Chapter 170: The Estate far away…

The vineyard stretched for miles in every direction.

Row upon row of grapevines, their leaves turned golden and red with the changing season, covered the rolling hills like a patchwork quilt.

The estate sat at the highest point, overlooking it all—a grand structure of pale stone and dark wood that had stood for generations. Three stories tall with wide balconies and arched windows, it spoke of old wealth and careful stewardship.

This was the ancestral home of House Solvienne, one of the most respected wine-producing families in the eastern provinces. Their vintages were sought after by nobility across the realm, their reputation built over centuries of dedication to their craft.

Emma had bought this house for her grandson.

And it was here, in this place of peace and beauty, that Jaenor Arkwright had been hiding for the past weeks.

The afternoon sun was warm despite the autumn chill.

On the second-floor balcony, several figures had gathered, enjoying the rare moment of calm. The view was spectacular—endless vineyards rolling toward distant mountains, workers moving between the rows with practiced ease, the whole scene painted in golds and ambers by the afternoon light.

Rena leaned against the balcony railing, her arms crossed, watching the workers below with distant eyes. She’d changed since Ki’thara. The soft edges of youth had been burned away, replaced by something harder. She still wore her hair long and still moved with grace, but now there was wariness in her posture. She scanned the horizon constantly, checking for threats that might emerge from the peaceful landscape.

Beside her stood Baren, looking far healthier than he had two weeks ago. His wounds had healed well under Morgana’s care, though new scars marked his weathered face and arms. He wore simple clothes now—no armor, no weapons visible—but he carried himself like the warrior he was. His eyes were thoughtful as he surveyed the estate grounds.

Taeryn occupied a chair near the balcony doors, his spear leaning against the wall within easy reach. He’d cleaned and sharpened it obsessively since their arrival, needing something to do with his hands. The events at Ki’thara haunted him—watching Jaenor nearly die, seeing power that made everything he’d trained for seem insignificant.

But he was handling it, processing it in his own quiet way.

Darian stood near the opposite railing, his massive frame making the elegant balcony furniture look delicate by comparison. His shoulder had finally stopped aching from carrying Jaenor through the forest. The unconscious weight of the young man, the desperate flight through darkness, the constant fear of pursuit—all of it had taken its toll.

But they’d made it.

That was what mattered.

And to the side, partially in shadow cast by the balcony’s overhang, stood Morgana and Raelana.

The two witches made an interesting contrast.

Morgana was younger, her face still carrying some softness despite everything she’d witnessed. Her healer’s robes had been replaced with simpler clothing—a practical dress of deep blue that allowed freedom of movement. Her hair was pulled back in a simple braid, and her hands rested on the railing, fingers tapping an unconscious rhythm.

Raelana was older and more composed, with the bearing of someone used to authority. Her hair was arranged in an elaborate style that somehow remained perfect despite days of travel and stress. She wore the grey robes. Her eyes were sharp and calculating as she took in the estate, clearly assessing it from a defensive standpoint.

They’d been talking for the better part of an hour, sharing information, trying to piece together what was happening in the larger world while they hid in this isolated sanctuary.

“It’s been two weeks,” Rena said quietly, breaking a comfortable silence.

“How much longer will he need?”

Morgana glanced toward the closed doors that led inside, toward the room where Jaenor had been meditating since they’d arrived.

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

“His body healed within the first few days. The physical damage from the battle, from the transformation—that’s all resolved.

But what he’s doing now is different.

He’s trying to understand what he’s become. To solidify the changes, make them permanent and controllable rather than unstable and dangerous.”

“Can he do that?” Taeryn asked, looking up from the knife he’d been absently sharpening. “Actually control power like what we saw?”

“Honestly? I have no idea,” Morgana said.

“What happened to him is unprecedented. There’s no manual for this, no records of anyone successfully merging aura and origin energy cores. He’s figuring it out as he goes.”

Raelana shifted slightly, her expression thoughtful.

“When you first told me he was your nephew,” she said carefully, “I thought you were joking. The family resemblance isn’t obvious, and you’d never mentioned having relatives with the Arkwright bloodline.”

Morgana’s expression became complicated—Draelusa and worry and old pain all mixed together.

“Would you have understood? Most people hear the name Arkwright and immediately think of monsters. Of the war, the destruction, everything that bloodline represents.”

She shook her head.

“I didn’t even meet him until he was older.”

“And now he’s manifested power that’s drawn the attention of demon lords and the Mother Supreme herself,” Raelana pointed out, though her tone wasn’t accusatory.

“Protection only goes so far.”

“I know.” Morgana’s voice was barely a whisper.

“Believe me, I know.”

They fell into silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

At the railing, Rena finally spoke, breaking the quiet that had settled over the balcony.

“I keep thinking about the witch sisters. Elizabeth and Katerina.”

Morgana and Raelana both turned toward her, attention sharpening.

“You mentioned them before,” Morgana said.

“But you didn’t give many details. What exactly happened?”

Rena took a deep breath, organizing her thoughts. The memory was unpleasant, but they needed to know.

“We are in the mountains and were leaving the fortress, and suddenly we were attacked by some kind of monsters or creatures. We were separated from the rest of us.”

“That’s when they showed up,” Rena continued.

“Elizabeth and Katerina.”

“And before we know it, we lost consciousness.”

Rena’s hands clenched on the railing.

“She handed us over to the Blaedred sect.”

Morgana’s expression darkened.

“They tortured you?”

“Not exactly,” Baren said.

“More like… aggressive interrogation. Origin techniques that made lying impossible made resisting painful. They wanted to know everything about our movements, about the rest of us.”

Raelana exchanged glances with Morgana. Both of them knew the witch sisters by reputation.

“Elizabeth and Katerina,” Morgana said slowly.

“They’re Battle Witches. High rank, lots of combat experience. They’ve killed more demons than most soldiers see in lifetimes.”

“They’re also arrogant,” Raelana added.

“Effective, but convinced that their judgment is infallible. They must have taken you because you are the chosen ones.”

She shook her head, frustration clear in every line of her body.

“That’s often how it works,” Darian said quietly, not looking up from his sword.

“People with power get away with things normal folks wouldn’t. As long as they’re useful to the right people, their sins get overlooked.”

Taeryn stopped pacing, turning to face the group.

“The question is—are they still a threat to us? Will they come after us again?”

“It’s possible,” Raelana admitted.

“Though from what I’ve heard, the sisters are currently assigned to the northern borders. They’ve been working with Lady Maude Peanna, defending against demon incursions. They shouldn’t have reason to come this far south.”

“Shouldn’t,” Baren repeated.

“But that doesn’t mean it won’t.”

Morgana rubbed her temples, feeling a headache building.

“This is why I wanted to keep Jaenor hidden. The more people who know about him, the more complications arise. Witch sisters, demon lords, the Mother Supreme herself—everyone wants a piece of him.”

“He’s not a piece to be claimed,” Rena said firmly.

“He’s a person. Our friend. And we protect our friends.”

“Even when they become more powerful than we can comprehend?” Raelana asked gently. “I saw what he became, Rena. At Ki’thara village. The six wings, the merged energy. That wasn’t entirely human anymore.”

“He’s still Jaenor,” Rena insisted stubbornly.

“Let’s hope you’re right,” Raelana said quietly.

At that moment, the balcony door opened and Emmanuelle emerged, behind her maid carrying a tray laden with food.

“Thought you all might be hungry,” she said briskly.

Fresh bread, cheese, cured meats, and fruits from the estate’s orchards. Simple fare but well-prepared and generous.

“Thank you, Lady Emmanuelle,” Morgana said, genuine gratitude in her voice.

“None of that ’Lady’ business,” Emmanuelle waved dismissively. “We’re family. And family doesn’t stand on ceremony.”

She glanced toward the door that led to Jaenor’s room—closed, as it had been for days.

“Still no change?”

“No,” Morgana admitted.

“He could be in trance for days, weeks even, as his body and mind adapt to the changes.”

“Or he could wake up tomorrow completely fine,” Raelana added, trying to sound optimistic.

“Or he could wake up changed,” Baren said bluntly.

“More powerful but less human. It’s happened before with people who push their abilities too far.”

Rena shot him an angry look, but Emmanuelle held up a hand.

“No, he’s right to voice concerns. We all need to be realistic about possibilities.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep