Arion wandered first to the kitchens, devouring a modest bowl of broth and a thick slab of honeyed bread.
The maids offered him sympathetic smiles as he passed, their eyes flicking to the bruises on his arms. After his meal, he sought the baths. Steam rose around him, curling in the air as he winced at every sore muscle and scraped limb.
Yet even as the heat eased the ache, his thoughts circled his father's cryptic command.
When he returned to the courtyard, he expected another match, another beating to harden his resolve. Instead, he found a gathering that stilled his step.
Lord Sued stood at the center of the grounds, surrounded by a dozen knights clad in polished armor. They stood in silence, expressions unreadable, weapons sheathed but fingers twitching near hilts. Even Commander Marius, ever unflinching, bore a tension in his stance.
Arion approached slowly. "What are we waiting for?"
His father did not answer. His gaze was fixed on the gate.
And so the knights waited. And Sued watched.
Then came the sound—soft at first, then unmistakable. The roll of carriage wheels. The steady clatter of hooves.
A dark carriage emerged from the morning mist, drawn by four black horses. The vehicle gleamed with polish, silver inlay catching the light, bearing a crest Arion did not recognize. It was followed by guards in unfamiliar armor.
A chill slid down his spine.
This was no merchant. No ally. No friend of House Aren.
The carriage halted before them. The door creaked open.
Two figures stepped out—one older, stately, with a beard of ash-grey, and the other younger, tall and dressed in finery. Neither bore weapons, but both carried something heavier.
Presence. Authority. And something darker still—intent.
"Nobles?" Arion wondered aloud. "Diplomats, perhaps?"
No one answered. The knights of House Aren stood rigid, unmoving. Even the air felt taut.
The younger figure glanced at Arion, then smirked. "Father, is this the cursed demon child of the West?"
Arion met his gaze and said nothing. The insult was familiar. He remembered his first visit to the city below—the way townsfolk had hidden their children, clutching them tightly, as if he bore plague or madness. He rarely returned after that.
"Cedrik," the older man said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes, "you know better than to speak that way."
"My apologies, Father. I meant no offense." Cedrik bowed slightly, though his eyes never lost their gleam of arrogance.
The elder noble turned to Lord Sued. "Forgive him, Lord Sued. He's still young. Etiquette is… a work in progress."
"No worries, Lord Powell," Sued replied evenly.
House Powell. The name carried weight — a family as old as they were cunning, their eyes always searching for weakness.
Arion noticed the visiting nobles had not once looked to him with respect, nor offered an apology for their slight. With calm grace and forgiving nature, he said:
"Father, is this brat staying long?"
The pair froze. Cedrik's mouth opened, ready with a retort, but Lord Sued spoke first.
"Don't mind my son, Lord Powell. He's young as well and hasn't quite mastered etiquette. I'll instruct him properly next time."
He turned to Arion. "Arion."
"Yes, Father?"
"Show young Cedrik around. You're the same age—try not to become friends too quickly."
That earned a chuckle from Lord Powell. Whether it was genuine or not hardly mattered.
With a gesture, Sued led the elder noble inside the keep, leaving the two boys staring at each other in awkward silence.
Arion sighed inwardly. He had no desire to waste time on someone like Cedrik—but an order was an order. Without a word, he led the visiting noble down the mountain path toward the outer city. A few guards followed, silent shadows in their wake.
They walked in silence until Cedrik finally spoke.
"Have you ever been to the capital?"
"No," Arion replied.
Cedrik scoffed. "So, a country bumpkin through and through."
Arion said nothing.
"My family purchased a new mansion last month," Cedrik went on, "right near the town center. You can see the whole capital from our balcony. The king himself paid us a visit."
He turned to Arion with a smirk. "Has the king ever visited you?"
"No."
Cedrik snorted. "Didn't think so. Why would he bother with a place like this? No paved roads, no towers, nothing but rocks and mist. In the capital, even the alleys are paved."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice like a conspirator offering a boon. "Behave, and I might let you visit. It might open your eyes to how real nobility lives."
Arion stopped mid-step, a familiar itch rising in his hand—the restless urge to bring this brief sightseeing to a swift end. Yet, he held himself back, resisting the impulse.
With quiet resolve, he continued onward, footsteps steady and unhurried, as if crushing something beneath them.