“Verdant Emera,” Raelana said, her eyes narrowing. “I know of it. A giant wilderness that spreads much larger than the eye can see. Rumors say strange folk live there.”

“What sort of strange folk?” Taeryn demanded.

The bandit leader shook his head. “Don’t know, don’t want to know. Smart people give the forest a wide berth. That’s all I can tell you, I swear!”

Darian studied him for a long moment, then stepped back, nodding to Raelana. She released the hold, and the bandit collapsed to his knees, gasping.

“Run,” Darian commanded.

“And if I ever see you on this road again, I won’t be so merciful.”

The man scrambled to his feet and fled without a backward glance, disappearing into the forest. Darian turned to his companions, his expression grim.

“It’s getting messier than I thought. I have already sent a word to Morgana. Hope she can come to our rescue in case something happens to us.

We ride through the night if we must. If that’s where they’ve taken Rena and Baren, every moment counts.”

Raelana nodded, already back on her horse. “Then let’s not waste any more time talking.”

They rode west as the sun sank toward the horizon, the forest around them growing darker and more ominous.

Behind them, the groans of the bound bandits faded into the distance.

Ahead, in the gathering darkness, the deep, thick forest waited.

And with it, answers—and dangers—they could not yet imagine.

***

Far away from them, in the southlands, the road to Marhaevn stretched before the lone carriage, like a ribbon of packed ground, winding through rolling hills dotted with prosperous farmland. Jaenor sat in the carriage, his posture relaxed as he leaned back against the soft cushion.

Beside him sat Morgana.

She sat with perfect posture, her back straight as a sword blade, her chin slightly elevated. Her ageless face—she could have been anywhere from thirty to fifty—was composed in an expression of serene authority. Her traveling dress was deep blue silk that whispered with each movement, and her dark hair was bound in an intricate arrangement that must have taken an hour to construct. Rings glinted on her fingers, and a pendant of silver and sapphire hung at her throat.

But it was her eyes that truly defined her—sharp, intelligent, missing nothing.

“Stop slouching,” she said without looking at him, her voice carrying that particular tone that could cut through steel.

“You may be playing the role of my… companion, but that doesn’t mean you should look like a stablehand.”

Jaenor straightened slightly, his expression unchanged.

“Hmm.”

“They’ll believe what they want to believe regardless of my posture.”

“True. But there’s no reason to make their assumptions easier to swallow.”

She glanced at him now, one eyebrow raised. “And remember—you’re to speak only when necessary. Your tendency toward silence will serve us well in this nest of vipers.”

“Wasn’t planning on giving speeches.”

“Good. Let your eyes wander, play the part of the young fool dazzled by wealth and beauty, but keep your wits about you. Baron Roland may be our host, but he’s also a notorious gossip and political opportunist. Everything we say and do will be reported to half the nobility in the realm by week’s end.”

HAAA!

He sighed, heavily.

Then he nodded, his gaze drifting to the horizon where the towers of Marhaevn Castle were beginning to emerge from the haze. The castle was impressive even at a distance—grey stone walls rising from a rocky prominence, banners snapping in the wind, sunlight glinting off polished metal and glass. It spoke of old money, older power, and the kind of entrenched authority that came from generations of careful marriages and ruthless ambition.

“Why did they invite you?” he asked.

“I thought Baron Roland hated anyone more powerful than himself.”

A slight smile curved Morgana’s lips.

“He does. It’s just low-level politics, which we have no choice but to refuse. It’s a delicate dance, nephew. One day you’ll need to learn its steps.”

“I’d rather stab someone than dance around them.”

“Yes, well, that’s why you’re eighteen and foolish. Violence has its place, but it’s a crude tool compared to properly applied social pressure.”

She paused, her expression growing more serious. “And do try to control your… wandering gaze. I know you have the self-control of a rutting dog, but these noble ladies are not serving wenches. Their fathers and brothers will call you out if you’re too obvious.”

Jaenor’s expression remained impassive, but internally, he bristled slightly.

It wasn’t his fault that he appreciated beauty when he saw it.

Still, Morgana had a point. He’d need to be more subtle here.

The castle gates loomed before them, massive oak doors reinforced with iron and flanked by guards in polished armor bearing the baron’s sigil. They were waved through without question; Morgana’s reputation preceded her, and few would dare delay her entrance.

The courtyard beyond was ordered disorder.

Servants rushed about with luggage and supplies, stable hands led horses to the barns, and well-dressed guests milled about in small clusters, greeting acquaintances and sizing up rivals. The air hummed with conversation and the underlying tension of people jockeying for social position.

A steward approached immediately, bowing low.

“Lady Morgana, what an honor. Baron Roland and Lady Viviannah await you in the great hall. If you’ll follow me, I’ll see you settled.”

As they moved forward, Jaenor found himself immediately aware of the stares. Some were curious, some dismissive, and others knowing.

He could practically hear the thoughts: That’s Morgana’s boy toy. Such a waste. She could have anyone, and she chose… that?

That! Jaenor shot a glare towards the one who made the comment. But he didn’t say it; he scoffed, thinking of them as nothing but flies buzzing around.

Underestimation was an advantage.

The great hall was everything Jaenor expected and more. Vaulted ceilings soared overhead, supported by carved pillars depicting scenes of battle and triumph. Tapestries covered the walls, each worth more than most commoners earned in a lifetime. A massive fireplace dominated one end of the hall, large enough to roast an entire ox, and already crackling with flames despite the warmth of the day. Long tables were being set with silver and crystal, and servants moved among them with practiced efficiency.

At the hall’s center, on a raised dais, stood Baron Roland and Lady Viviannah.

Roland was running slightly to fat but was still imposing in his fine doublet of green and gold. His hair artfully arranged to hide its thinning, and his smile was wide and welcoming in a way that never quite reached his eyes. Those eyes were small, dark, and calculating, constantly assessing everyone in his presence.

Beside him, Lady Viviannah was a contrast in every way. She was perhaps a couple of years his junior, beautiful in the way of expensive things—polished, perfect, and cold. Her gown was a masterpiece of emerald silk and cloth of gold, cut to display wealth rather than charm. Her hair was arranged in an elaborate style studded with pearls, and her expression was one of carefully maintained boredom.

“Morgana!” Roland boomed, descending from the dais with arms spread wide.

“What a delight to have you grace our humble hall, Lady Morgana. Your presence alone honors this gathering,” the Baron said, bowing low, his smile wide and proud.

Morgana inclined her head slightly, her crimson eyes gleaming with amusement. “Baron,” she said smoothly, “it would’ve been cruel of me not to attend. After all, I hear no one throws an event quite like yours—half feast, half self-praise, isn’t that right?”

A few guests nearby stifled nervous laughter. The Baron’s smile faltered for a heartbeat before returning, strained but unbroken.

“Ah,” he chuckled, “your wit is as sharp as ever, Lady Morgana.”

“I do try to keep it polished,” she said, lifting her wine glass, “especially for nights like these.”

“As is your wisdom and power,” Roland replied, his gaze flickering briefly to Jaenor before returning to Morgana.

“And you’ve brought a companion. Wonderful.”

Here it came.

“He is Jaenor,” Morgana said smoothly.

Jaenor saw Roland’s expression shift subtly—a flash of contempt mixed with prurient interest.

“Of course, of course,” Roland said, his smile widening. “Any… companion of yours is most welcome, Lady Morgana. Young man, I trust you’ll enjoy the festivities.”

Jaenor met his gaze and said nothing, simply inclining his head slightly. Roland’s smile faltered just a fraction—he’d expected either stammering gratitude or cocky arrogance, and silence threw him off balance.

Lady Viviannah descended to greet them, her movement as graceful as a cat’s. “Morgana, you look radiant as always. You must tell me your secrets—how do you maintain such vitality?” The question was innocent on the surface, but the emphasis on “vitality” carried an unmistakable implication.

“Clean living and the occasional use of old tricks,” Morgana replied with a smile that showed teeth. “Though I suspect you know that already, Viviannah. After all, you’re looking quite well-preserved yourself.”

The verbal parry made several nearby nobles suppress smirks. Lady Viviannah’s smile tightened almost imperceptibly.

“Let me introduce you to some of our other guests,” Roland interjected smoothly, guiding them toward a cluster of nobles.

“I’m sure you’ll find the company most stimulating.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep