The knight Roran had dispatched reached the manor gates minutes ahead of the group. Dust kicked up from the path as his steed came to a sharp halt.
Two manor guards lounging near the entrance stood abruptly, eyes narrowing. One of them—a wiry man with a crooked nose—gripped his spear and stepped forward. "Halt! State your business!"
The knight didn’t even slow. "Step aside."
The other guard scowled. "You deaf? We said halt—"
Before the words could finish, the knight was already dismounting. His boots hit the stone with a solid thud, and his hand flicked his cloak aside to reveal a insignia on his breastplate.
But it wasn’t just the emblem that gave the guards pause.
It was the way he moved.
In a blink, the young knight closed the distance, and with one hand, he shoved the guard’s spear aside and grabbed the front of his armor. The man stumbled, nearly falling back onto the stone step.
"I said step aside," the knight repeated, voice calm but with steel behind every syllable. "Your new lord rides behind me. If you value your jobs, I suggest you open the damn gate."
The other guard, more experienced perhaps, recognized the tone—and the unmistakable weight of a trained soldier. They couldn’t even dream of matching someone like him.
He stepped back quickly, knocking on the heavy doors behind him. "Open the gates! Now!"
The commotion drew attention inside the manor. Moments later, hurried footsteps echoed through the front corridor.
The doors creaked open.
Head Maid Isolde appeared first, her sharp eyes narrowing as she took in the scene. Her hands were still dusted with flour from the kitchens, but her posture was as rigid as a spear.
Steward Helmric followed more slowly, wiping wine from his chin with a lace handkerchief. His robe was still rumpled from lounging. "What’s all this noise?" he demanded.
The knight released the guard and turned smoothly toward them. He dropped to one knee, fist to chest.
"Knight of Viscount Mic," he said. "Lord Mic of House Nor approaches. Prepare the manor. He will be here in minutes."
Isolde’s eyes widened. "He’s here? Already?"
Helmric scoffed. "Impossible. We would’ve been informed days in advance."
The knight looked up, unfazed. "That was your notice. And I don’t believe you’ve not been told to prepare before this right?"
Helmric’s face darkened. "Why would the new viscount sneak in like some street rat? Doesn’t he know how this is done?"
"He knows exactly how it’s done," the knight said coldly. "And he chose otherwise."
The doors groaned wider as more servants peeked from the halls. Murmurs began to ripple through the interior.
Some of them did not even know they’d received a new lord.
Isolde didn’t wait for orders. She spun on her heel. "Get the hall clean. Now. Remove the wine jugs. Replace the banners. Scrub the floors if you must—move!"
Servants scattered at her barked commands.
Helmric still looked stunned, frozen in place.
The knight rose smoothly, voice lowering to a murmur as he passed the steward. "You had time and wasted it, old man. That time ends now."
Helmric’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing.
Not because he didn’t want to—but because he’d seen something in the knight’s eyes.
One not given lightly.
Even before reaching the manor gates, his [Telepathy] had picked up the voices echoing from within—the startled cries of servants, the barked commands of the head maid, and the irritated, wine-slurred grumblings of Steward Helmric.
But it wasn’t just the words.
Through the network of minds within his range, Michael felt the panic. The disarray. The sudden scramble as the household tried to make itself presentable in mere minutes. A frantic chorus of thoughts played in his mind.
—"Why is the head maid shouting? Who’s coming?"
—"Where did I put the damn house banner?!"
—"New lord? We have a new lord?!"
And it wasn’t just the servants.
Helmric’s thoughts, sluggish and agitated, seeped into the edge of Michael’s awareness like rancid oil.
—"Blasted knight. Should’ve sent notice. Damn the Duke. This isn’t how things are done."
—"What does he think—parading in like some upstart hero? Should’ve rotted in the capital like the others."
Michael frown tightened.
Before, he’d given Helmric the benefit of the doubt. Maybe the man was overwhelmed, maybe there were external forces at play, maybe there were things he didn’t understand.
The steward was at least at fault for all what he had seen and was still seeing.
Michael’s eyes narrowed.
He reached out further with his awareness, brushing the minds within the manor walls. The staff... many were frightened. A few loyal. But more than he liked were indifferent—tired and jaded from months of mismanagement. Some even shared Helmric’s quiet scorn, though they masked it better.
Michael’s lips thinned.
This wouldn’t be a gentle clean-up.
He looked up just as the manor’s tall spires came fully into view. The escort line was climbing the final bend in the road, hooves crunching against loose gravel and moss-covered cobblestone.
Roran glanced his way. "We’ll be there in moments."
"I know," Michael murmured.
Roran looked confused, but said nothing.
Michael didn’t explain.
Just ahead, the gates to the manor had already been thrown open.
The servants stood at awkward attention in the courtyard. A few looked like they’d only just thrown on aprons. Others clutched brooms and mops like weapons. The banners above the entrance had been replaced hastily—creased, one even upside-down.
Michael’s party emerged from the shadowed path and into the wide courtyard, sunlight spilling over polished armor and gleaming saddles.
Dozens of soldiers rode their horses, disciplined and sharp.
A ripple passed through the servants. Some stepped back. Others dropped into bows, too shallow or too slow. Isolde stood stiffly at the foot of the steps, eyes sharp, hands folded tight behind her back.
Helmric, however, did not bow.