The train swiftly sliced through the landscape on its way to Callahad, Damian's homeland. The duke, his daughter, and the strange woman with red hair and green eyes dined in luxury and opulence.

The elegantly set table was a spectacle in itself. On the finely woven linen tablecloth, pristine white porcelain plates displayed the first part of lunch. Delicate edible flowers rested on a bed of fresh green leaves, creating a vibrant color mosaic. The wild fruit vinaigrette, a sweet and sour mix, added a complex note, transforming the salad into an unforgettable experience.

"Excuse me for making you wait," said Damian. "If I can avoid it, I prefer to talk on a full stomach."

"I understand perfectly, my lord," replied Yevlyina. "I wouldn't want to have this conversation while stressed."

Sylvie, his little princess, eagerly ate the salad. Her purple eyes shone even brighter. Ever since she could remember, the young girl had always shown a passion for everything that doesn't contain blood. Her father, on the other hand, only felt truly satisfied with meat.

"Daddy, who is this lady?" his daughter asked curiously.

"I don't know either, princess," Damian responded, exchanging glances with Yevlyina. "Why don't we let her introduce herself?"

"Very well, my lord, as you wish." The woman then took a sip of her juice. "I am Yevlyina Kuznetsov, daughter of Dmitri Kuznetsov, a great historian."

Damian had a "sixth sense" that helped him stay alert to danger but also warned him when his peace would end. At this moment, the duke was certain: Yevlyina would take all his peace away again.

"And what do you wish to discuss with me?" asked the duke with a slight smile on his face.

"My father and I worked together all our lives, my lord," replied Yevlyina, studying ancient writings and crossing papyruses. Arkady Kolovsky, the duke, hired us. A letter arrived saying he needed my father's services, and when it was told that I would work alongside...," Yevlyina laughed a bit. "Well, let's skip to what matters. We were hired to investigate an elven ruin discovered by a mine in the mountain of the three peaks."

"Elven?" asked Damian. "Are you sure about that?"

The duke knew that elven ruins were one of the greatest finds one could have on their lands. The ability to be the first to explore something like that and possibly rediscover technology or something more from that era was a necessity. Their rarity made them even more valuable.

"Yes, my lord," Yevlyina replied. "I confirmed this myself with my father."

"And where is he?" asked the duke. "Will we need to speak with him?"

"He is dead, my lord," Yevlyina said with a stoic face, the light in her eyes dimming for a moment. "Arkady Kolovsky killed him."

Silence took over the luxurious cabin for a moment. Sylvie just continued eating.

"My condolences. "Is that why you're here? Revenge?" Damian thought.

"It's okay, my lord," Yevlyina responded. "His memory remains alive with me, and I will not let Arkady erase him from history." The woman then took a brief pause. "When we entered the ruin and began to investigate it, we discovered that there were unexplored treasures. There was something in that place that spoke to us both, 'leave here. This is not your home.' Well, that doesn't matter much, but we found something really interesting. A map to the land of giants."

"What is the land of giants, daddy?" Sylvie asked, her purple eyes watching her father.

"Nothing, princess. Don't worry about that," Damian looked at Yevlyina cautiously.

The land of giants was an ancient legend, a story for children. A mystical and magical place beyond human imagination, both for good and evil. Obviously, such a place had never been found, but many from the past had sworn to have seen it along with all its treasures and horrors.

"Is that true?" Damian whispered.

"Well, that's what the map and the ruin said," Yevlyina replied, moving closer to the duke. "Arkady was preparing to transport the map to the capital, where he could decipher it, but I knew he would pass through there, so I convinced some mountainous bandits in the region to attack the convoy and sell the map to you in Callahad."

"Wait a second, let me see if I understood," Damian raised an eyebrow. "You're telling me that you're going to hand me the map on a silver platter? What do you gain from this?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Yevlyina opens a smile. "I want you to put me as the leader of the expedition."

Damian looks impressed, "What courage," he thought. "Do you think you're capable of that? Could you keep a whole battalion of men under your command?"

"Of course, my lord," Yevlyina replied with a smile. "My father always believed in legends and magic, even when there wasn't much evidence for it. He always wanted to have a son, but he only had me, and so everything he knew and had prepared was passed on to me. But rest easy, my lord, we can discuss this more calmly when we have the map in your hands."

"Perfectly, Yevlyina Kuznetsov," the duke replied. "And please, call me Damian."

The train snakes through the daylight towards Degrad, the capital of the Duchy of Callahad. As it approaches, the imposing silhouette of the city begins to take shape against the horizon, marked by chimneys to protect them this winter, which stand out against the clear blue sky. Degrad, with its population of about a few tens of thousands, is a unique example of progress and innovation, an oasis of industrialization in a region that, although it does not have a large number of industries of its own, manages to prosper through its lord, Damian.

"You've done a great job here," observes Yevlyina.

"I know, and I don't intend to stop," the duke replies.

The train's whistle echoes, announcing its imminent arrival. The passengers, being Damian Callahad and his companions, adjust their belongings, preparing to disembark. The train slows down smoothly, entering the Degrad station, where the frenetic movement of people and goods shows the pulsating heart of the city.

The train station is an engineering marvel, with its steel and glass structure housing wide and well-lit platforms. The design is both elegant and functional.

As Damian steps onto the platform, he is greeted by the vibrant view of the city. Red brick buildings, many adorned with wrought iron details, line the clean and well-planned streets where carriages passed. Here and there, clock towers and copper domes add an old-world charm to the urban panorama. Despite its moderate scale, Degrad boasts the infrastructure of a metropolis, with a tram network zigzagging through the avenues and a variety of shops, cafes, and commercial establishments catering to the needs of its inhabitants.

"Are we home, daddy?" Sylvie asks.

"Yes, my princess, we have arrived," Damian responds.

Quickly, as they walk through the crowd, the lord and his daughter are recognized by the population and the approaching guards. The people surround them without getting in their way but observing them with whispers.

"Lord Callahad has returned," said a young man to his friends.

"He gets more handsome by the day," commented some women.

"My lord, where is your entourage?" asked a uniformed guard holding a rifle. "Ivan Zinoviev did not inform us of your return."

"Ivan is dead, man," the duke whispers in his ear. "Just take me to my palace."

The guard is taken aback for a moment. "Yes, sir," he responds after calming down. "Move along, folks! Lord Damian needs to pass!" the guard shouts as he begins to disperse the crowd.

The population, a vibrant mix of workers, merchants, and military, recognizes the duke from a distance. Murmurs of respect and admiration follow his steps as guards in uniforms make way through the crowd. The sound of carriages and the buzz of conversations fill the air, creating an urban symphony that accompanies Damian on his return home.

The palace, an imposing gothic structure, stands majestic at the end of the main avenue. Its medium size does not diminish its grandeur; on the contrary, each architectural detail has been carefully designed to impress and intimidate. Silent gargoyles watch from above, their features carved in stone, seeming to come to life under the twilight. The high wrought-iron gates, adorned with the Callahad family crest—a pair of asymmetrical thirteen-pointed horns—open to welcome their lord.

Damian crosses the inner courtyard, whose meticulously maintained garden displays a collection of rare flowers and elegant statues. The stone path leads to the grand entrance, where solid wood double doors open.

As he enters, Damian steps into the main hall, a vast space that serves as the pulsating heart of the palace and its lord. The echo of his steps is lost among the high columns that flank the central path, carved in stone and adorned with gold filigree.

The marble floor reflects the tapestries that decorate the walls, each telling a part of his family's history and that of Tsaravin. The air is perfumed with the subtle scent of lavender and wood.

To the left, a wide marble staircase leads to the upper floors, its balustrade worked in wrought iron and gold details. To the right, double doors lead to adjacent rooms intended for more intimate meetings or private dinners.

At the back of the hall, a huge portrait of Damian in formal attire dominates the wall, his customary gaze positioned above a marble fireplace and next to a grand piano. This portrait, painted by a renowned artist, captures not just the physical likeness but also the essence of authority and perhaps darkness that the duke carried.

Some servants begin to approach to attend to their master and his apparent guest, but before they could arrive, Zoya was already waiting for Damian by the door. This strange woman had been an old lady since the duke was a child, and it was at that age that they met. Her white and sparse hair fell over her curved, plump, and perhaps even disgusting body. Her clothes were tattered, with a semi-transparent veil over her head. The old woman had a round belly in front of her body, thin legs, thin arms. Her eyes, black, now almost white.

"Ah, Damian... I knew you would come, my lord, so I came to greet you with good news," says the old woman in a shrill and annoying voice as she waves her hands.

"Zoya, I needed to hear that," Damian responds. "Then accompany us to the living room, please." The duke offers his arm for the old woman to lean on.

"You are very beautiful, but you will not win his heart," Zoya says to Yevlyina.

"Can you see me with those eyes?" asks the red-haired woman.

"The eyes on my face have always deceived me and been inconsistent; it wasn't with them that I saw you," the old woman begins to laugh softly, opening a wide smile on her face, showing her missing teeth.

"Don't take her too seriously," Damian says. "She's a crazy old woman. Let's go to the room, Zoya, I'm in a hurry."

Damian, with the old woman Zoya leaning on his arm, leads the way through the main hall towards the living room, with Yevlyina following closely. The trio's steps resonate in the almost sacred silence of the palace, their echoes spreading throughout the place.

As they approach, the living room door is opened by a servant who bows respectfully before Damian. The interior of the room reveals itself as a cozy and richly decorated space where comfort is clearly a priority.

The room is bathed in soft light that filters through heavy curtains, drawing patterns on the polished wooden floor. Upholstered furniture in warm, earthy colors, while bookshelves and art objects personally selected by Damian adorn the walls, offering a glimpse of the duke's culture and interests.

A large stone fireplace occupies the center of one of the walls, its dancing flames casting a golden light on the faces of those present. Above it, a masterfully painted landscape portrait of Callahad reminds everyone of the beauty and vastness of the duchy Damian governs.

Damian leads Zoya to one of the armchairs near the fireplace, offering her a place of honor in the room. Yevlyina chooses to sit in an adjacent chair, her posture erect and her gaze fixed on the old woman.

"And so, Zoya, what are the good news?" asks the duke, curious.

"A visit is on the way... A very beautiful girl who wants to see you," says the old woman. "I see... I see..." Zoya passes her hands over her face. "She is coming."

"And why does she want to meet me?" Damian asks.

"She is after you, dear," responds Zoya. "She wants you, and I see a great future for the two of you."

"Zoya... Look..." Damian thinks about how to tell her this. "That matters little to me; there are more important things I would like to know."

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

"Alright, Damian... I will remain quiet here then," responds the old woman in her shrill voice.

The duke looks around, settles in his armchair. "When are the bandits going to come?" he asks, looking at the redhead.

"I'm not sure, but it shouldn't take more than two weeks," responds Yevlyina. "While they don't come, is there a problem if I stay here?"

"Not at all, please. I insist you stay," responds the duke, with his daughter in his lap. "I will arrange for you to have a room; feel free to read any of my books." Damian begins to stand up. "I have things to resolve for now, but as soon as I have any news, come to me."

"Yes, Damian," responds Yevlyina. "I will call you."

Damian, holding his sleeping daughter, leaves the living room with calm and deliberate steps. His imposing figure crosses the main hall of the palace, where the echo of his steps blends with the crackling of the fireplace in the background. He ascends the marble staircase, each step reflecting the soft glow of the wall lamps that light the way. The shadows of the statues and tapestries dance on the walls, narrating stories of glory and conquest.

Sylvie, held in his arms, seems like a peaceful angel, unaware of the complexities and intrigues that surround her existence. "Should I continue?" he thought for a moment. The corridor leading to his bedroom is flanked by tall doors. The silence of the palace is almost tangible.

Upon reaching the door to his bedroom, he opens it with a key he carries with him. The room is a sanctuary of peace and reflection, decorated with a balance between the opulence of his position and the simplicity of his personal preferences. A large window offers an unobstructed view of the sky and the city; this was Damian's way of not forgetting his people.

Carefully, he places Sylvie on his bed, ensuring she is comfortable and warm under the covers. He watches her for a moment, allowing himself a rare and genuine smile before turning to contemplate the city and the daylight that slowly fades away.

Two days and a bit had passed since then. Waiting for a visit, whether from bandits or a young lady, left the duke restless. Hours seemed to drag on in his mind, slowing him down.

As Damian reflects on the imminent events outside the high windows of the throne room, snowflakes begin to fall silently over Degrad. The previously clear sky is now covered by dense clouds. "Winter has arrived," he thought. In the streets of Degrad, the change is immediate: citizens hurry to shelter from the growing cold as the last rays of sun disappear behind a curtain of snow. Chimneys of houses begin to exhale smoke more densely. Snow accumulates quickly, covering the city with a white and silent mantle.

Damian, with an imposing posture, is seated on his throne. Around him is a grandiose space that reflects the power and authority of the Duke of Callahad. The throne, carved from dark wood and adorned with details in an unusual silver metal, is positioned on an elevated pedestal, ensuring that all who enter the room are aware of his position. The soft light entering through the high windows subtly illuminates the environment.

Uniformed guards are positioned symmetrically along the room, their postures rigid and expressions serious. They wear armor reflecting the Callahad family crest, a symbol of their origins from the forest. Each one holds a rifle, also ready to act at any moment.

The massive doors of the throne room, constructed from the same dark wood as the throne and reinforced with metal, begin to open slowly, creating a deep sound that resonates through the space. A group of guards enters, moving with military precision. The sound of their boots against the stone floor echoes in the room, attracting the attention of all present.

Viktor Orlov was in the room, his uniform impeccable, the tips of his mustache twirling on themselves. "My lord, to what do I owe my summoning?" asked the military man.

"Captain Orlov, just don't lose your head," says Damian. "But your brother is dead."

"What?" Viktor asks. "Mikhail is dead? How did this happen?" His face showed only denial.

"Calm down, I saw everything myself," says the duke. "They set a trap for me and my daughter. They put a bomb in my car, but when it exploded, it wasn't me who was there."

"They tried to kill you and killed my brother?!" Orlov asks with anger in his voice. "Who killed him?!"

"We don't know," Damian responds with a stoic face. "I'm behind finding out, Captain Orlov. For now, you can take a few days off, but I will need your services as soon as possible."

"Off?" Orlov asks, beginning to smile. "I don't want time off, my lord. I want a mission now!" Damian could sense the pain hidden behind the anger in his words.

"Alright, if you wish so," responds the duke, seated on his throne. "We will open three mines: one in Krasnaya Truda, one in Siniy Truda, and the third in Zhelty Truda. I want you to gather prisoners for the mines and make sure they will work."

"I will make sure they work hard, my lord," responds Orlov. "They will understand that only work will set them free."

"Perfect, you are dismissed, Captain Orlov," says Damian. "Any help I can offer you regarding your mourning, do not hesitate to speak."

"Thank you, my lord," responds Orlov, who bows and begins to leave the room. "Come on, men, we have work to do."

Damian spends the day in the throne room, a space that also serves as a place for deep reflection for the duke. As daylight filters through the high windows, illuminating the room with a soft and ethereal light, Damian dedicates himself to a series of tasks and deliberations. His gaze often drifts outside, observing the snow that continues to fall, covering Degrad with a mantle of silence.

As the hours advance, the room becomes a meeting point for advisors, messengers, and military officers who come and go, bringing news, reports, and requests for audience. Damian receives them one by one, listening attentively, offering guidance, making decisions. His authority is unquestionable, his presence imposing, but there is a weight in his eyes, something that the more attentive servants had noticed. Something bothered him.

As the afternoon gives way to evening, the activity in the throne room begins to decrease. The last rays of sun disappear behind the clouds laden with snow, and the shadows stretch across the marble floor. The guards light the lamps, bathing the room in a white light. Damian remains on his throne, now enveloped in contemplative silence as the last visitors withdraw.

"My lord!" says Igor Makarov, the new head of the guard, entering through the double doors. "A visitor has arrived at the palace door asking to see you. I told her it was late and therefore you would not see her, but she told me she is a duchess."

"And what are you waiting for?" asks Lord Callahad. "Go fetch her."

His tone of voice was loud, but he was not shouting. His face, which had been stoic all day, now showed anger. Igor Makarov feared for his life.

"Yes, my lord!" responds the chief, who leaves the room.

Damian rises from his throne, the imposing figure of a ruler. The light from the lamps illuminates the way as he approaches the grand doors of his throne room.

He is wearing a fine but sturdy fabric shirt in dark gray, which elegantly contrasts with the black velvet vest over it. The vest, meticulously tailored to his athletic form, is adorned with small silver buttons, each engraved with the Callahad family crest. Over his shoulders, a long and dark cape lined with fur on the inside falls majestically, swaying gently with each step he takes.

Your presence is that of someone who not only rules but also protects. The scar on the corner of your right lip, a reminder of something you would like to have forgotten, now seems less threatening. Your short, neatly arranged hair gives you an air of discipline and order, complementing your commanding presence.

The perfectly cut trousers made of durable fabric match the dark tone of your clothes, while the leather boots, polished to almost a mirror shine, echo your steps through the corridor.

"See? You should have listened to me when I said Damian would want to see me," says a female voice echoing down the corridor.

Damian quickens his pace, recognizing that voice. He still can't see her down the corridor, but he knows he is getting close; he hears her steps.

Katherina Alexandrov, with her presence, seems to bring with her an aura of mystery and elegance that permeates the space around her. As she walks through the palace corridors, her steps stir excitement in the duke. Her long, silky black hair falls over her shoulders like a night cascade, reflecting the dim light of the lamps with an almost supernatural glow. They frame her face perfectly, highlighting her beauty and the intensity of her dark eyes.

Katherina's eyes are like two deep, impenetrable black diamonds, capable of capturing the attention of anyone who crosses their path. There is a sharp intelligence there, a glint that speaks of a mind as sharp as her tongue. Her look, sometimes snobbish, sometimes enticing, is a window to a soul both sweet and bitter.

Her attire is a work of art in itself, a testament to her position and impeccable taste. The dark fabric chosen not only for elegance but also for the way it perfectly fits her body has red details. There is a careful balance in how the fabric moves with her, a game of revealing and hiding, a play of shadows and light that captures the imagination and leaves a trail of admiration. Each cut, each fold of the fabric, makes Damian wonder what lies beneath.

The half-smile that sometimes plays on her red lips is like a signature, always present on her face. This smile, along with the posture that radiates self-confidence and authority, makes Katherina Alexandrov an object of desire for Damian, who watches her turn the corner of the corridor.

"Katherina, to what do I owe your visit?" asks the duke.

"I was worried about your well-being after what happened... So I decided to visit you," the duchess moves away from the guards accompanying her and approaches the duke. "Are you alright?"

"Yes..." "I can't talk properly in the corridor," Damian thinks. "Katherina... would you like some privacy?"

"Oh," Katherina laughs. "Obviously, please. Let's go," she replies without taking her half-smile off her face.

Damian discreetly waves to the guards, indicating they are no longer needed. With a confident gesture, he invites Katherina to follow him, entering the labyrinthine corridors of the palace. Their steps echo against the marble, a duet marking their paths.

They cross a series of magnificent halls, each more impressive than the last. The soft light of the electric lamps casts dancing shadows, lending the environment a comfortable atmosphere that seems to bring the two closer.

Finally, Damian opens the doors to an opulent room far from the simplicity of his own quarters. The space is a testimony to the power and wealth of the House of Callahad, a confluence of luxury and comfort designed to impress even the most demanding visitors. The walls are covered with silk imported from the south of Eclipta, of stunning chromatic richness, while the floor is adorned with plush carpets that silence their steps.

In the center of the room, a wide canopy bed, its fine linen sheets inviting to the touch. Furniture made of noble wood, carved with a mastery that speaks of skilled artisans, is arranged harmoniously, offering both functionality and aesthetics. A crystal chandelier suspended in the center of the ceiling scatters light in colored prisms, bathing the room in magical luminosity.

Damian closes the door behind them, and the sound of the lock mechanism seems to seal the outside world, creating a private sanctuary away from the demands and curious gazes. He turns to Katherina.

"And then, duchess, what shall we discuss?" Damian approaches the curtains to close them.

"Hm, seeking so much privacy?" asks Katherina with a half-smile. "I thought Lord Damian was more of an exhibitionist." When she finishes, the duchess sits on the bed.

"What do you mean?" the duke asks as he approaches. "Not everything I like to show off. There are moments for the privacy of four walls." The duke holds her by the chin and gives her a kiss on her mouth.

"Oh Damian..." says Katherina, holding his shirt and pulling him to whisper in his ear. "I know you have some toys... won't you introduce them to me?"

"Katherina, I think you don't know what you're asking for," Damian replies hesitantly.

"Ah, come on! Don't play the puritan now; I know you have slaves," Katherina laughs a little.

"Don't be mistaken; they are not slaves," Damian responds. "They are part of my collection." The duke then observes her in her eyes, the shape of her fine face mesmerizing him. "And I will not introduce you to my collection now."

"Ah, Damian, why?" asks Katherina, throwing herself on the bed in sadness. "I came from so far just to see you, and you won't give me the happiness of knowing your prestigious collection?" says the duchess expressively while throwing her arm over her face.

"Stay here a few more days, and I will introduce it to you," Damian says as he approaches to kiss her. "See this as a guarantee that I will have your company for days."

The duke begins to hold her by her shoulders, moving his hand up to her neck. Both of their eyes are locked on each other as Damian slowly opens her dress, revealing her beautiful pair of breasts. Her skin was clear, almost pale, but her nipples were full of life, possessing a rosy color.

"How inelegant... undressing a lady in this cold?" Katherina asks, slowly blinking her eyes.

Damian throws himself over her, kissing her intensely. He runs his hands over her body, undressing her, and discovering what lies beneath. The duke takes off his clothes, and with the creaking of the bed, a flower is blossomed. "Was she a virgin?" Lord Callahad wonders.

Damian wakes up with the first rays of light filtering through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the opulent room. The environment is peaceful, and the silence is only broken by the soft sound of their breathing. The duke, still under the torpor of sleep, slowly opens his eyes, adjusting to the morning light. He turns to Katherina, whose black hair is spread over the pillow. She was still naked. "Should I ask about her virginity?" he wonders.

Katherina, feeling the movement, wakes up gently, her dark eyes meeting Damian's. A soft, content smile forms on her face as she realizes where she is and with whom. She snuggles closer to him, seeking warmth and comfort in his arms.

"Ah ah... nine years," says the duchess, opening a smile.

"Nine years? I don't understand," Damian runs his hand over his body.

"I fell in love with you nine years ago when I was fourteen," says Katherina. "I was at the wedding of my cousin Rodrik and Ksenia. I remember even today that the war had just ended and you had returned from it." The duchess's eyes sparkle. "You caused a stir at the time; it was impossible to see the heir to a duchy fight on the front lines, but you went and still came back." She gives a half-smile before kissing him. "When I saw you, I had heard about the kind of violent man you were and how the Sikhe feared you." Katherina laughs a little. "Damian Damian ah ah... Are you a man who loves," the duchess leans closer to whisper in his ear, "or a man who hates?"

"Tell me, what kind of man am I?" asks Damian.

"Damian is a man who loves; Lord Callahad is a man who hates," Katherina runs her hand over his face, feeling his beard scratch her fingers. "You are both."

Damian then holds her in his arms tightly, pressing her against him. He smells her floral scent and feels her soft skin. Her body was perfect and seemed to be sculpted from marble, but he knew this had to end.

"Katherina, my duchess, I must get ready for my day, but please, I ask you to stay," says the duke, giving her a kiss on her lips and beginning to get up naked. "Katherina, just one question, were you a virgin?" Damian asks as he dresses with his clothes on the floor.

"Yes, I was," says the duchess. "Men never interested me or aroused desire in me..." Katherina watches him with a half-smile. "But you are different; you awaken something in me."

"That's it! Awakening!" Damian thinks, realizing that was the word that described what she did to him.

"Katherina... can we meet again later?" asks the duke.

"Of course."

Damian walks through the corridors adorned with the opulence that only the palace of Callahad could offer. The soft light of the dusk infiltrating through the high windows casts a golden glow over the armors that tell the story of ancient knights.

Upon arriving at the door of Yevlyina's room, Damian hesitates for a brief moment. With a sigh, he regains his composure, his hand firm as he knocks on the solid wood door.

"Please come in!" responds a voice that could only be Yevlyina's.

Damian opens the door to find the luxuriously decorated interior of the room. The interior reveals a contrasting study between luxury and organized chaos. The walls are lined with fine fabrics, while the floor is covered by vibrant colored carpets, their intricate designs a feast for the eyes.

A large bed adorned with silk sheets and a profusion of pillows occupies a corner of the room. Over it, a heavy velvet canopy filters the light. However, it is evident that the bed has been little used, given the sea of papers, maps, and books that spreads across almost all other available surfaces.

Yevlyina's desk, a piece of exquisite craftsmanship in dark wood, is overloaded with documents and scrolls, some open and others still sealed with wax. Ancient maps with edges worn by time are spread out, held down by sculpted paperweights. Handwritten notes, sketches, and diagrams are scattered about.

Beside the desk, shelves full of books rise from the floor to the ceiling. The shelves are so overcrowded that additional volumes have been piled on the floor, creating paths through the sea of accumulated knowledge.

Damian closes the door behind him, approaching with measured steps. "I see you're not wasting time, are you?" says the duke in a happy tone.

"Yes, this is a great place to study," Yevlyina stands up, her long red hair thrown into the air, reflecting the afternoon light from the window. "But I imagine you didn't come just to see if I was working, right?"

"Yes, I came to ask how many days you think it will take until those... hm," Damian thinks for a bit, "mountain bandits show up."

"They should have already arrived, I think. But it's possible there have been setbacks, and they are delaying coming here."

"I have already ordered my men that any mountain bandit seen in the north of the Dark Forest must be questioned."

"Don't worry, Damian, I want that map as much as you do," says Yevlyina. "If we can't get it this way, I'll find a way. All I need is your money."

"I want to see where this goes, and I don't like Arkady," says Damian. "But what worries me is if he finds out about my involvement, the crown would end up knowing and getting involved in all this."

"You don't have to worry, Arkady doesn't even know if I'm alive or dead," says Yevlyina. "I made sure to leave that doubt for that old man on his deathbed."