As Lucas, Dante, and Nolan looked up, a boy a little older than them stood at the top of the castle's wide stone stairs. His build was slender yet athletic, his posture relaxed but deliberate. Dressed in a finely tailored suit of deep navy and silver trim, he held both hands neatly behind his back. An unreadable smile curved his lips — polite, warm, and yet somehow distant.
The soldiers flanking the entrance immediately dropped to one knee, bowing their heads in formal respect.
"Young Lord," they greeted in unison.
Lucas, Dante, and Nolan instinctively followed suit, bowing their heads — but before they could kneel like the others, the boy spoke.
"Oh my," his voice was smooth, almost amused, "no need to bow. If anything, I should be the one bowing to the church's envoys."
He stepped lightly down a few stairs, his sharp grey eyes briefly sweeping over each of them. "Please, come inside. We can talk in comfort."
With a casual wave of his hand, he dismissed the kneeling soldiers.
"Back to your duties."
The men rose, bowed once more, and marched away without a word.
Nolan gave Lucas and Dante a small nudge, his polite smile aimed at their host. "Come on," he murmured.
Lucas adjusted his grip on the mission box, Dante straightened his back, and together they followed the young lord into the estate's shadowed halls — their first steps into whatever awaited inside.
The great hall was a study in elegance — vaulted ceilings painted with scenes of ancient victories, sunlight spilling in through tall windows draped in velvet, and the faint scent of polished wood and roses lingering in the air. Servants moved silently along the edges, heads bowed, their steps soundless against the marble floor.
Alaric led the way, his stride unhurried, every movement purposeful. He didn't look back to see if they followed — as if it were a given that they would.
"I must say," he began, his tone light, conversational, "I wasn't expecting the church to send three so… young. You carry yourselves well."
He glanced briefly over his shoulder, eyes catching Lucas's for just a moment before sliding away again, leaving behind a flicker of something Lucas couldn't quite name.
"It is rare," Alaric continued, "to meet people my own age whose reputations arrive before they do. You've been spoken of — though I won't say by whom. I wouldn't want to make you self-conscious." His lips quirked in a half-smile, as though the thought amused him.
They reached a richly furnished reception room. Alaric gestured to the velvet-cushioned chairs around a low table set with tea and small pastries. "Please, sit. You've traveled far — I imagine the road here was… uneventful?"
Lucas hesitated before taking a seat. "We had good company," he said carefully.
"Ah, company. The road can be long without it." Alaric poured tea himself, rather than calling a servant — a gesture that felt oddly intimate coming from a noble. He handed the first cup to Nolan, the second to Dante, and only then poured his own.
As they sipped, he spoke of the duchy's recent improvements, the repairs to old roads, and the opening of new markets. His words painted a picture of progress and prosperity, yet he wove them together with enough humor and self-deprecation to make him seem approachable.
At one point, Dante remarked, "I'd heard you weren't much for running things yourself."
Alaric laughed — a low, easy sound — and leaned back in his chair. "And yet here I am, doing just that. People change, Sir Dante. Sometimes because they wish to… and sometimes because they must." His eyes sharpened almost imperceptibly as he spoke the last word, but the smile never left his face.
By the time the tea was finished, they had learned little of Alaric beyond what he wished them to know — yet somehow, it felt as though they had been speaking with an old friend.
And that was the thing about Alaric Grates: you left the conversation warm and at ease… only to realize later you had no idea if you'd been charmed, tested, or quietly measured.
As the winds rushed through the open windows, the tall curtains stirred and fluttered like restless banners.
From somewhere beyond the hall, the faint beat of wings drew closer — sharp and rhythmic, cutting through the idle conversation.
In a sudden rush of air, Hugin swept into the room, his rugged black feathers catching the sunlight, the white-tipped wings gleaming with each beat. He landed smoothly on Lucas's shoulder, talons gripping just firmly enough to anchor himself. His ruby-red eyes burned with a quiet intensity.
The sudden intrusion startled Nolan, who nearly spilled his tea, and even Dante shifted in his seat with a frown. The servants froze mid-step, glancing nervously between each other.
Only Alaric did not flinch.
He merely lifted his cup and took another slow sip, his gaze meeting the raven's with an unreadable calm. A faint smile — not quite friendly, not quite mocking — touched his lips.
For a long, unbroken moment, Hugin's eyes locked on the young lord. No caw, no shift, no blink — just that silent, razor-sharp stare, as if he were dissecting something no one else could see.
The tension broke only when Alaric set his cup down, speaking lightly, as if nothing unusual had happened.
"I take it," he said, his tone smooth as ever, "this is your spirit companion? He's… striking."
Lucas adjusted his shoulder slightly under Hugin's weight. "Yeah. This is Hugin."
"A fine creature," Alaric replied, his smile widening by a hair. "Eyes like that must miss very little."
Hugin tilted his head just slightly — an acknowledgment, or perhaps a warning — before finally looking away.
The conversation moved on, but Lucas couldn't shake the faint feeling that Hugin had just seen something in Alaric that the rest of them hadn't.
As the conversation flowed, Alaric's gaze drifted past them to the tall pendulum clock standing in the corner. The golden weight swung with a steady, deliberate rhythm, marking the seconds in the otherwise quiet room.
"Oh my," he said, a note of mock regret in his voice, "it seems our time here ends for now."
He set his teacup down with a soft clink and rose to his feet in one fluid motion. "Please — rest and refresh yourselves. We shall dine together tonight."
The servants moved forward instantly, ready to guide the guests to their quarters.
Lucas gave a polite nod, Nolan murmured a quiet "thank you," and Dante stretched before standing, still sizing up the young lord.
On Lucas's shoulder, Hugin hadn't moved since landing, his ruby eyes briefly flicking back to Alaric before the raven finally spread his wings and settled them again. The motion was subtle, but Lucas caught it — a small sign that whatever the bird had sensed earlier… it hadn't gone away.
Alaric's smile remained perfectly in place as they turned to leave. But when Lucas glanced back just once, he found the young lord still standing by the tea table, hands loosely clasped behind his back, watching them go with those sharp grey eyes — the kind that seemed to see far more than he ever said.
The servants led them down a wide corridor lined with tall windows and gilded sconces. Once they reached the guest quarters — three rooms across from each other — the servants bowed and left them to settle in.
For a moment, none of them spoke. The silence seemed to stretch as the muffled ticking of the estate's great clock echoed faintly through the halls.
Nolan was the first to break it. He leaned lightly against the doorframe, arms crossed.
"He's polished," he said simply. "Every word he spoke was deliberate — the kind of person who can make you feel at ease while steering the conversation exactly where he wants it to go. If I had to guess… he's the sort who could manipulate a room without ever raising his voice."
Dante gave a low snort, leaning against the opposite wall.
"Polished, sure… but strange. I don't know how to explain it — something about him just didn't match the smile. Like the words were warm, but the eyes… weren't."
Lucas didn't answer right away. He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, Hugin perched silently on his shoulder.
The raven's claws flexed lightly against the fabric of his shirt, the ruby-red eyes still fixed on the door they'd just come through, as though expecting it to open again.
Lucas finally spoke, his voice low.
"Hugin didn't take his eyes off him. Not once."
Dante raised a brow. "And that means…?"
Lucas shook his head slowly. "I don't know yet."
The raven tilted its head then, speaking only to Lucas in that quiet, familiar voice inside his mind.
'Some masks are sewn too tightly to pull off in one meeting.'
Lucas didn't reply — not out loud, not in his head. But as he leaned back on his bed, he found himself replaying that brief moment when Alaric had met Hugin's stare… and smiled.