Gunnar’s group had only just set out when new orders arrived, halting the march and stirring confused murmurs among the soldiers. The ranker they'd seen earlier now rode at the head of the formation — or at least, she was the most visible figure of leadership. Behind her rolled a closed, luxurious carriage flanked by two other rankers. Someone important was inside. That much was obvious.

  Alongside the soldiers marched adventurers, distinguishable by their more practical clothing, varied gear, and an air of independence that clashed with the military's rigidity. Jeliel, Alek, and Darrek were among them.

  Gunnar stayed near the faces he knew: Tolvad, Beric, Torden, and the boys from his village. At one point, he showed off his wooden badge — his adventurer’s insignia — which made Torden glance disapprovingly at Tolvad.

  “You could’ve taken us to that association instead of just making us train all day,” he grumbled.

  Tolvad blushed visibly, scratching his neck.

  “I didn’t even know it existed…” he mumbled, not very convincingly.

  Beric, on the other hand, lit up when Gunnar mentioned being used as a literal punching bag during the entrance test — by an actual ranker.

  “For real? A real ranker?” he said, eyes sparkling.

  “A bronze one,” Gunnar replied, shrugging, as if still feeling the bruise in his ribs.

  Beric fell into a dreamy silence, until another boy exaggeratedly mimicked his sighing, drawing laughter from the group.

  Further along the road, a man from another city walking beside the formation mentioned that Bryngal was closer than Durnhal. The news earned a few relieved sighs — fewer days of marching. But the same man quickly doused their optimism:

  “If we’re not going to Durnhal… it’s because there’s nothing left to go to. Durnhal’s fallen.”

  The silence spread like wildfire. Jokes vanished, as if cut by a blade.

  “I just want a bath,” Gunnar muttered after a while.

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  “I just want my wife,” Torden added, his voice softer now.

  They walked on in silence. Each lost in thought. Gunnar thought of Ada, of Johan… and of the aunt and uncle he’d left behind.

  In Draykor, the early morning heat was still mild. A soft breeze drifted through carved wooden windows, carrying the scent of jasmine and medicinal herbs from the inner courtyards.

  Prince Fenrel stood before a dark-framed mirror, freshly bathed. A towel draped around his shoulders, damp hair trailing drops onto the pale marble floor. He dressed slowly with the help of a servant — linen shirt, a vest embroidered with the royal crest, reinforced trousers, leather boots. Simple, functional, carefully chosen.

  Halrik Drayven entered unannounced, as usual.

  “Your Highness. We have visitors — from House Howell.”

  Fenrel raised an eyebrow as he fastened the final button on his coat.

  “Howell? I didn’t expect movement from them so soon.”

  “No troops. Just a messenger… though she brought company.”

  Fenrel opened a small ebony box and slid on his signet ring.

  “And who’s the messenger?”

  Halrik hesitated briefly.

  “Dahlia Howell.”

  Fenrel stopped adjusting his belt.

  “Dahlia? The Count’s granddaughter?”

  “The very same.”

  “That Dahlia?”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  Fenrel sighed, already anticipating the type of visit ahead. He crossed the room to the open balcony and looked down at the courtyard. In the center, unmistakable even from a distance, stood a woman with a commanding stance, broad build, and short bluish hair — the mark of Howell lineage. Arms crossed, gestures wide, feet planted like she was waiting for a challenger.

  With her stood four distinctive figures:

  Astra, her vice-captain, remained one step behind — composed, watchful, the kind who observed before speaking.

  Mogrel, shorter and sharper in build, eyes always scanning, fingers twitching as if mapping an escape route in his mind.

  Frey, clad in refined simplicity, already charming a nearby guard with practiced ease. The kind who blended in before you noticed.

  And Rudra, the cleric, lingered at the edge of the group. Dressed plainly, dreamy-eyed, her presence barely noticeable — yet Fenrel recognized the name and the power she carried beneath the silence.

  “They’re… different,” Fenrel noted.

  “They’re Howell. And also… not,” Halrik replied with faint irony.

  “Let’s greet them. Best to find out quickly what they want.”

  With steady steps, Fenrel left the balcony and descended the halls of dark stone. Tapestries along the way depicted dragons and ramparts, worn crests, and scenes of forgotten wars. Everything here exuded a quiet authority — forged in time and desert heat.

  As he passed through the main hall’s doors, Dahlia raised a hand in an informal wave.

  “Highness,” she said with the tone of someone greeting an old acquaintance, not royalty. “My grandfather sent this.” She handed over a thick envelope sealed with golden wax and House Howell’s crest — a sword crossed with a hammer.

  Fenrel accepted the envelope but paused, studying the group before him.

  “Welcome to Draykor. We have wine, fresh bread… and decent swordsmen, if you’re in the mood to test your blade.”

  Dahlia laughed, bold and bright.

  “Sounds like this will be an interesting stay.”