The Return to Lancaster Manor

The journey back was a silent one, each step heavier than the last. The Whisperwoods' oppressive stillness clung to them like a second skin, the memory of the Archivist's laughter still ringing in their ears. Lyria flexed her bandaged hand—the knight's salve had worked with unnatural speed, sealing the burns beneath smooth, unblemished skin. Too smooth. The flesh felt foreign, as if something beneath the surface had been rearranged.

Therion kicked a stone, sending it skittering into the underbrush. "So. We're officially the knight's problem now. That's… great." His voice was rough, the bruises on his throat a lurid purple in the fading light.

Ardyn's golden eyes—gifted (or cursed) with the ability to see the ebb and flow of aether—flickered with unease. The woods around them pulsed with residual energy, the aftermath of whatever power had yanked them from the Archivist's clutches. Not teleportation. Not illusion. Something older. The scent of roses lingered, cloying and sweet, clinging to their clothes like a brand.

When the manor gates finally loomed into view, the trio paused. The usual quiet hum of evening activity was absent, replaced by… laughter. Bright, unfettered, bubbling up from the servants' quarters like a spring.

Therion's brow furrowed. "That's… not the sound of impending doom."

Lyria pushed open the side door, the hinges groaning softly. The warmth of the kitchen washed over them, carrying the scent of fresh bread and honey. The scene that greeted them was so absurdly out of place that for a moment, Lyria wondered if the Archivist had shoved them into another nightmare.

The blue-haired knight sat cross-legged on the flagstones, his usual sharp-edged demeanor softened into something almost domestic. A half-eaten loaf of bread and a plate of honey cakes sat between him and a gaggle of wide-eyed servant children. One tiny girl—her fingers sticky with jam—was braiding a section of his hair with clumsy determination, her tongue poking out in concentration. A boy clung to his back like a limpet, giggling into the fabric of his coat as the knight waved a spoon like a sword, his voice dipping into theatrical gravitas.

"—and then," he declared, "the great dragon sneezed, and the entire castle turned into cheese!"

The children shrieked with delight, their laughter bouncing off the vaulted ceilings.

Lord Lancaster stood frozen in the doorway, his face a masterpiece of horrified bewilderment. His cravat was askew, his fingers twitching at his sides as if he couldn't decide whether to intervene or flee. "Your Grace," he choked out, "this is—this is highly irregular—"

The knight didn't even glance up. "Alistair, you're ruining the climax."

A small girl with dirt-smudged cheeks tugged on his sleeve. "Did the princess eat the castle?"

"Obviously," the knight said, nodding gravely. "It was gouda. She had no choice."

Lyria, Therion, and Ardyn stood rooted in the doorway, their exhaustion momentarily forgotten. Therion's apple—plucked from a nearby basket—hung forgotten in his grip.

"Is this… a fever dream?" Therion muttered.

The knight's gaze flicked to them, his grin sharpening. "Ah. The prodigal disasters return." He plucked the boy off his back and set him gently aside, ruffling his hair. "Storytime's over, monsters. Go terrorize the stablemaster."

The children groaned but obeyed, scattering with a chorus of "Goodnight, Ser Storm!"

Lord Lancaster's eye twitched. "Ser Storm?"

The knight rose, brushing crumbs off his trousers. "Nicknames are important. Builds rapport." His gaze swept over the trio, lingering on Lyria's bandaged hand, Therion's bruises, Ardyn's white-knuckled grip on his staff. "You three look like you've been dragged through a hedge backward. Sit. Eat."

Lyria didn't move. "Why are you here?"

He shrugged. "The kitchens have better food than the dining hall. Also, children are excellent conversationalists. They haven't yet learned to lie poorly."

Lord Lancaster made a sound like a deflating bellows.

Ardyn, ever the diplomat, stepped forward. "We… appreciate your hospitality."

The knight's smile didn't waver. "Liar." He tossed an apple to Therion, who caught it on reflex. "But I'll allow it."

Silence settled over the kitchen, broken only by the crackling hearth. The scent of roses thickened, curling around the trio like an embrace—or a snare.

Then the diary in Lyria's belt twitched.

The knight's gaze dropped to it, his expression unreadable. "Elias," he said softly. "Still causing trouble, I see."

The diary didn't respond.

Lord Lancaster finally found his voice. "Your Grace, the council—"

"Can wait," the knight said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He studied the trio for a long moment before sighing. "Stay in the manor tonight. The wards will hold."

Therion, mouth full of apple, mumbled, "What about tomorrow?"

The knight's smile returned, edged with something dangerous. "Tomorrow, we hunt."

And with that, he strolled out, leaving behind a room full of crumbs, bewildered children, and one utterly mortified nobleman.

The diary's final message of the night appeared in shaky script:

"...I hate this so much."

The Weight of Titles

The kitchen door swung shut behind the blue-haired knight with a soft click—a sound far too gentle for the way the room seemed to exhale in his absence. Lord Lancaster collapsed into the nearest chair like a marionette with severed strings, his polished veneer crumbling. A servant materialized with a goblet of wine, their hands shaking slightly as they offered it. He took it without thanks, his fingers leaving faint smudges on the polished silver. Lord Lancaster exhaled sharply, his fingers pressing into his temples as if trying to physically contain his mounting headache. The firelight caught the silver streaks in his hair, making him appear far older than his years.

Lyria watched through the window as the knight's silhouette melted into the twilight, his indigo coat blending with the gathering shadows. "He acts like he owns the manor."

Lyria crossed her arms, her bandaged hand flexing unconsciously. "That man has no respect for nobility."

Lord Lancaster barked a laugh into his wine, the sound jagged with frayed nerves. "He might as well." The glass trembled as he set it down too hard; a hairline fracture snaked up the stem. "That man is the Storm of Vorthain—personal executioner and right hand to Archduke Kuvell Sharn-Almyre himself." His voice dropped to a whisper, as if the walls might repeat his words. "When he speaks, it's with the Archduke's voice. When he strikes, it's with the Archduke's authority." A bitter smile twisted his lips. "And apparently, when he wishes to dine with servants and tell absurd stories about cheese dragons, no one may refuse him."

Therion, still clutching his stolen honey cake, frowned. "But he's just—"

"Just?" Lord Lancaster's chair screeched as he leaned forward. "There is no just with him. That title—Storm of Vorthain—is not some flowery epithet. It was earned in the Bleeding March, when he held the Crimson Pass alone against three thousand rebels for three days and nights. When the rivers ran red for weeks after." His knuckles whitened around the cracked goblet. "The Archduke rewarded that butchery by making him his shadow. Now he goes where he pleases, does as he pleases, and woe betide anyone foolish enough to stand in his way."

Lord Lancaster gave him a withering look. "He does own half the continent, in practice. The Archduke's influence is absolute, and his knight speaks with his voice."

Lyria touched her bandaged hand absently. "And the Archduke permits this? Letting him roam like some... itinerant terror?"

Lord Lancaster's gaze slid to the window, where the first stars were pricking through the violet dusk. "They say the Archduke doesn't permit his Storm anything." He drained the last of his wine. "They say the Storm goes where the wind takes him—and the Archduke simply follows the trail of bodies."

In the silence that followed, the diary at Lyria's belt gave a faint, almost imperceptible shiver.

Like it was laughing.

Lord Lancaster pinched the bridge of his nose, then gestured sharply to a servant. "Fetch parchment and ink. This requires visualization."

The servant returned with a scroll of thick vellum, which Lord Lancaster unfurled across the table with a dramatic flourish. He snatched up his quill like a sword and began sketching a rough hierarchy, the nib scratching furiously as crumbs from the knight's abandoned snack tumbled off the parchment's edge.

1. King / Queen

"The crown. Absolute authority, divine right, etc. Currently Her Majesty Elyssande IV - may she live forever, though given her cough last winter, perhaps not too forever."

2. Crown Prince / Princess

"Heir apparent. Currently Prince-Consort Dain, who spends more time with his physicians than his ministers. Don't offend unless you enjoy treason charges - or unless the Storm is feeling charitable that day."

3. Grand Duke / Archduke

"Kuvell Sharn-Almyre's rank. Rules the southern territories with near-autonomy. Only answers to the crown, and even then only when it suits him. The boy's nineteen going on tyrant."

4. Duke

"Powerful, but not Archduke powerful. Still, don't piss them off unless you fancy losing lands, titles, or the occasional limb."

5. Marquess / Marquis

"Border lords. Usually heavily armed and mildly unhinged from decades of repelling invasions. Excellent drinking companions, terrible enemies."

6. Earl / Count

"Your standard nobility. Some are decent. Most are insufferable. All will talk your ear off about lineage if given half a chance."

7. Viscount

"Minor lords. Often overly eager to prove themselves - usually by challenging someone above their station to disastrous results."

8. Baron

"Basically wealthy landowners with fancy titles. Harmless unless you insult their wine collection."

9. Knight Commander

"Leads the royal knights. Not to be trifled with unless you enjoy the taste of steel."

10. Holy Knight / Paladin

"Church-backed warriors. Zealous. Avoid theological debates unless you want a sermon with your supper."

11. Knight / Chevalier

"Ordinary knights. Except, apparently, that one." Lord Lancaster jabbed his quill toward the kitchen door where the blue-haired man had exited.

Therion squinted at the list, grease from his chicken leg threatening to stain the parchment. "So... he's a knight, but also not?"

Lord Lancaster groaned, massaging his temples. "He's the Archduke's personal blade. His Shadow. His authority is derived, but no less real for it." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "And if the rumors are true, he's also the reason the last three southern dukes now reside in unmarked graves."

The fire crackled. Outside, a gust of wind carried the scent of roses through the window - too sweet, too thick, like perfume masking rot.

Lyria stared at her bandaged hand. "And we just refused his help."

The diary at her belt gave a sudden, violent shudder.

"Oh, you idiots," Elias's handwriting scrawled across a freshly revealed page, "you have no idea what you've done."

Ardyn's golden eyes flickered as they traced the inked hierarchy, each title seeming to pulse with latent aether—a visual echo of the power dynamics at play. "So when he told the council to wait..."

Lord Lancaster's grip tightened around his cracked goblet. "He might as well have been the Archduke himself speaking." Wine sloshed over the rim as he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper that barely carried over the hearth's crackle. "They say during the southern rebellion, the Storm single-handedly held Blackstone Pass against three hundred men. That when dawn broke, he walked away without a scratch..." A pause, weighted like a headsman's axe. "...while the river below ran red for three days."

Lyria's fingers twitched against her bandaged palm, the too-perfect skin tingling as if remembering the burn. "And the Archduke permits this?"

"The Archduke encourages it." Lord Lancaster's shadow loomed large against the hearthstone, his face half-lit in flickering orange. "Kuvell Sharn-Almyre may be young, but he rules with an iron fist wrapped in velvet." His gaze cut to the window where the last light of dusk bled into night. "His knight is the iron. And now..." The unspoken words hung heavy as he looked at the trio. "For reasons only the gods—or perhaps demons—understand, he's taken an interest in you."

From Lyria's belt, the diary gave a faint, ominous pulse. The leather warmed against her hip as Elias's handwriting erupted across the page in jagged strokes:

"Correction: He hasn't taken an interest. You've caught it. Like a disease."

The Weight of Whimsy

The firelight guttered as Lord Lancaster leaned forward, his earlier tension giving way to something dangerously close to awe. His finger stabbed at the parchment where Viscount was inscribed, the ink gleaming wetly in the dim light. "He made this rank," he breathed. "Forged it in blood and battle when he shattered the Ten Banners Rebellion single-handedly at sixteen. The Crown had no choice but to acknowledge what the southerners already knew—that titles mean nothing to a man who carves his own into history."

Therion whistled, tossing his chicken bone into the hearth where it sizzled. "So he's like a war hero?"

"A Viscount," Lord Lancaster corrected sharply, "who answers only to the Archduke himself. But the true measure of him?" With a magician's flourish, he produced a second scroll from his sleeve, its edges gilt with silver. As he unfurled it, the words seemed to pulse in the firelight—not ink, but blood, old and dark, that shimmered as if alive:

Born of Battle, Bound by Oath

"They say he emerged fully armored from a battlefield's crater at twelve, sword in hand, already sworn to the Sharn-Almyre line. No parents. No past. Just steel and a name whispered by dying men: Storm."

The Archduke's Final Mercy

"The last face traitors see before execution. The only one Kuvell trusts to deliver clean deaths. They beg for him, you know—when the alternative is the torturer's knife."

Breaker of Ten Banners

"Ended the southern rebellion by sundering ten war banners with one swordstroke at Blackstone Pass. The fabric didn't tear. It dissolved, as if the very threads remembered his edge."

Bloodlit Saint

"Survived the Aethermoon Trials without a single wound. The churches canonized him as a living patron of soldiers. They don't mention how the statues of him weep blood every anniversary of Vorthain."

Voice of the Last Storm

"When he speaks for the Archduke, kingdoms listen. When he draws his sword, they tremble. When he laughs..." The ink here wavered, as if afraid to continue. "...even the Devil checks over his shoulder."

Lyria's grip tightened on her dagger, the leather-wrapped hilt creaking. "And he's... playing with servant children."

Lord Lancaster's gaze turned distant. "After the Siege of Vorthain, when the northern armies broke against the gates like waves on stone? He spent three days in the orphanages, mending toys with his own hands." A shudder ran through him. "That's what terrifies the council. Not his strength—his whimsy. The way he switches between reaping lives and braiding a little girl's hair as if both are equally natural."

Outside, the wind howled through the manor's eaves. Somewhere in the darkness, roses bloomed unnaturally fast, their petals unfurling with audible clicks, their scent thick enough to choke on.

And far away—too close—a sword sighed in its scabbard.