Helmic stood at the top of the steps, expression carefully composed, though Michael could still feel the sour bite of resentment bleeding from his thoughts.
Michael dismounted.
He landed lightly, boots hitting stone. Roran followed behind, followed by the rest of the company peeling off in practiced motion, forming a defensive arc that never looked threatening but still commanded the courtyard.
The silence was brittle.
Helmric stepped forward, attempting a forced smile. "Welcome, Lord Nor. I trust your journey was… uneventful?"
Michael didn't answer at first.
Instead, he stepped forward slowly, each bootstep echoing like a judge's gavel.
His gaze swept the courtyard—over the cracked pillars, the limp garden hedges, the broken sundial, the waterless fountain.
Then, and only then, did he look Helmric in the eye.
"I trust," Michael said calmly, "that you have prepared a full accounting of this manor and the state of Thornvale."
