6:30 p.m. | The Great North Road toward Hertfordshire:
Morven and Marcus had returned to the hard-packed surface of the Great North Road; the open fields were behind them now.
Morven drew his pocket watch with his right hand while guiding the horse with his left. He glanced at the face and spoke just loud enough to be heard over the hooves and wind.
"We've been riding about an hour. At this pace we'll reach Barnet around seven."
Marcus, half a length behind, cupped a hand to his ear.
"What did you say, Master!?"
Morven slipped the watch away, took the reins in both hands again, and answered with mild irritation.
"Nothing. Just stay directly behind me."
He tapped his heels; the horse lengthened its stride. Marcus hurried to keep up.
As the speed increased, Marcus's voice came again, trembling with cold.
"Master… don't you feel it's getting really cold!?"
Morven heard him clearly this time.
"You seem to have forgotten we're in late autumn—and heading north, toward Scotland. Of course it's cold."
Marcus shivered harder.
"But this cold… it's a bit… too much!"
Morven exhaled white mist.
"It's going to rain. Unless you want to arrive in Barnet dripping like drowned rats, stop complaining and endure it."
Marcus sighed.
"Yes, sir…"
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Around 7:00 p.m. | Approaching Barnet:
Morven narrowed his eyes against the dusk, a faint smile touching his lips.
"We're almost there, Marcus…"
Marcus looked ahead and saw only high, dark hills.
"You mean those huge hills!?"
Morven gave a quiet, sardonic chuckle.
"Yes. The town of Barnet—and the villages around it—are built across several of them."
Marcus blinked.
"But… the slopes look steep. Wouldn't that be terrible for carriages?"
Morven sighed in exasperation.
"Exactly. This stretch is infamous for highwaymen. Carriages slow to a crawl on the inclines, so robbers can loot them at leisure."
Marcus's eyes went perfectly round.
"So we're riding straight into hell, aren't we!?"
Morven shook his head in pity.
"Idiot. I said carriages. We're on horseback."
Marcus gave a sheepish little laugh and glanced around.
"It's getting really dark. The sooner we arrive, the better…"
Morven nodded once and urged his horse into a canter. Marcus followed close behind.
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Barnet waypoint town | The Red Lion Inn:
They crested the last steep hill and the scattered lights of the town appeared below.
Morven allowed himself a faint smile.
"There's tonight's stop."
They rode through the quiet streets until the warm glow and painted sign of The Red Lion Inn welcomed them. Both dismounted.
Morven took his sword cane first, then handed the reins to a stable boy. The moment they stepped inside, the mingled scents of woodsmoke, ale, and roasted meat wrapped around them like a blanket.
Morven inhaled deeply and walked to the reception desk.
"A double room for myself and my companion."
The innkeeper looked him over—fine coat, top hat, perfect posture—and raised an eyebrow.
"Nobility, are you?"
Morven smiled thinly.
"Yes."
"May I have your name, sir?"
The smile vanished; Morven's voice turned ice-cold.
"Morven Blacktide. And this is Marcus Howard, my apprentice."
The innkeeper's eyes widened.
"Your room was booked and paid for in advance, sir. We've been expecting you both."
Morven muttered under his breath, so low only he could hear:
"William again…"
The innkeeper waved over a young lad, handed him the key, and said cheerfully,
"Your room is ready. No waiting. The boy will take you straight up."
Morven gave the man a polite nod and followed the lad. Marcus trailed behind, still grinning at the unexpected luxury.
When they reached the room, the boy unlocked the door, gave a quick explanation of the facilities, placed the key in Morven's hand, and left.
Morven closed the door and sighed dramatically.
"I swear William must have found buried treasure…"
Marcus burst out laughing, flopping onto one of the beds.
"How so!?"
Morven shook his head in mock despair.
"I certainly don't pay him enough to reserve a noble-class double room at The Red Lion with such reverence. And how did he even know we'd stop here?"
Marcus laughed louder.
"Maybe because you have the pride of a duke and always choose the most famous inn on the road!"
Morven gave him a dangerous smile.
"Are you mocking me?"
Marcus, still giggling:
"Never, never!"
Morven leaned the sword cane against his bedpost and smiled sweetly.
"I wouldn't count on being alive by morning."
Marcus's laughter died.
"…What exactly do you mean by that?"
Morven's smile grew even gentler.
"You'll find out before dawn."
They talked late into the night—Marcus asking endless, often ridiculous questions, Morven answering when he felt like it or simply exhaling and falling silent.
He knew his relationship with Marcus was growing warmer with every passing day, yet he still believed a certain measure of cold authority was necessary from time to time.
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2:00 a.m. | The Red Lion Inn, Barnet:
Morven's eyes snapped open. He took a slow breath and glanced around the moonlit room.
He checked his pocket watch and frowned.
"Two in the morning… why am I awake?"
He looked over at Marcus, peacefully asleep on the other bed, and whispered,
"Even Marcus is out cold…"
Morven sat on the edge of the bed, noticed he had fallen asleep fully dressed, and gave a wry half-smile.
He picked up the sword cane and the room key, slipped out quietly, and descended the creaking wooden stairs.
The night porter was dozing by the door. Morven approached.
"I'd like to step outside for a breath of air."
The porter blinked awake, recognised the fine coat, and nodded.
"You're the nobleman, right?"
Morven smiled faintly.
"Do I need to pay extra?"
The porter shook his head quickly.
"No, sir! The day clerk told me everything for Mr Blacktide is already settled."
Morven exhaled a quiet, resigned breath.
"Then please open the door."
The porter unbolted the heavy front door. Before Morven stepped out, the man offered,
"Shall I send a servant with a lantern, my lord?"
Morven glanced back with a small, polite smile.
"No… thank you."
He stepped into the cold, silent night, the sword cane tapping softly against the cobblestones as the door closed behind him.