The tension in the air tightened like a coiled wire, stretched taut and ready to snap. The moment the carriage neared the gates, a hush fell over the guards—silent, stiff, poised. Hands hovered near weapons, eyes locked forward in unwavering focus, not in aggression but in something eerily close to reverence.
The whispers among them had only grown, hushed but unmistakable. Some looked as if they wanted to speak, to confirm their suspicions, but none dared to break protocol.
Arlon stood motionless, arms crossed, his fingers tapping idly against his sleeve. His violet eyes, distant beneath his mask, weren't focused on the scene before him but instead lost in the depths of his own thoughts.
While the world around him shifted, while armed soldiers prepared as if receiving royalty or something far more dangerous, he sat in the carriage, utterly unfazed.
The weight of the Cursed Stone still lingered in his hands, but it wasn't his main concern. His mind sifted through everything—his journey so far, the looming obligations ahead, the tangled web of threats surrounding him. The Pry cult, the lost mercenaries, the Empire's Crown Prince schemes—each one stacked neatly in his thoughts like an ever-growing list of problems he had no choice but to deal with.
Outside, the guards continued shifting into position.
Inside, Arlon's expression remained unreadable.
Taron stole another glance outside—then at Arlon—then back at the guards. The sheer contrast was dizzying. The man sitting across from him might as well have been napping. Meanwhile, outside, soldiers braced like they were preparing to receive either a king or a demon lord.
The sheer contrast between the chaos outside and Arlon's utter indifference was staggering. Here he was, being received like some warlord returning from a conquest, and yet he was acting as if he were merely debating what to have for lunch.
Taron, feeling increasingly out of place, glanced at the others in the carriage, hoping for some sign that at least one of them shared his disbelief.
Lawrence sat still, his expression unreadable as he casually gazed out the window, completely unfazed by the guards' rigid formations. He might as well have been admiring the scenery rather than acknowledging the silent storm brewing outside.
Dimitri, as composed as ever, remained calm, hands resting neatly on his lap as if this entire situation was nothing more than a mild inconvenience. His face betrayed nothing—no curiosity, no concern, just quiet acceptance.
Then there was Ace, lazily stretching out beside Arlon, tail flicking in idle amusement. The black cat let out a slow yawn, blinking up at Taron with a look that practically said, You're the only one panicking here.
That was when it hit him.
I'm the only one acting weird.
Everyone else looked like this was just another ordinary day.
Taron stiffened, slowly sinking back into his seat, forcing himself to keep his composure. Right. Fine. Nothing strange here. Just a casual entrance into the Empire while an entire battalion of elite soldiers stares at us like we're royalty or—
His thoughts were abruptly cut off as the carriage rolled forward, gliding through the gates without resistance. The guards stood rigid, their hands tightening around their weapons, their eyes fixed on Arlon's carriage—as if they had been expecting him.
It was only now dawning on him that he had never actually asked for the full name of the man he had been traveling with. He had picked up bits and pieces—an intimidating presence, the confidence of someone used to being in control, and the kind of composure that only came from experience in dealing with dangerous situations.
But this?
The reaction from the Empire's guards told him that Arlon wasn't just some powerful noble. He was someone important. Someone the Empire's forces recognized the moment they saw his carriage.
Taron swallowed thickly.
"…Uh." He turned slightly, hesitating. "Not to be rude, but… you are a noble, right?"
Arlon, lost in thought, barely glanced up. "What gave it away?"
Taron gestured toward the guards outside. "The fact that they look like they're about to meet someone important."
Arlon finally shifted, leaning just enough to get a glimpse through the carriage window. The heightened security was unmistakable. The guards weren't just paying attention—they were waiting.
Or rather, expecting someone.
Arlon sighed, leaning back against the carriage wall. He had anticipated this. His arrival at the Empire was bound to stir something, especially after the mess he had left in his wake.
His mind briefly summarized everything that had led him here—the swift takedown of three troublesome nobles before his departure from the Grand Duchy, his reluctant agreement to attend the Empire's graduation ceremony for his younger siblings. It wasn't a stretch to assume that rumors of his actions had already reached the capital.
He was about to speak when he noticed something—Taron's posture had stiffened ever so slightly, his gaze flickering uncertainly between the estate and Arlon himself. A thought crossed Arlon's mind.
Wait… does Taron not know I'm from the Throndsen family?
Then, a realization struck him.
Arlon exhaled slowly, letting the truth settle. Taron had no idea who he was. The man had spent hours traveling with him and still hadn't pieced it together.
Arlon resisted the urge to smirk.
It made sense now. Taron must not be familiar with the noble families allied with the Empire—or perhaps he simply hadn't made the connection yet. Either way, it worked in Arlon's favor. If Taron remained unaware, their ties would stay loose, making it easier for them to part ways without unnecessary entanglements.
Arlon closed his eyes briefly, then answered in the simplest way possible—without revealing anything more than necessary.
"Let's just say… I'm someone the Empire recognizes."
Taron blinked, his expression shifting between understanding and confusion.
That should be vague enough. Hopefully, he won't ask further.
Then, a thought clicked in Taron's mind—Arlon must be one of the Empire's political nobles. That explained the security, the silent tension from the guards, and the way his companions remained unfazed by it all.
Taron quickly decided he wanted no part in that world. Dealing with high-ranking nobles meant walking a tightrope of politics and hidden dangers—things he had spent his entire life avoiding.
Taron let out a slow breath. He had dodged a bullet—or at least, he hoped he had. Dealing with high-ranking nobles meant walking blindfolded across a minefield, and that was a world he wanted no part of.
For now, he let out a quiet breath of relief…
Clip-clop— Clip-clop—
The carriage rolled past the towering gates, leaving the Empire's outer walls behind as it entered the heart of civilization.
The Empire's capital—Sol City.
The moment the carriage rolled into Sol City, the atmosphere shifted. Voices spilled into the streets, merchants calling out their wares in a dozen dialects, their shouts blending with the clang of blacksmith hammers and the laughter of passing nobles. The scent of fresh bread, roasting meats, and burning incense curled through the air, rich and layered.
Noble carriages rolled by in elegant procession, their polished crests gleaming under the midday sun. Towering buildings, adorned with fluttering banners, lined the roads like silent sentinels, watching over the heart of the Empire.
Despite the lively atmosphere, their carriage took a quieter route, veering away from the crowded main roads and into a more secluded part of the city. The clamor of voices gradually faded, replaced by the rhythmic sound of hooves against cobblestone. Finally, the carriage came to a halt at an unassuming crossroads where fewer people wandered.
Taron glanced around, his expression caught between relief and hesitation.
"This is where we part ways," Arlon said, leaning back slightly.
Taron shifted in his seat before nodding. "Yeah… I guess so." He turned to them, his usual nervous demeanor softening into something more genuine. "Thanks. For letting me tag along. And for saving my life back there." He rubbed the back of his neck, awkward but sincere. "I won't forget it."
Arlon gave a small nod, his expression unreadable, while Lawrence, leaning casually against the side of the carriage, smirked. "Make sure you don't go running into any more trouble. But if you do…" His eyes glinted with a teasing edge. "I might look forward to seeing you again."
Taron chuckled, though a hint of nervousness remained. "I'll try my best not to."
He hesitated for a moment, glancing between them. When he had first met Lawrence, he had been certain the man was dangerous—his sharp gaze and unnerving presence had put him on edge. But after traveling together, after seeing past the surface… maybe he had been too quick to judge.
Not everyone is what they seem.
With that, Taron exhaled, offering one last nod before stepping off the carriage. The crowd swallowed him whole, his figure vanishing into the winding streets and flickering shadows of Sol City.
And then, their journey resumed.
The transition from the city streets to private roads was almost immediate. The bustling chaos of Sol City faded behind them, replaced by an eerie sort of silence—one that belonged to land owned by those who wielded true power.
The shift in atmosphere was unmistakable. At first, the carriage passed through the outer districts, where noble estates stood proudly, each boasting wealth and prestige. But as they continued, the surroundings changed. Towering stone walls marked the beginning of Throndsen territory, yet the real border wasn't made of stone. It was the sheer scale of land itself.
They moved into dense woodlands, where ancient trees loomed like sentinels, their thick canopies casting shifting shadows over the path. Sunlight barely cut through, and the quiet was broken only by the occasional call of unseen birds. It felt… unclaimed, untouched by the common world.
Except it wasn't. It all belonged to his family.
Arlon sighed, tilting his head slightly with a weary expression.
The sheer absurdity of it never failed to get to him. Did they really need this much land?
This wasn't just an estate—it was practically its own territory. For anyone unfamiliar, the endless stretch of forest would feel more like venturing into some forgotten realm rather than approaching a noble's home. But for those who understood the Throndsen family's influence, this was merely another statement of their presence. A quiet, suffocating reminder that their power ran deeper than politics alone.
When they finally broke free from the dense woods, the true scale of the estate revealed itself.
It was ridiculous.
Arlon barely reacted as the massive estate came into view—a sprawling fortress of grandeur, built not just for comfort but as a testament to dominance.
The Throndsen family was too much.
The sheer scale of the estate was overwhelming—an architectural marvel designed not just for luxury, but to command. From the moment the iron-forged main gate came into view, it was clear that this wasn't just a noble's home—it was a fortress of influence.
Beyond the towering gate, sprawling gardens stretched across the land, meticulously maintained down to the last leaf. The grand courtyard, paved with polished stone, gleamed under the afternoon sun, leading the eye toward the massive mansion that loomed in the distance.
As the carriage rolled to a stop before the entrance, the guards stationed at the gates immediately stiffened. Their hands instinctively tightened on their weapons, their sharp gazes sweeping over the vehicle with practiced vigilance. But the moment they caught sight of the insignia emblazoned on the carriage, their rigid stance shifted.
A single voice cut through the stillness.
"The Young Lord has arrived!"
The gates creaked as they swung open, iron scraping against stone in a slow, drawn-out protest, welcoming its heir home. The carriage passed through without pause, gliding down the pristine pathway leading to the mansion's main entrance. By the time it came to a halt, a line of uniformed guards and neatly dressed servants had already assembled, standing in rigid formation.
Every movement was precise. Every step is measured.
When Arlon stepped out, the reaction was immediate.
A ripple of murmurs passed through the gathered servants and guards, though none dared to speak outright. Their gazes flickered toward him—quick, discreet, yet filled with expectation.
And then there was Ace—perched lazily on Arlon's shoulder, the black cat stretched, his tail flicking in amusement, completely unfazed by the grand welcome. His red eyes swept over the bowing figures, whiskers twitching with what could only be described as mild superiority.
"Heh. You'd think they were greeting a king," Ace mused, his voice carrying only to Arlon. "Try not to let it get to your head, 'Young Lord.'"
Arlon sighed. "If I had a choice, I wouldn't even be here."
"Welcome, Young Lord." The senior butler stepped forward, bowing deeply.
As if rehearsed, the rest of the staff followed suit, their voices ringing in perfect unison.
"Welcome to the capital, Young Lord."
Arlon barely managed to suppress another sigh.
I need a break already.