The cold wind howled through the valley, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth as Lord Edwin Everest rode eastward, his destination clear—the towering stronghold of Castle Valtoria. It had been too long since he had last seen its stone walls. Too long since he had last seen his wife, Lady Merlyn, his son, Edmund, and his little daughter, Alana.
He was not alone in his journey. A formidable escort rode alongside him, a combined force from both Valtoria and Faelthrone. The passing of Lord Serdoff Brisbane had left a power vacuum in the southwestern province of Spearhead, and Edwin had stayed in Faelthrone for months, ensuring a smooth transition of power to Serdoff's young heir, Lorthan Brisbane, who, at only fifteen, had inherited great responsibility.
Now, with Lorthan seated as lord, Edwin's presence was no longer required. It was time to return home.
Riding at his right was Sir Callagher Tombstone, the Knight of Two Swords, a seasoned warrior whose very name carried weight across the North. He was not just a knight of Valtoria—he was also the elder brother of Sir Roak Tombstone, the Captain Instructor of the new recruits back at the castle.
To Edwin's left rode Sir Frank Gallilea, a knight of ancient blood. His family had once ruled the northernmost reaches of the Frozen Sea before pledging loyalty to the Everests. The Gallileas were known for their unshakable discipline and their resilience against the bitter cold. Frank was no different.
Behind them, a company of Valtorian knights rode in perfect formation, their black and silver armor gleaming under the pale sun. Their presence was a silent yet powerful reminder of Valtoria's strength.
But they were not the only ones.
At the rear of the column, soldiers of Faelthrone marched in disciplined ranks, their sigil—a golden spear over a storm-gray field—proudly displayed on their banners. These were Lord Serdoff Brisbane's men, entrusted with escorting Edwin safely to the borders of their domain. Though they would not enter Valtorian lands, their presence was a gesture of respect and loyalty.
One of Faelthrone's captains, a broad-shouldered man with a heavy fur cloak, rode up to Edwin's side. "My lord, we will ride with you until we reach the Frostbane Pass. From there, you will have the full protection of your own men."
Edwin inclined his head. "Your service is appreciated. I will not forget it."
The captain nodded before falling back to his position.
The road stretched long before them, winding through the foothills of the Ironfang Mountains, where danger lurked in the shadows. Bandits. Mercenaries. Desperate men who cared little for loyalty or honor.
But none would dare strike a force such as this.
Edwin exhaled, his breath visible in the cold air. "It has been too long since I last saw Valtoria," he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else.
Sir Callagher glanced at him with a knowing expression. "The castle will stand as it always has, my lord. But I imagine Lady Merlyn will have much to say about your prolonged absence."
Edwin allowed himself a small chuckle. "That, I do not doubt."
Sir Frank, ever the measured voice, spoke next. "Your absence has been keenly felt, my lord. However, Lord Edmund has served in your stead with great diligence. By all accounts, he has done well in leading the recruitment efforts."
A flicker of pride passed through Edwin's expression. His son, Edmund—not just a boy anymore, but a man proving himself. "Then he is becoming the leader I hoped he would be."
"He carries himself well," Callagher added respectfully. "The men speak highly of him."
Edwin nodded, his thoughts turning from duty to something far more personal.
Alana.
His little girl. Seven years old, wild, and endlessly curious. Unlike Edmund, who had been raised under the weight of duty, Alana was still untouched by the harsh realities of rulership.
Whenever he received letters from Lady Merlyn, she would always include snippets about Alana—how she had suddenly taken an interest in swordplay (to the dismay of her tutors), how she had learned new words and misused them with confidence, how she had once again snuck into the training yard despite the guards' best efforts to keep her out.
He smiled to himself. She must have caused quite a ruckus while I was away.
"A thought on your mind, my lord?" Sir Callagher inquired.
"Alana," Edwin admitted with a chuckle. "I expect she has grown even wilder in my absence."
Sir Frank allowed himself a rare smile. "Lady Alana has the spirit of an Everest, without a doubt. The castle has not known a moment of peace since you left."
Edwin sighed, but his heart swelled with warmth. He had missed her terribly. Missed the way she would climb onto his lap uninvited while he worked. Missed how she would demand bedtime stories of great warriors. Missed how she would giggle as she slipped past the castle guards on her latest adventure.
"I should prepare myself, then," he mused. "No doubt she has devised some new scheme to test my patience the moment I step through the gates."
Callagher chuckled. "That is likely, my lord."
Edwin's gaze turned eastward, where the road stretched toward the unseen walls of Castle Valtoria.
Soon, he would be home.
The night was thick with the scent of damp earth and pine as Lord Edwin Everest and his entourage rode through the forested path between Faelthrone and Valtoria. The torches flickered, casting long shadows on the twisted trees that lined the road. The air was heavy with tension, though none spoke of it.
Then it came. A whistle in the dark. An arrow shot out of nowhere and struck one of the Faelthrone soldiers in the throat. A strangled gurgle was all he could manage before falling off his horse, lifeless.
"AMBUSH!" bellowed Sir Callagher Tombstone, his twin swords gleaming as he unsheathed them. Sir Frank Gallilea, beside him, drew his heavy greatsword, his face as cold as the Frozen Sea his family hailed from. The Valtoria and Faelthrone soldiers quickly formed a defensive perimeter around Lord Edwin, weapons raised, shields locked.
From the darkness, figures emerged—ragged, masked men with crude weapons, their eyes gleaming with hunger and desperation. The Brotherhood of No Sigil had come for blood.
"Well, well…" A voice slithered through the night, smooth yet filled with menace. A tall man, cloaked in black, stepped forward. "Lord Edwin Everest himself, riding with his golden knights. A shame you travel with so much wealth and so little caution."
Sir Callagher spat. "You lot never learn, do you? We've put your kind down before."
The leader of the Brotherhood chuckled. "Then you'll enjoy doing it again. KILL THEM ALL!"
Chaos erupted. The forest became a battlefield of steel and screams. Sir Callagher moved like a storm, his twin swords flashing in deadly arcs, cutting through the brigands like a reaper through wheat. He severed an arm, then a leg, then drove a blade straight through a man's chest, twisting cruelly before pulling it free.
Sir Frank fought like an avalanche, each swing of his greatsword crushing bones and splitting skulls. He parried a rusted axe and drove his pommel into the attacker's face, shattering teeth and nose before cleaving his head clean off.
The Brotherhood fought like cornered rats, dirty and vicious. One lunged at a Faelthrone soldier with a dagger, stabbing him repeatedly in the gut before being impaled by another knight. Blood slicked the forest floor as more bodies fell.
Lord Edwin barely moved. A masked brigand rushed at him, blade raised, but before he could strike, Edwin side-stepped smoothly and let the fool impale himself on his own momentum against the Lord's dagger. He wrenched it free, blood dripping onto his gloves, his expression unbothered.
"Sloppy," Edwin murmured, wiping his blade on the dead man's tunic.
A Brotherhood member swung wildly at him from behind, only for Sir Callagher to intercept with a brutal slash across the attacker's throat. Blood sprayed like a fountain as the man gurgled and collapsed.
"Stay sharp, my Lord," Callagher grunted, deflecting another attack. "Wouldn't want you getting a scratch."
"How considerate," Edwin said dryly.
The battle raged on, the night filled with screams and steel meeting flesh. One of the Brotherhood members, missing an eye and with a wicked grin, attempted to flee, but Sir Frank hurled his dagger, catching the man in the back of the skull. He fell like a puppet with its strings cut.
Finally, silence. The Brotherhood of No Sigil lay scattered, their bodies broken and lifeless. Blood soaked the earth, and the air reeked of iron and death.
Sir Callagher wiped his swords clean and looked around. "Bastards never stood a chance."
Sir Frank cracked his neck. "They never do."
Lord Edwin sighed, inspecting his coat. A small drop of blood had splattered onto his sleeve. He clicked his tongue in mild annoyance.
"A waste of time," he muttered. "Let's move before more of these vermin crawl out of their holes."
The last screams of the Brotherhood of No Sigil faded into the cold night, replaced by the crackling of dying torches and the heavy breaths of battle-worn men. Blood soaked the earth, dark and glistening under the moonlight. The corpses of the brigands lay strewn across the road, twisted and broken like discarded dolls.
Sir Callagher Tombstone wiped his twin blades clean on a fallen foe's tattered cloak, his expression unreadable. Sir Frank Gallilea sheathed his sword with a sigh, surveying the scene with the sharp gaze of a man who had seen far too much death.
Lord Edwin Everest stood untouched, his armor splattered with blood that was not his own. His eyes, cold as the northern winds, swept over the battlefield before settling on the surviving Faelthrone soldiers. Many of them were wounded, some leaning on their comrades, others barely standing.
The Faelthrone captain stepped forward, his face pale from blood loss. "My Lord, we... we did not expect such resistance."
Edwin studied him, then the rest of the men. "You fought well, but your duty is not here anymore."
The captain frowned. "What do you mean, my Lord?"
Edwin exhaled slowly, sheathing his sword. "Take the wounded and return to Faelthrone. You have done your part."
Murmurs rippled through the remaining soldiers. One of them, a younger man with a bandaged arm, shook his head. "But we swore to see you safely to Valtoria—"
"And you will not do that if you drop dead on the road," Sir Callagher cut in, his tone sharp.
The captain hesitated, looking between Edwin and his knights. "My Lord, I beg you to reconsider. You are our responsibility."
Sir Frank stepped closer, his voice softer but firm. "Lord Edwin has us. You have your men to worry about. Do not let pride cloud your judgment."
For a moment, the captain clenched his jaw, unwilling to leave his lord behind. But then, he looked at his men—their wounds, their exhaustion. If they continued, they would slow Edwin down. Worse, they might not make it at all.
Finally, with great reluctance, he bowed. "As you command, my Lord." He turned to his men. "We return home. Gather the fallen, leave nothing behind."
The Faelthrone soldiers moved quickly, retrieving their wounded and securing what supplies they could. Before they left, the captain cast one last glance at Edwin.
"May the North watch over you, my Lord."
Edwin gave a slight nod. "And may it guide you home."
As the soldiers disappeared into the darkness, the road fell silent once more. Edwin turned to his knights, his expression unreadable.
"Let us move," he said at last. "We still have a long journey ahead."
And with that, the Lord of Valtoria and his knights pressed onward into the night.
The journey to Cliff Hangar had been arduous, but as Lord Edwin's company neared the towering stronghold of Cliffland, the air grew warmer, the bite of winter less cruel than in the northern reaches of Valtoria. The banners of House Clifford flapped proudly from the battlements, their golden sigils stark against the stone walls. As the company approached, the gates creaked open, and a welcoming party awaited.
Lord Aster Clifford stood at the forefront, his crimson and gold cloak swaying in the wind. His sharp features softened with a practiced smile as he spread his arms in greeting.
"Edwin, my dear friend, the North has been far too dull without you," Aster greeted, his voice as smooth as aged wine. He approached with a confidence that bordered on theatrical, clasping Edwin's forearm with an enthusiasm that belied his shrewd nature. "Come, let us not linger in the cold. You and your men must be weary."
Edwin offered a cordial nod, noting how Aster's eyes flickered toward the injured among his ranks. "Your hospitality is most welcome, Aster," he said. "Some of my men are in need of care."
"Say no more," Aster declared. He snapped his fingers, and his attendants rushed forward. "Have the wounded tended to immediately! My hall is your hall, and my healers are at your service."
As they moved into the grand hall of Cliffland, the warmth of the hearths and the scent of roasted meats enveloped them. Goblets of wine were swiftly placed into their hands, and the tension of travel began to ease.
"You must be starving," Aster said, guiding Edwin to a place of honor at the long table. "But before we dine, I must introduce you to my pride and joy."
He clapped his hands, and from the side doors emerged a peculiar procession—his adopted children, his so-called 'Golden Generation.' There were six of them, each more bizarre than the last.
"This is Samuel," Aster began, gesturing toward a lanky young man who bowed deeply but nearly tripped over his own feet. "A keen mind for numbers. Well, sometimes."
"Leo," Aster continued, presenting a broad-shouldered youth with a perpetually confused expression. "Strong as an ox. Smarter than one? That is debatable."
"This is Claude," he said, motioning toward a thin boy with shifty eyes. "A natural with a dagger, though he tends to lose them."
As he continued the introductions, the assembled knights struggled to maintain straight faces. One of the boys, a redheaded lad named Tobias, absentmindedly picked his nose while another, Peter, sneezed directly onto the back of Aster's cloak.
Aster inhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. "They have potential," he said through gritted teeth. "With the right guidance."
Edwin, sensing his friend's frustration, smirked. "You always had a keen eye for talent."
Aster sighed, running a hand through his hair. "That I do. They just need a firm hand. And possibly a miracle."
The room erupted in laughter, and the tension of the road fully melted away into the evening's revelry.
Lord Edwin sat at the long, polished table in the grand dining hall of Cliffland Castle. Across from him, Lord Aster Clifford lounged comfortably, sipping a deep red wine from a finely crafted goblet. Candles flickered, casting a warm glow over the rich feast laid out before them—roast venison, spiced stews, and freshly baked bread still warm from the ovens. The aroma was enticing, but the atmosphere was not as refined as the setting suggested.
Seated around them, the so-called "Golden Generation"—Lord Aster's adopted children—dug into their meals with enthusiasm that bordered on savagery. One boy gnawed on a leg of lamb, grease dripping down his chin, while another slurped loudly at his soup. A girl, no older than twelve, stabbed a whole fish with her knife and tore into it with her teeth, ignoring the utensils laid beside her plate. The youngest among them, a red-haired boy, reached across the table with bare hands to grab a honeyed fig, knocking over a goblet of wine in the process.
Lord Edwin, ever composed, did not let his discomfort show, though he made a mental note to take smaller bites and focus his gaze elsewhere. Lord Aster, for his part, seemed unfazed. Instead, he laughed heartily, clapping one of the boys on the back.
"Eat, eat! You lot train all day—you need the strength!" he said, his voice filled with indulgent amusement. "Besides, who needs fine manners when you have skill on the battlefield?"
Edwin took a measured sip of wine, suppressing the urge to sigh. "Discipline comes in many forms, Lord Aster. Even at the table."
Aster smirked. "Ah, but I prefer my soldiers to be wild in spirit. Tame them too much, and they lose their fire."
One of the boys, perhaps emboldened by Aster's words, spoke up with his mouth half full. "Lord Edwin, is it true that in Valtoria, they make you eat like ladies? Napkins and all?"
Another snorted, barely swallowing his food before laughing. "Bet they even drink their soup without making a sound!"
Lord Edwin finally placed his goblet down, smiling politely. "In Valtoria, we understand that how a man carries himself at the table reflects how he carries himself in war. A soldier who lacks restraint in one place often lacks it elsewhere."
The table fell into an awkward silence, save for the distant crackling of the hearth. Even Lord Aster seemed momentarily at a loss for words. Then, after a brief pause, he let out a booming laugh and raised his cup.
"Well said, my friend! Let us drink to our differences, then. To Valtoria's discipline and Cliff Hangar's wild heart!"
The hall erupted in cheers as goblets clinked together. The meal resumed with just as much chaos, but at least now, Lord Edwin had made his stance clear.
"Ah, my dear Edwin," Aster finally spoke, setting his goblet down and adjusting the extravagant fur-lined coat draped over his shoulders. "You must understand how thrilled I am to host you here at Cliffland. It has been far too long since we've had the pleasure of your company."
Edwin inclined his head politely. "Your hospitality is generous as always, Aster."
Aster chuckled, swirling his wine. "Well, what kind of friend would I be if I didn't ensure your comfort after such a long journey? And speaking of friendship…" He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice just enough to create an air of secrecy. "I was hoping to discuss a little matter of trade routes with you."
Edwin remained expressionless. "Go on."
Aster sighed dramatically, feigning exasperation. "You see, dear Edwin, the issue of taxation through Lord Bentle's lands has been quite the burden on my merchants. Cliff Hangar thrives on trade, as you know, yet Bentle—dear, rigid Bentle—insists on levying fees that cut deep into our profits. If, perhaps, you could… facilitate an exemption for my merchants, allowing them to pass unburdened, it would be a great relief. And, naturally, I would ensure that Valtoria sees its fair share of the benefits."
Edwin set his goblet down with deliberate care. "Lord Bentle's taxation is well within his right as the ruler of his domain. It is a system that maintains balance, and I do not interfere lightly with the affairs of my bannermen."
Aster clicked his tongue, shaking his head with an amused smirk. "Oh, Edwin, always so proper. Always so… bound to the rules. But surely there is room for negotiation? After all, what is power if not the ability to shape the world to one's favor?" He gestured grandly with his jeweled fingers. "Bentle is a man of war, not commerce. He wouldn't understand the intricate dance of trade as we do."
Edwin met his gaze, unwavering. "Bentle's lands are his to govern, just as yours are yours. I will not make an enemy of one bannerman to favor another."
Aster sighed again, but this time with exaggerated disappointment. "So cold, so distant… You wound me, my friend." He pressed a hand to his chest as if genuinely heartbroken, then flashed Edwin a playful smile. "But I understand. You are, after all, a man of principle. And that is precisely why I respect you."
Edwin inclined his head slightly, knowing the conversation was far from over. Aster Clifford was not the kind to give up easily. The only question was how far he was willing to push before Edwin would have to remind him where his loyalties truly lay.
As Lord Edwin lay in his chambers, the muffled sounds of revelry seeped through the stone walls. He had anticipated a restless night, but he had not expected this—a debauched gathering of Lord Aster and his Golden Sons, their laughter and indulgence echoing through the corridors of Cliffland Castle.
He exhaled sharply, gripping the edge of his blanket. His patience was being tested, but he knew better than to act rashly. Lord Aster was an important bannerman, and despite his eccentricities, his loyalty was not something to discard lightly. Edwin would not confront him here, in his own domain, where his influence was strongest.
Instead, a plan took shape in his mind. He would extend an invitation to Lord Aster to visit Valtoria under the pretense of discussing trade agreements. There, away from his comforts and distractions, Edwin would steer the conversation toward matters of propriety and diplomacy. In his own castle, surrounded by his own men, he would dictate the terms.
With that resolution, he forced himself to shut his eyes, ignoring the unsettling sounds in the distance. Tomorrow, he would play the long game, as he always did.