The carriage rolled steadily through the town, its wheels humming softly against the stone roads.
Outside, the world passed in slow motion.
Alaric kept his gaze on the window, watching it all with quiet detachment, his expression unreadable.
Opposite him, Selene sat poised and still, hands folded over her lap. A faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips, though she said nothing.
Hours slipped by in near silence, broken only by the occasional groan of the carriage frame and the muffled clip-clop of the horses.
Eventually, Alaric shifted slightly, turning his head toward her. "How much longer do we have to travel Milady?"
Selene’s eyes flicked to him, and she spoke in a calm voice. "We’ll be there in a couple more hours. Just a bit past the river bend."
He gave a simple nod and leaned back.
But then Selene tilted her head slightly, her tone shifted light but deliberate. "You remember what I told you, don’t you?"
Before he could answer, she raised a hand gently. "Mm. No need. I’ll go over it again in case anything slipped through your head."
Alaric raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Her tone grew a touch more serious as she continued, "The meeting will take place in Valemont Hall. It’s where the eastern nobles and key officials gather every few months to share intelligence, disputes, trade reports and few other political matters."
She adjusted a fold in her cloak. "Some of them are allies. Some of them aren’t. Many are curious, but mostly they are just group of vultures."
Alaric gave a slight hum at that.
She leaned in, voice low. "You’ll need to watch yourself. Don’t offer names. And don’t speak of your origins. If they press, let me handle it. I’ve already crafted a version of you that suits their expectations."
He looked at her, half amused. "And what version is that?"
Her smile returned, this time with a hint of mischief. "Well, you’ll have to find out yourself."
Alaric raised a brow, to which Selene smirked, "Just think of this kind of a mysterious retainer. Strong, silent, and loyal to me alone."
Alaric just gave her a look but didn’t spoke, and then with a faint nod, he turned his eyes back to the window, and the carriage rolled on toward the horizon.
Couple of hours passed and the carriage finally slowed down, the sound of its wheels dulling against the stone-paved courtyard.
Through the window, Alaric glimpsed the estate with tall iron gates, a modest but elegant hall wrapped in ivy, and guards dressed in deep green and bronze.
The building stood at the edge of the inner town, neither too lavish to stir envy, nor too plain to ignore. Just the kind of place where barons and appointed officials met to argue over borders, taxes, and old bloodlines.
Inside, Selene reached up and undid the clasp of her cloak.
The green fabric slid off her shoulders like water, revealing the dress beneath.
Midnight silk clung to her form, lined with faint patterns embroidered in dark emerald thread that shimmered only when the light caught it just right.
A thin silver chain circled her throat, bearing a single green gem nestled above her collarbone, and a matching pair of earrings peeked out from behind her raven-black hair.
Outside, a maid stepped forward and opened the carriage door with a shallow bow.
Alaric rose first, pulling his hood up as instructed, and stepped out.
Behind him, Selene stood at the threshold.
He turned and extended a hand.
She accepted it with a soft, unreadable smile, her gloved fingers briefly brushing his as she descended from the carriage.
Then the maid bowed deeper this time, and spoke in a steady voice.
"Welcome, Baroness of Blackthorn."
Selene just gave her a faint nod.
Sari descended next, her boots landing with a soft thud beside Alaric. The carriage behind them rolled away with a creak of wheels, guided by the coachman toward the line of parked carriages under the watch of uniformed attendants.
The maid who had greeted them bowed once more and gestured with an outstretched arm.
"This way, my lady."
Selene gave the faintest nod and began walking, her heels clicking softly on the stone.
Alaric followed just a step behind her. As they stepped onto the stone path, he glanced over his shoulder.
More carriages were pulling up behind theirs. A nobleman stepped out of one, adjusting his cloak with a practiced sweep.
Another, older, was helped down by a pair of stewards.
The building ahead loomed with quiet menace.
Not a palace, not quite a fortress, but something in between.
A council hall meant for business, not beauty.
Thick stone walls rose around them, draped in the flags of Eastern houses.
The gate stood open, guards in black-lacquered armor flanking its sides. Their helms didn’t turn, but Alaric could feel their eyes tracking every step.
They entered into a grand corridor, long, arched, and chilled with the stillness of old stone.
The floors were polished to a dull gleam, echoing faintly beneath their steps.
Tall windows let in the light, filtering through sheer banners bearing crests in gold, crimson, and ash-grey.
Braziers lined the hall, burning low with scented oil, filling the air with a faint trace of cedar and smoke.
Sari paused just before the main hall’s towering double doors, her steps slowing as Selene and Alaric moved ahead.
She glanced toward the guards stationed outside the chamber, men with the insignia of House Valtair engraved over their breastplates, then took a quiet breath and stepped to the side.
"I’ll wait here," she murmured to Selene, who gave her a subtle nod without breaking stride.
Alaric followed close behind as they entered the council chamber.
The air inside was warmer, but heavier.
A long, oval table of dark oak stretched down the center of the room, large enough to seat over thirty.
Cushioned chairs wrapped around it, many already occupied by lords, councilors, and high-ranking retainers.
Men in ornate robes, women in understated but finely tailored dresses, some with signet rings glinting as they tapped fingers or held quills.
Scrolls, inkpots, ledgers, and stamped folios were scattered across the table like tools of war.
At the far end, beneath a wide arched window, sat a middle-aged man, with silver-threaded black hair slicked back neatly, revealing a high forehead.
His face was carved in stone, broad-cheeked, clean-shaven, with deep-set grey eyes that gave away nothing.
Not warmth, not irritation. Just a stillness that watched and measured.
He wore a heavy dark cloak draped over one shoulder, clasped by a gold fang-shaped brooch, the sigil of House Valtair.
Underneath, his tunic was midnight blue, lined with fine embroidery only visible when the light caught it just right.
Count Casten Valtair.