fabric catching the light with a subtle sheen, hinting at both elegance and power. His black hair, swept back immaculately, contrasted with the pale complexion of his face. His narrow, calculating eyes, as cold and sharp as steel, flicked between Gideon and the soldiers, assessing the situation with quick precision.
The Earl’s expression held no warmth—his thin lips pressed into a tight line as he regarded the scene with a detached, almost dismissive air. The rings on his fingers glinted in the light, showing his authority and wealth. With a slight adjustment to the heavy cloak that trailed behind him, Draven stepped forward, his posture upright and unyielding.
He stopped in front of Gideon, his nod curt, his eyes showing a hint of displeasure, and the tension between them thickened like a storm about to break.
"Marquess Vandross," the Earl greeted, his voice dripping with politeness, but the underlying challenge was clear. "I was not expecting you to be traveling through my territory. And I believe this young man belongs to me."
Gideon didn’t flinch, his eyes narrowing slightly as he met Draven’s gaze. "I was not aware you laid claim to people as though they were property, Draven. He may have been born in your territory, but as of now, he travels under my protection. His status here is no longer your concern."
The Earl’s lips tightened, his eyes gleaming with annoyance. "The boy belongs to the Ironhold. He has no place in the company of nobles. Surely you can understand my position, Marquess. I’m simply ensuring the integrity of my land."
Gideon gave a small, humorless smile. "Integrity? Is that what you’re calling it?" He stepped closer to the Earl, his voice lowering. "It sounds more like you’re overstepping your authority, interfering in the affairs of other nobles. You know the rules of magic awakening. So, let me make this very clear: Ronan is under my protection. I hold the right to bring him where I choose, and unless you intend to start a conflict over one boy, I suggest you stand down."
The air between them thickened with tension as the Earl’s gaze hardened. His jaw clenched, and his hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, but he kept his voice measured. “I see you haven’t lost your flair for dramatics, Vandross. However, that still doesn’t imply you can take people out from my territory without my permission.”
Gideon’s smile remained, though his eyes sharpened. “I’m well aware of that, Draven. And I wouldn’t question your authority—unless it was absolutely necessary. But let’s be honest, is stopping us here really worth creating waves? I doubt this is the kind of conflict you want spreading beyond your borders.”
The Earl’s eyes flickered, a hint of irritation crossing his face. He paused, the weight of the standoff hanging in the air. “You assume much, Vandross. I’ve handled my affairs without your input for quite some time.”
Gideon’s gaze didn’t waver. “Then you know how quickly small matters can turn into larger ones, especially when it comes to influence.”
For a moment, Draven stood motionless, the muscles in his jaw twitching with barely concealed fury. The guards shifted nervously, glancing between their Earl and the Marquess.
Finally, Draven exhaled sharply, his eyes narrowing. “Very well,” he bit out, his voice cold and controlled. “But I will remember this insult.”
Gideon’s smile widened, just enough to show a hint of superiority. “Do remember it, Draven. It will save us time the next time our paths cross.”
With a sharp wave of his hand, the Earl dismissed his guards, who were visibly relieved as they stepped aside, allowing the carriage to pass.
Ronan watched in silence as Gideon returned to the carriage, his expression unreadable. He climbed back in without a word, giving the signal for them to move forward. As the carriage started moving again, Ronan felt the weight of what had just transpired and the sheer power of the man sitting across from him.
"You handled that well," Ronan muttered, breaking the silence.
Gideon glanced at him, a faint smile playing on his lips. "It’s what I do."
Ronan sat in silence, staring at the passing landscape but lost in his own thoughts. A few days ago, he was nothing—just another face in the slums, scraping by without anyone giving him a second glance. Now, people were arguing over him like he was some rare prize. It felt surreal, almost laughable, that someone like Earl Draven would care enough to claim him when just a few days prior, he was invisible to the world. The absurdity of it gnawed at him. He wasn’t used to being wanted—much less fought over, even if he felt like a pig for slaughter.
The carriage passed through rolling fields of silver-tinted trees, their leaves glistening in the light as they entered a new territory.
“This is Silverwood,” Gideon said, breaking the silence. “A place known for its lush forests and the exquisite craftsmanship of its artisans. It’s ruled by Marquis Elara Verin, a good friend of mine. She’s fair, strong-willed, and someone who understands the game we play as nobles. Her people craft some of the most sought-after items in the empire.”
Ronan, still trying to take it all in, raised an eyebrow. “A marquis as a friend? Sounds like I should be on my best behavior.”
Gideon chuckled. “That would be wise. Elara’s known for her generosity, but cross her, and even I might not be able to help you.”
Ronan snorted quietly, half-amused, half-exhausted by everything. His gaze returned to the world outside, and despite his skepticism, he couldn’t help but admire the scenery. Silverwood was stunning—vast groves of silver-leafed trees stretching for miles, their branches swaying gently in the breeze. The air here felt fresher, cleaner, and everything seemed to shimmer under the soft sunlight. It was a far cry from the grime of the slums, a world Ronan never thought he’d experience.
As they entered a bustling marketplace nestled between the trees, Ronan’s attention was caught by the vibrant colors and sounds of vendors hawking their goods. Among the stalls, something on a vendor’s cart drew his eye—a row of freshly baked pastries, their golden-brown crusts glistening with glaze. The smell wafted through the air, rich and sweet, making Ronan’s stomach growl involuntarily. His mouth watered despite himself.
Gideon glanced at him, and noticed the subtle change in Ronan’s expression. Without a word, he signaled the driver to stop. The carriage came to a halt, and before Ronan could process what was happening, Gideon stepped out, exchanged a few words with the vendor, and returned with a small package wrapped in cloth. He handed it to Ronan with an unreadable expression.
“Here,” Gideon said simply.
Ronan blinked, staring at the bundle in his hands, feeling a mix of discomfort and something he didn’t understand, well up inside him. He wasn’t used to gestures like this. For a moment, he hesitated, his mind racing with conflicting thoughts. But instead of easing him, the unfamiliar feeling made his chest tighten. His throat constricted, and a wave of panic surged through him.
His heart pounded harder, the sound of it thudding in his ears. The air felt too thick, too heavy, like the walls of the carriage were pressing in, stealing the breath from his lungs. His fingers gripped the edge of the seat until his knuckles turned white, but the pressure did nothing to slow the wave of panic crashing over him. The world blurred around the edges, closing in on him. His throat felt tight, and each gasp for air only seemed to draw the walls closer.
What the hell is happening with him!?
Gideon noticed the sudden change, his eyes widening in confusion. “Ronan?” he asked, a hint of concern in his voice.
“Don’t… touch me!” Ronan gasped, pressing himself back into the corner of the seat, his vision swimming as he fought against the panic. His defenses had shot up, every instinct telling him this was all wrong—that he didn’t belong here, that he was out of place.
Gideon, clearly unsure of what to do, withdrew his hand and remained still, his expression carefully neutral. “Alright,” he said softly, keeping his distance.
His mind raced, trying to reconcile the unfamiliar feeling of being given something without expecting to pay a price. It felt wrong, foreign, as if this simple gesture was a trick—just another way to remind him how far removed he was from the world of nobles. He wasn’t meant for this, wasn’t meant for any of this.
Ronan closed his eyes, willing the panic to subside, forcing himself to take slower, deeper breaths. He focused on the rhythm until, slowly, the crushing weight on his chest began to lift. His breathing steadied, and the world gradually came back into focus.
After what felt like an eternity, Ronan opened his eyes again. His breathing slowed, but the pounding in his chest lingered. Every muscle felt tense, and the sweat beading on his forehead felt cold against his skin. It wasn’t until his vision cleared that he dared open his eyes, though his hands were still shaking, his mind slow to catch up with his body. He dragged his palms across his face, wiping away the sweat, the panic, the embarrassment.
“This never happened,” he muttered, his voice hoarse.
Gideon gave a slow nod, his face expressionless. “Of course.”
The carriage began moving again, and Ronan turned his gaze back to the window, doing his best to push the episode from his mind. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that, no matter how hard he tried, the walls of this new world were still closing in on him.
Well, he was still going to eat that stupid pastry.