Lord Darian stood at his study window, his reflection grim in the polished glass. Below, the courtyard bustled with preparations for their impending journey. He watched the Inquisitor's crimson-robed acolytes loading trunks onto waiting carriages, their efficiency doing little to ease the knot in his stomach.

A knock at the door pulled his attention. "Enter," he called, turning to face Gareth, his trusted guard captain. The burly man's presence was a small comfort.

"My lord, our preparations are complete," Gareth reported. "Six of our best men, as you requested, ready to accompany us."

Darian nodded, grateful for the reassuring presence of his own guards to balance the Inquisitor's zealots. "Good. We'll need to be vigilant, Gareth. This... demonstration... I fear what it might entail."

His gaze drifted to where Helene, the House Mistress, was overseeing the packing of Aelindra's belongings. Even from this distance, he noted the care in her movements. 'At least someone else in this house gives a damn about her welfare,' he thought bitterly.

Darian's eyes unfocused, memories flooding back unbidden. He was a boy again, seated in the grand library as his tutor's stern voice droned on.

"The elves, young lord, must be kept in check. It's for their own good, you see. Their magic, unchecked, would bring ruin to us all."

He remembered nodding, accepting it as truth. Later that day, he'd seen Aelindra in the garden, her small form hunched over flower beds. His father's hand on his shoulder, guiding him.

"Remember, son. She may look like us, but she's not. Treat her well, as you would any valuable possession, but never forget what she is...." the memory fades.

Darian's jaw clenched, shame burning in his chest. How many times had he parroted those words? How often had he treated Aelindra as less than human, all while telling himself it was right, it was necessary?

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His hand curled into a fist. The memory of her screams during the public flogging echoed in his mind. He'd stood there, face impassive, as her skin split under the lash. For her own good. For the good of the realm. The lies felt bitter on his tongue now.

"What have I done?" he whispered, the weight of years of unquestioning cruelty settling on his shoulders. Everything he'd been taught, everything he'd believed, everything he put her through... it was crumbling. And in its wake, all he felt was guilt.

Darian stood before the full-length mirror in his chambers, methodically donning his armor. The familiar weight of steel plates settling onto his shoulders brought little comfort today. His fingers worked the straps with practiced ease, muscle memory taking over while his mind raced.

The gleaming breastplate reflected his troubled expression as he secured it in place. This journey... it was more than just a political demonstration. The drought had turned the countryside desperate, and the famine that followed had made the roads between kingdoms treacherous.

He reached for his sword belt, the leather creaking as he cinched it tight. Reports of bandits grew more frequent with each passing week. Starving peasants turned to robbery, their desperation making them bold. Even the nobles' lands weren't safe, as each petty lord scrambled to secure what little resources remained.

Darian's hand rested on the hilt of his sword, feeling its reassuring weight. He'd chosen this particular blade for its balance of elegance and lethality - much like the political tightrope he now walked. The irony wasn't lost on him.

A soft knock interrupted his brooding. "Enter," he called, turning to face the door.

The door creaked open, revealing Gareth's weathered face. The guard captain's eyes swept over Darian's armor, assessing with a soldier's practiced gaze.

"The convoy is ready, my lord," Gareth reported, his voice gruff. "The Inquisitor grows... impatient."

Darian suppressed a grimace. Of course he does, he thought bitterly. Aloud, he merely nodded. "Very well. We'll depart shortly."

As Gareth turned to leave, Darian found himself speaking again. "Tell me, old friend. The roads... how bad are they truly?"

The captain's face darkened. "Worse than the reports suggest, my lord. We've had three supply caravans raided in the past fortnight alone. The famine has made men desperate."

Darian's jaw clenched. He'd suspected as much, but hearing it confirmed made his stomach churn. This journey was folly, but he was powerless to stop it.

"Double-check our provisions," he ordered. "And ensure our men are well-armed. We can't afford to be caught unprepared."