"Good morning, Master."
Lock awoke to a familiar presence. The voice was soft, measured—neither servile nor intrusive. Vier stood beside the bed, already dressed, posture impeccable.
Clap. Clap.
At the sound, the door opened soundlessly. Several maids entered in disciplined silence, pushing a wheeled stand laden with fresh water, towels, and prepared toiletries. Their movements were practiced, efficient, and brief.
Lock sat up. The thin sheet slid from his shoulders.
His build was not exaggerated, yet every line of muscle was deliberate, honed through long discipline rather than vanity. The maids lowered their gazes almost at once, cheeks faintly warm, and retreated to the edges of the room.
Vier alone stepped forward.
She took a silk cloth, dampened and carefully wrung dry, and with his tacit consent wiped away the faint sheen of sweat from his skin. The season had been warm. Flame resistance did not negate the body's natural responses.
Her hands were gentle. Precise.
Lock exhaled quietly.
Decadence had once repelled him. The idea of being dressed and attended to like a relic of excess had felt unnecessary, even distasteful.
He had changed.
Not from indulgence, but inevitability.
Law and morality restrained behavior only when power was limited. Here, authority reshaped habit. Distance from consequence bred a different rhythm of life—one where restraint became a choice rather than a necessity.
He did not treat his servants as possessions. But time eroded resistance. Familiarity dulled refusal.
Habit, he had learned, was the most insidious force of all.
Once dressed, Lock fastened his white greatcoat—a fusion of noble attire and clerical design. Enchantments woven into the fabric ensured it remained pristine, untouched by stain or wear.
"What is being served?" he asked.
In the adjoining parlor, he took his seat at the dining table. The maids placed covered dishes before him and withdrew at once. Lock disliked being observed while eating.
Vier remained.
"Roasted lamb, prepared to your preference," she replied as she uncovered the dishes. "A lightly seasoned stir-fry, wheat porridge, and warm milk."
She placed a bowl before him, then handed over a pair of chopsticks carved from enchanted ironwood.
Lock sampled the meat, then nodded once. "Acceptable. Tell the chef to adjust the sauce next time. Slightly more heat. Controlled."
"Understood."
Silence followed—broken only by the quiet rhythm of eating.
Lock had learned the formal etiquette of nobility long ago and discarded it just as easily. He used knives and forks when required, but habit favored simplicity.
Vier watched without comment, her expression calm.
Far from the castle, beneath open sky and rising dust, a column of cavalry moved eastward across the plains.
Nearly a hundred riders advanced at a steady pace. Hooves thundered across the ground, scattering small animals into hiding. Armor varied—steel, leather, patched, and repaired. Weapons were just as diverse.
It was not a beautiful formation.
It was a lethal one.
These were veterans—men hardened by repetition rather than ceremony. They answered directly to the crown of the Re-Estize Kingdom.
At their head rode a broad-shouldered man clad in full armor, a greatsword resting against his back. His beard was unkempt, his face stern, bearing the weight of constant responsibility.
Gazef Stronoff.
The Warrior Captain of the Kingdom.
His expression was tense. Unease tugged at him—not fear, but the awareness that something was amiss.
"Captain," his deputy called out from behind. "Movement ahead."
Gazef lifted his gaze.
Six mounted figures approached directly, showing no sign of veering away.
"Prepare," Gazef commanded, raising a hand.
The response was immediate. Bows were drawn. Weapons shifted into ready positions. The formation tightened despite its roughness.
If this were an ambush, it would be met head-on.
But when the distance closed to a hundred paces, the opposing riders halted.
Their leader raised his voice.
"Is that His Excellency, Warrior Captain Gazef Stronoff of the Re-Estize Kingdom?"
Gazef narrowed his eyes and signaled for restraint. His unit slowed and halted with disciplined efficiency.
He alone urged his horse forward.
At closer range, he studied them.
Six men. Uniform armor, silver-white in color. On their chests was an unfamiliar emblem—a horned serpent, coiled and clawed.
Not royal. Not mercenary. A private crest.
Before Gazef could speak, the leader continued.
"Forgive the intrusion. We bear no hostility. My master, Baron Lock Kote Albert, requests an audience. He claims to possess intelligence regarding Imperial movements along the border."
Gazef frowned.
He did not mingle with nobles. Most avoided him in return. The name stirred no immediate recognition—until another surfaced.
"Albert," he said slowly. "Is your master related to Catherine Cort Albert?"
"Yes," the man replied.
Gazef fell silent.
That alone was enough to warrant caution.
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