Those who escaped the nightmare that engulfed the lands of House Seawright were both the fortunate... and the damned.
They had fled burning homes, fields twisted and corrupted by raw elemental forces, terrifying giants striding out from swirling mists of chaos, and left behind friends and family who perished amidst it all. Even after reaching the supposed safety of Valewatch, even under the protection of knights and soldiers, the survivors could not shed their fear — not even for a moment.
Even the soldiers in armor slept poorly, if they slept at all.
Most turned to drink to numb their minds. The poorest — who couldn't even afford cheap ale — simply endured their waking nightmares, hollow-eyed and trembling.
And life as a refugee — in this age, on another lord's soil — was harsh beyond words. Little wonder, then, that discipline among the soldiers frayed daily. Ser Philip struggled just to keep regular reports coming in, let alone maintain any semblance of order.
But now, the heir of Seawright had returned. And she had brought with her a support far mightier than any of them could have dreamed.
Outside the walls of Valewatch, Rebecca Seawright stood before a small gathering of her people. They wore rags and bore the look of the half-starved — not because Viscount Andrew had been cruel (on the contrary, his charity far exceeded what one could expect of a nobleman), but because this world offered precious little mercy even on its best days.
Still, the mere sight of a "lord" — their lord — was enough to spark hope in the hearts of the survivors.
In this time, peasants did not possess deep loyalty, nor keen political awareness. Many had never even seen the young Lady Seawright before now. But centuries of feudal rule had trained them well: the one who stood in front and claimed them as their own was to be followed, believed in — for better or worse.
Gwayne, watching from nearby, felt a complicated tangle of emotions. It was a crude cohesion born of ignorance, perhaps... But it was still cohesion, and that was what mattered now.
The crowd gathered here was small — most of the survivors remained in Valewatch, working odd jobs for food, guarding salvaged belongings, or simply clinging to survival.
Rebecca, clutching the edges of her cloak, tried to find the words to address them... and failed. So she turned to Ser Philip.
"These people are in your care now," she said quietly. "Until we return — see to it that none are lost."
The young knight snapped to attention, thumping a fist to his chest. "Upon my honor, I swear it! I will guard every man, woman, and child belonging to House Seawright — and every scrap of their possessions!"
Gwayne, standing by, added his own instruction: "And don't forget the other task, Ser Philip. Lord Viscount will aid you. Find every clever tongue, every quick pair of legs — pay what you must. Their work is far more valuable than gold."
Sir Philip stiffened, clearly baffled. "Are those tasks truly so important, my lord?"
Gwayne chuckled. "Small in appearance, grand in effect. What you call rumors, we call public opinion. And public opinion can make even a king lose sleep."
When the final arrangements were made, Gwayne and Rebecca climbed into a carriage provided by Viscount Andrew. Joining them were the ever-loyal Ser Byron, the bumbling but good-hearted maid Betty, the slippery rogue Amber, and a retinue of twelve Seawright household soldiers — a modest but respectable force, considering their dire circumstances.
Hestia — level-headed, practical Hestia — had been left behind to manage the remaining survivors.
Now she stood at the carriage door, clutching Rebecca's hand, unable to hide her worry: "Remember who you are," she urged. "Uphold the honor of House Seawright, but do not quarrel with the court nobles. Be respectful before His Majesty, and mind the customs. And for the gods' sake, do not throw fireballs when you get angry — the capital is not like the countryside! If you don't understand something, ask for advice — from Lord Gwayne, or Ser Byron. Every word you speak will be weighed a thousand times over. Most of all... listen to your ancestor. He knows how to deal with nobles."
Standing stiffly by the carriage, Gwayne couldn't help feeling a heavy weight settle in his chest.
Because truthfully... he didn't know anything.
The real Gwayne Seawright had died young, when Andraste was still a kingdom of rough pioneer-kings who drank like fish and brawled openly at court. He knew nothing of the delicate etiquette, the labyrinthine politicking of this new age.
Still, for Hestia's sake, he gave a firm, reassuring nod. "Don't worry. I understand."
And so, under her hopeful smile, the carriage carrying the clueless heir and the equally clueless ancestor rolled out toward the distant royal capital of Solis Ardent.
Meanwhile, back in Valewatch, Ser Philip set the next part of Gwayne's plan into motion.
Following orders, he sent out a number of agents — sharp-eyed locals and hired wanderers alike, many little better than street toughs or con artists. Philip found the dealings unpleasant, but he honored his lord's command.
These men and women scattered like seeds across the Southlands.
Their task was simple — and strange: Spread the story.
They infiltrated taverns, huddled into market stalls, slipped into the reeking shanties of the poor. And everywhere they went, they talked: "Did you hear? Down south, the Seawrights' lands were destroyed by monsters — and a dragon! Even the dead stirred in their graves! The legendary ancestor of House Seawright — Gwayne Seawright himself — has returned from the long sleep to save his bloodline!"
They told it with wide eyes and solemn nods, as if they had seen it with their own two eyes.
And those who hadn't heard... soon spread the story themselves, adding new embellishments:
In the legends growing by the day, no fewer than a thousand witnesses had watched Gwayne Seawright rise from his tomb, and another ten thousand had seen the heavens split with light above his grave.
But no scholar or court mage bothered to gather up the whispers of the gutter. The smallfolk, eager for wonder, seized upon the tale with both hands.
Inside the rocking carriage bound for Solis Ardent, Gwayne gazed out the window at the passing landscape.
He thought deeply about how best to face the king who awaited him in the Silver Citadel.
Would the story he set in motion truly make a difference?
Honestly, Gwayne wasn't sure. Maybe he had only a 30% chance — or less.
This world was a strange paradox. Magic existed and made miracles seem commonplace, but it remained the privilege of a select few. The masses still lived in staggering poverty, ignorance, and fear.
Communication between towns was painfully slow. A rumor could race through a tavern in a night, but carrying that rumor across miles of wilderness and lord-guarded borders could take months.
Even moving a chicken across a noble's fief without permission could see a peasant hanged.
Seawright's alliance with Viscount Andrew of House Lescaille had opened some doors — but not all.
Still, effort was better than apathy.
The goal was simple: Make "the awakening of Gwayne Seawright" an unstoppable tide of rumor — not merely whispered among the noble courts, but roaring through the mouths of commoners.
If it could grow, mutating into ghost stories and tavern songs, so much the better.
Gwayne didn't care what absurdities got added. He only cared that the world believed.
That when he and Rebecca reached Solis Ardent, they would already be walking in the wake of a legend too large for even a king to easily deny.