The rain had come and gone over the previous days, but the streets of Echlion were now washed in the early breath of spring. There was warmth in the heart of Alfrenzo's home - not just warmth from the smoldering embers in hearths or steam from drawn baths, but warmth from a moment of peace and the quiet rhythm of living.
Luenor Sureva sat reclined in a high-backed chair carved from cedarwood. His hair was damp, and a towel draped across his shoulders. The light from the fire flickered upon him, drawing out the faintest smile – not smug, not triumph, just comfort for a moment. Not long enough.
Thalanar, in a slightly wrinkled robe, and a ledger under one arm, entered the room. He stopped about three paces in and raised an eyebrow.
"How was the bath, my lord?" he asked, his voice thick with dry amusement.
Luenor looked up, blinked, and smirked. "Steamy. Restorative. And all the better for being attended to by two very polite attendants – one elven and one human. I couldn't have scripted it any better."
Thalanar snorted, failing to disguise his disappointment. "You're fifteen."
"In human years," Luenor said in a smooth voice while brushing damp strands of hair from his eyes. "Which means I'm legally too young for wine and brothels, but old enough to inherit a house, kill a dozen men, and rule a barony. What a funny world."
The older elf rolled his eyes. "Hormonal nobles are a terrible type of creature. You've got the mouth of a jester and the temper of a winter wolf."
Luenor grinned. "And yet you adore me."
"I tolerate you," Thalanar said, but there was affection hidden beneath the scorn in his voice. "Speaking of… what's with your new interest in Lyssari?"
Luenor tilted his head and watched the fire dance over the logs. "She's cute."
Thalanar feigned incredulity. "She is a child."
"She's fifty," Luenor retorted, ever the potential nuisance. "Which is fourteen in elf years, and twenty in human. Math is complicated. I wouldn't do anything until I am older. You don't need to worry for another couple of years."
Before Thalanar could reply, they heard the faint echo of hooves on cobblestones through the windowpanes. Luenor rose suddenly, tossing the towel onto a chair.
"They're here."
He walked out, with Thalanar just a few steps behind him.
Outside the courtyard was bustling. Mud gathered on the legs of the horses and the guards briskly opened the gates as Faren's scouting party dismounted — a full ringing of armor and weariness on their faces but joy in their eyes. The cloaks were wet from the roads, but their eyes were almost sparkling with pride.
Faren dismounted and gave Luenor a slight bow. "Job well done. They won't be coming back."
But Luenor's attention had already moved. He was striding through the courtyards as he stepped past Faren and held out a gloved hand to guide Lyssari down from her horse. She was still flushed from the journey, rain still holding her braid in knots.
"Your first mission. How did it feel?" Luenor said.
Lyssari's face lit up, her eyes wide with pride — but just as she opened her mouth to speak, another voice interrupted them.
"Save your report for me, Lyssari."
It was Nalia, her instructor — strict, begrudging, stone-faced Nalia, who was a head taller than most of the men in the keep. Lyssari stiffened, and nodded. "Yes, teacher."
She gave Luenor a quick, polite nod and rushed off to follow Nalia. Faren's gaze trailed them, then swiveled back to Luenor, glaring at him as if he had done something incredibly awful.
"I saw that," he muttered.
"What?" Luenor said, a little too naïve.
"You treat her like she is already a knight."
Luenor shrugged. "She fought well."
"You wouldn't have said that if she was just another scout."
"No. She's not."
Faren's jaw moved soundlessly for a moment. Then he let it drop.
"We've got two captives. Mages. One's a healer - might prove useful."
"Good. Put them in the lower tower. Feed them well, but not too well. I will question them tomorrow."
And with that, Luenor turned and walked back into the keep, the faintest trace of satisfaction on his face.
-----
Later that evening, in the stone-clad office beneath Alfrenzo's loft, a council had gathered. Candles winked in sconces located all around the walls, illuminating the faces of the room — Thalanar, Faren, Dion, Arwin, Telmar… and Luenor at the head of the table, chin lightly rested on his knuckles.
The ledger had been closed.
"We intercepted the bounty notes," Thalanar began. "The Duke's raised the price. Again. He furthermore pours gold into the guilds like he were bleeding wine. The next group won't be sloppy fools."
Dion leaned forward, arms at rest across his chest. "He wants to flush Alfrenzo into the open. Doesn't care who he burns to do it."
"Which means," chimed Thalanar, "you have to be smarter than you've been."
Luenor continued staring, not a single blink. "So I will be."
Faren sat forwards. "What are you doing?"
Luenor's tone was calm, almost unemotional. "I am going to Edelgard."
The table rippled with tension.
Faren leaned in. "What are you going to do?"
Luenor sounded almost too calm. "I am going to Edelgard."
You could feel the tension at the table rising.
"Absolutely not," said Arwin. He sounded composed, but the look on his face was hard.
"I will go as Alfrenzo, not Luenor. I have worn other faces before. I will have Hunter with me."
Telmar shook his head. "This is reckless. If the Duke catches even the faintest whiff of something being amiss—"
"He won't," Luenor was now more adamant, "because he won't know. I will speak with Baron Edelgard, establish a new supply route, and return in five days."
Thalanar let out a slow breath of air. "And what if you are followed?"
"Then I will know where his attention is going. And I will blind it."
Dion groaned tiredly. "You always want to fight beasts on their own terms when there was a perfectly good trap to be laid."
Luenor gave Dion a sideways look. "That is because I am not hunting rats. I am baiting tigers."
______
Farther northeast of the Duchy's sylvan passes was a different kind of quiet hovering in the air.
This place was stone-bound and lit by flickering torches. Heavy curtains covered the opening to the wind outside. In the middle of the room, Nags - Nagvaris of House Siegfreed - grand knight of the Duke's inner circle, was sitting. He had his long crimson hair pulled back into a messy knot, and he wore dark armor that was etched with the Siegfreed dragon heraldry.
He was reading quietly from a small stack of folded papers. He flipped through them absently until he stopped on one name that was repeated several times.
Ren.
A masked mercenary. Impossible to find. Painstakingly precise. Deadly. No guild affiliation. But there was no denying the trail: a wyvern pack wiped out in Duskwatch, a border skirmish executed with military precision that devolved into rout, and as of late, rumors of him being sighted among guild cleared skirmishes in the western forests.
Nags lowered the paper and leaned back in his chair, the flickering torchlight glinting against the scar running down his jaw.
"Too clean," he muttered. "Too quiet."
There was a knocking sound. Kaesor, his personal aide, stepped into the room.
"My lord."
"Track this mercenary. Ren. I want his movements watched. No flags. No threats. Just eyes."
Kaesor bowed. "Alive?"
"For now," Nags said with a smirk. "I want to know what he's running from… and why he's so good at it."
As Kaesor exited, Nags turned back to the flickering candlelight.
Too many pieces were moving now. And he was starting to enjoy the game.