Iron Hearth Castle – Great Hall. Three Days Later – 19:00.
A storm raged once more over the skies of Northreach. The rain thrashed against the stone roof like a barrage of gravel, its rhythm occasionally swallowed by the roar of thunder that rattled the windowpanes. It felt as if nature itself was unleashing a long-repressed fury upon the world.
Inside the Great Hall, the atmosphere was just as oppressive, despite the hearth's roaring fire. Duchess Aurelia sat on the edge of a worn sofa, its cushions long since thinned by time. Her trembling fingers shredded a silk handkerchief, twisting the fabric into a mangled ruin. Her eyes were bloodshot and swollen, fixed vacantly on the dancing flames. Three days had passed, and the silence from the outside world felt more jagged than the storm itself.
"They'll be fine, Mother. Have faith," Rianor's voice cut through the stillness. He stood motionless by the window, his gaze trying to pierce the impenetrable darkness. However, the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of his foot against the wooden floor betrayed the anxiety he fought to conceal. "Statistically, their success rate was seventy percent. Riven possesses the martial prowess of ten mercenaries combined."
Rumina, curled into a ball on the rug with her arms wrapped around her knees, let out a soft mumble. "Statistics won't stop a stray arrow, Rianor."
"Enough," Lucian interjected curtly.
The Duke sat rigid in his high-backed chair, facing the main entrance. For the past two hours, he hadn't moved an inch, looming like a breathing statue of stone. His legendary greatsword leaned faithfully against the side of his seat. He wasn't resting; he was on watch.
Suddenly, a heavy thud shook the main doors.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
The blows were struck with the hilt of a sword in a very specific pattern. The family's secret code.
"Open it!" Lucian commanded, his voice booming louder than the thunder.
Grimm, the aged but ever-alert head butler, immediately hauled back the heavy iron bar. As the doors swung open, a gust of frigid, damp air swept into the hall, carrying the raw scent of earth and rainwater.
Three figures stood framed in the threshold.
They were drenched, their clothes caked in layers of drying mud, and a faint, metallic scent of blood clung to them. Riven stood at the front, his broad shoulders supporting a deathly pale Roland, whose eyes were glazed with exhaustion. Behind them, Rhea stood on high alert. Her hand still gripped the hilt of her blade, her eyes darting across every corner of the room before her shoulders finally slumped—the realization of being home finally sinking in.
"Oh, heavens..." Aurelia let out a strangled cry. She lunged forward, abandoning every shred of noble etiquette.
"Are you hurt?! Where does it ache?!" Her hands moved frantically, cupping Roland's cold face and checking Riven's arms in a panic.
"We're alright, Mother... truly," Roland rasped. He forced a weak smile, though his lips still quivered from the cold. "Just... a bit of motion sickness. That carriage ride really did a number on my stomach."
"Inside! Get to the fire!" Lucian ordered. He didn't join the embrace, but the sharp intensity in his eyes softened considerably at the sight of his three children returning in one piece.
They were immediately swarmed. Martha, the head cook, appeared with a tray of steaming, thick stew and heavy wool blankets. Little Raveena and Raphael clung to Riven's legs, weeping silently in sheer relief.
Once the bowls were emptied and their breathing had returned to normal, Lucian finally spoke. His question was sharp and to the point.
"The result?"
Roland set down his empty bowl. With a slow, deliberate motion, he reached into a specially stitched inner pocket of his cloak. He pulled out a thick, cream-colored parchment sealed with a gold wax stamp that shimmered under the candlelight.
He laid the paper on the small table before Lucian.
Rianor snatched it up instantly. He held it close to the candle, narrowing his eyes to scan every inch of the anti-counterfeit magic seal. Madam Vernazza's signature. The official stamp of the Silver Merchant Syndicate.
"Fifty... Thousand..." Rianor's voice choked as he read the numbers. He looked at Roland, his eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets. "Fifty thousand gold coins? Even my most optimistic valuation was only fifteen thousand. Who... who did you sell it to?"
"Madam Vernazza herself," Roland replied weakly, leaning his head back against the chair. "The Guildmaster of the Syndicate."
A stunned silence smothered the room. Rianor was speechless, Rumina covered her mouth with both hands, and Lucian leaned back into his chair, taking a long, slow breath.
Fifty thousand gold coins. To put it in perspective, a common soldier's salary was a single coin per month. A top-tier warhorse cost fifty. With this sum, they could fully fund a small private army for five years.
"Insane," Rianor whispered, a wide grin beginning to spread across his face. "We're rich. We're actually rich!"
"Don't get ahead of yourself," Rhea cut in sharply. She sat in the corner, cleaning the grime from under her fingernails with the tip of a small dagger. "Roland played them all."
"Played them?" Lucian's eyebrow arched.
"Roland claimed it was an ancient 'Chalice of the Void.' Supposedly capable of neutralizing any poison. He told them it was crafted by Alchemists from a lost civilization," Rhea reported, her voice flat and expressionless.
Smack!
Rianor slapped his own forehead. "Roland... you told them it neutralizes poison? Do you have any idea what happens if Madam Vernazza pours rat poison in there and dies anyway?"
"Then she shouldn't drink poison!" Roland retorted defensively. "It's called marketing, brother! If I'd told her it was just a vintage glass cup, she would've offered fifty silver at best!"
"This is dangerous," Lucian's voice turned heavy and deep, chilling the air once more. "A noble's lie can be the spark that ignites a war. If Vernazza realizes she's been swindled, she'll send every mercenary in Blackhold to raze this castle to the ground."
The gold that had felt like a blessing moments ago suddenly felt like a hot coal, ready to burn anyone who touched it. Rianor took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. His strategic mind began to move at high speed.
"Fine. The die is cast. And thankfully, it's a very expensive die," Rianor said, taking the draft back. "We have two major advantages."
He held up two fingers. "One: Madam Vernazza bought that piece for prestige. She won't be reckless enough to test it with lethal toxins for fear of damaging her 'precious artifact.' She'll keep it locked in a glass display case just to show it off."
"Two: The distance from Blackhold to here is vast. It will be weeks before any rumors or doubts reach this far."
Rianor looked at his father with cold, calculating eyes. "In those few weeks, we must transform this paper into real Power. We need to raise an army, reinforce every inch of our battlements, and secure our trade routes."
"So that..." Rianor smirked thinly, "when Madam Vernazza finally realizes she's been tricked, House Sudrath will have grown too powerful for her to touch. When that day comes, we simply tell her: 'Oh, perhaps you were using it incorrectly, Madam.' And there won't be a damn thing she can do about it."
Lucian looked at his brilliant son, then at Roland the master diplomat, and his two formidable new knights. This family... they were becoming a lethal combination.
"Very well," Lucian took the draft. "Tomorrow morning, Rianor and Riven, cash this at the Royal Bank branch in the nearest city. Remember—not in Blackhold."
"And one more thing," Lucian added, his eyes gleaming with the primal hunger of a wolf eyeing its prey. "Baron Gorm is coming in two weeks to collect his debt."
He gripped the wooden armrest of his chair until it let out a sickening creak.
"Prepare a reception. We are going to pay him back in full. But I want him to remember that day as the worst day of his life."
"Of course, Father," Riven grinned, his fingers tracing the hilt of his greatsword with grim intent. "I have a few interesting ideas for... the welcoming decor."
"I'll prepare the receipt of payment," Rianor added. "This time, with a very accurate calculation of interest, naturally."
"And I..." Roland raised a hand slightly, then let it drop back down limply. "I just want to sleep for three days. Don't wake me unless there's an earthquake."
That night, laughter echoed through Iron Hearth Castle. It wasn't the polite, stifled laughter heard at capital balls, but the raw, wild laughter of survivors who had just cheated death.
Outside, the storm continued to tear through the sky. But inside, the fires of House Sudrath's defiance had just been stoked—and this time, they wouldn't be so easily extinguished.