The road to Harrick Manor was less a passage and more an apology. A lament, if thou wilt, for the days when its stones did sing beneath the weight of gilded carriages and the measured tread of noble boots. Now, ‘twas but a whisper of its former self, a thing long since surrendered to the creeping grasp of ivy and the relentless chiseling of rain. The cobbles, once set firm as a mason’s oath, had fractured, their steadfast ranks broken, yielding to nature’s quiet rebellion.

Each twist and bend did murmur of days bygone—days when lords and ladies, swathed in finery, did ride forth, their pride gleaming brighter than the torches that lined their estate. Yet now, ‘twas a path of hushed sorrow, of dignity worn threadbare, much like an aging knight who doth still don his rusting armor—not for war, nor for duty, but for memory’s sake alone.

Baldric, ever the wise, trod with the caution of a surgeon’s hand, his hooves deft upon the uneven ground. Mayhap he too did sense it—the weight of time’s quiet decay pressing upon the land. As for myself, I found a peculiar harmony in it. A manor abandoned to ruin, a village beset by whispers—what are these, dear reader, if not echoes of the same song? A curse, the townsfolk had named it. But curses are seldom heralded by specters and howling wraiths. Nay, ‘tis the slow undoing of that which ought stand steadfast. ‘Tis neglect, ‘tis silence, ‘tis the solemn march of entropy itself.

And then, through the parting veil of mist, did I behold it—Harrick Manor, perched upon its hill like a weary king upon his throne.

A grand façade, to be sure, yet cloaked in ivy’s embrace, as though the very earth sought to reclaim its own. The stone, though proud in stature, did wear the countenance of age—weathered and worn, lined with the scars of uncounted winters. And the windows—aye, the windows were worst of all. Hollow and dark, they stared out over the land like watchful sentinels, unblinking, unwelcoming. A house may be many things—a fortress, a monument, a home—but when it ceaseth to be any of these, what then remains?

“’Tis a pity,” quoth I, reaching forth to pat Baldric’s sturdy neck. “One might think even stone would rise in protest at such neglect.”

Baldric, unbothered, flicked an ear in reply. An agreement, mayhap, or simply tolerance for my musings. Who can say?

I straightened in the saddle, brushing away an invisible speck from my waistcoat. One must always make an entrance, after all. My attire was chosen with care—a waistcoat of deep sapphire, its velvet drinking in the dim light, the fine stitching catching in the waning glow of dusk. My cravat, a coil of ivory silk, was tied with a precision that would bring a valet to tears. And beneath my dark riding cloak, my boots gleamed black as polished obsidian, the reflection of the broken road wavering upon their surface.

If Harrick’s gates did creak their disapproval, let it not be for want of effort on my part.

The gates, wrought iron and grand in their day, stood ajar, their rusted hinges loosing a weary groan as I urged them wider. Like an aged sentry reluctant to yield, they parted, begrudging my passage, as if some unseen presence within did hesitate at my coming. I stepped through, and with it came a sensation most peculiar—the weight of the place settling upon me, thick as mist upon the moors. ‘Twas as though Harrick Manor itself did draw a deep, reluctant breath, bracing for what was to come.

Such is the way of these great houses, dear reader. They are not built merely of stone and mortar, nor bound together by timber and nail, but by something far more enduring. Memory clings to them as ivy to a crumbling wall, wrapping its tendrils tight about the bones of history. And secrets, well-kept, burrow deep, waiting for some unwary soul to pry them free.

The courtyard yawned before me, vast and still, mirroring the silence of the house it served. No children’s laughter echoed ‘twixt its walls, nor did the sharp bark of a hound stir the air. The wind, ever fickle, whispered through the dry grass, and somewhere in the distance, the soft clatter of tools sounded—a lonely rhythm, more habit than purpose. A solitary servant passed from one outbuilding to another, his pace brisk, yet his shoulders bent, as though weighed down by more than labor alone.

Then from the stable doors there came another figure—a boy, cap askew, tunic marred by hay and sweat, his hands bearing the marks of honest toil. He approached with the wary caution of one accustomed to reprimand, yet hopeful, mayhap, that this day would prove different.

I turned to him as I dismounted, sliding from Baldric’s back with the ease of one long acquainted with the saddle. “See to him well,” quoth I, patting my steadfast companion’s neck. “He is no mere beast, but a gentleman of fine breeding, and he hath little patience for neglect.”

The lad bobbed his head, freckles stark ‘gainst his ruddy cheeks. “Aye, sir. I’ll see ‘e’s brushed an’ fed proper.”

“A good lad indeed,” I murmured, slipping the bridle from Baldric’s noble head and passing the reins into the boy’s eager hands.

Baldric, ever the measured soul, gave a soft snort—not quite indignation, but neither outright approval. He would endure this arrangement, though only just.

“Fear not, old friend,” I whispered, leaning close, my fingers tracing the familiar line of his strong jaw. “Thou shalt have thy rest at last, and mayhap find these stables more to thy liking than the cold earth to which I have subjected thee of late.”

He flicked an ear, a gesture I chose to interpret as reluctant acceptance, before allowing himself to be led away toward the shadows of the stable. I watched them go a moment longer, then turned my gaze to the manor before me.

With a final tug upon my gloves, I stepped forth—into whatever lay waiting beyond those ancient doors.

At the door, I was greeted not by the lord of the manor, nor by any noble retainer, but by a steward—a man whose countenance bespoke a soul long resigned to its lot, as though he had been plucked from some graveyard shift in a forsaken corner of purgatory and set to toil in the land of the living against his will. His shoulders, hunched and narrow, framed a face as sharp as a woodcutter’s axe, with lines chiseled deep—not by the passage of years alone, but by the burden of perpetual disapproval.

I met his gaze with a measured smile, tilting my hat in a gesture of amiable charm. “Cassius Valeford,” quoth I, “at thy service, and at Lord Harrick’s summons.”

The steward, whose name I later learned to be Garran, regarded me with all the warmth one might afford a stray dog nosing too near the larder. “We’ve been expectin’ ye,” he grumbled, his voice as clipped and weathered as his graying hair. “Lord Harrick’s in his study. See that ye mind yer tongue.”

Ah, a challenge so soon? How fortunate that I have never much cared for caution where conversation is concerned.

Still, I inclined my head, offering a courtly bow with just the barest edge of mockery—too slight to be called offense, but present enough to amuse myself. “Thy hospitality is noted and most deeply appreciated,” I said, though my words earned naught but a pointed glare.

Garran turned on his heel and led the way, walking with the sure-footed gait of a man well-accustomed to command, though not, mayhap, born to it. There was a precision to his step, the kind borne not of noble ease, but of long practice in the art of keeping order among those who had little inclination for it. He carried no lantern, yet the shadows seemed to part for him all the same, as though they dared not linger in his path.

For my part, I followed at a measured pace, my boots striking the worn flagstones with the deliberation of one who knows that presence is a weapon in its own right. The tail of my riding cloak trailed behind me, a dark cascade flowing across the stone, while my gloved hands rested lightly at my sides—ready, at a moment’s notice, to adjust a cuff, smooth the rich fabric of my doublet, or otherwise remind those who watched that I belonged in such halls, whether they believed it or not.

For in places such as these, dear reader, ‘tis not enough merely to walk. One must make an entrance, however slight, lest one be mistaken for a ghost.

A lesser man might have stumbled in the dim corridors, but I had long since mastered the art of walking as though the very ground were laid for my passage. To move with purpose is to claim ownership of the space one inhabits, and in places such as these, dear reader, that is oft the difference between guest and ghost.

For houses of noble lineage do not merely stand—they remember. They breathe in the footfalls of those who tread their halls, they whisper in the dark corners where secrets gather dust, and they judge, ever so silently, the worth of those who dare disturb their slumber.

The hall stretched before us, lined with the portraits of Harricks past. Their painted faces gazed down, some stern, others almost wistful, yet all rendered in such meticulous detail that one might imagine them capable of speech, were they inclined to break their centuries of silence. Here stood a man whose eyes gleamed like sharpened flint, his mouth a thin, unforgiving line. There, a lady whose beauty was marred only by the faintest trace of disdain at the corner of her lips—as though the very act of being gazed upon by lesser men were a matter of some inconvenience to her.

Generations of them, immortalized in oil and canvas, their silken finery captured in rich hues, the glint of gold thread painstakingly painted by a hand long turned to dust. And yet, for all their splendor, they seemed weighted with expectation, as though they knew well that the living oft prove lesser than the dead would wish them to be.

“An illustrious lineage,” quoth I, my voice breaking the solemn hush. “One can feel the weight of history in these halls.”

Garran grunted but did not slow his pace. “Aye. History.” His tone was clipped, devoid of reverence. “And all the burdens it brings.”

I tilted my head at that. A curious thing to say, was it not? Noble houses oft revel in their legacies, parading them like battle standards, their ancestors a chorus of silent witnesses to their enduring grandeur. Yet here, there was no pride in the steward’s voice—only a quiet resignation.

The walls themselves seemed to echo the sentiment. The wood paneling, though finely crafted, bore the scars of time—scratches where some heavy furnishing had once been dragged, faint water stains creeping upward, as though the house itself sought to weep.

The air was cool, but not with the natural chill of stone, nor the breath of an autumn evening. Nay, this was something deeper—an unwillingness, mayhap, for warmth to take hold, as though the manor itself recoiled from the living, as though it resented the presence of those who still drew breath within its walls.

We passed an alcove where a suit of armor stood sentinel, its polished steel glinting faintly in the dim light. And yet, even here, time had left its mark—a dent in the breastplate, the plume atop its helm faded to a brittle gray. Once, mayhap, it had been worn by some gallant ancestor, its steel ringing bright in battle. Now it stood hollow, a relic of wars long past, reduced to a silent, impotent witness to the manor’s decline.

And still, dear reader, I felt the weight of unseen eyes upon me.

Not merely from the portraits.

Not merely from Garran.

But from the house itself.

“What think ye of the house?” quoth Garran suddenly, his voice breaking the rhythm of our measured footfalls. He did not turn as he spoke, nor did his tone invite idle praise. Nay, there was a care in it, a deliberate neutrality, as though he were a man who had learned that some questions are better answered lightly, lest the truth prove too heavy to bear.

I let the silence stretch a moment, for such inquiries are seldom made without design. A question, after all, is a blade most subtle—it tests the defenses of its recipient, presses gently against the armor of courtesy to seek where a crack may lie.

At length, I exhaled softly, my gaze sweeping the high-beamed ceiling, the aged wainscoting, the gloom that settled between the flickering sconces like a guest long overstayed.

“Grand, yet weary,” quoth I at last, allowing a thread of wistfulness to color my words. “Like an old warrior who hath seen too many battles, and now findeth himself without a cause.”

A silence followed, brief yet telling.

Garran did not answer, but his shoulders stiffened, a small betrayal of thought that did not escape mine eye. Ah. A wound, then. Old, mayhap, but not so old that it did not yet ache when pressed.

Curious.

We turned a corner, and the corridor yawned into a grander space—a gallery, by its shape and intention, though its splendor was dulled by the creeping hand of neglect.

Here, the portraits loomed larger, their gilded frames holding the visages of long-dead Harricks in poses of triumph and contemplation. One might almost believe, dear reader, that their painted eyes followed our passage, not with idle interest, but with something nearer to expectation.

At the far end of the gallery, beneath the high arch of a mullioned window, stood a small pedestal of pale marble, atop which rested a silver chalice, tarnished with age yet still holding the vestiges of past grandeur.

My pace slowed, my gaze drawn to it with idle curiosity.

“A relic of the Harricks’ past,” quoth Garran, his tone dry, bereft of sentiment. “An heirloom said to hold the blood of a saint. Though what saint would choose this house for their legacy, I cannot say.”

I hummed lightly, tilting my head as I examined the vessel. Tarnish crept along its surface like ivy upon stone, yet even still, a glimmer of its former luster endured—as all things do, if one looks close enough.

“Perhaps one with a penchant for irony,” I mused, flicking a glance toward Garran.

A faint harrumph was my only answer.

Beyond the gallery, the air grew heavier, the hush more weighted. A house doth breathe, dear reader, though not as we do. It inhales the presence of its inhabitants, exhales the dust of those who came before.

And yet, as we pressed deeper, I noted a thing most strange.

Among the scents of aged wood, waxen candles, and the ghost of past feasts, there crept the faintest trace of lavender—a delicate whisper of fragrance, far too gentle a thing to belong to the gloom of the manor.

An echo of something, or someone, that did not yet wish to be forgotten.

At long last, we came upon a pair of tall, oaken doors, their surfaces hewn with intricate carvings of griffins and winding vines. Their craftsmanship bespoke an age of prosperity, when such flourishes were not mere vanity, but a declaration of lineage, of dominion.

Garran paused, his gnarled hand resting upon the ornate handle, his expression betraying neither reverence nor disdain—only the weary resignation of a man long accustomed to duty.

“Lord Harrick awaits within,” quoth he, his voice returning to its formal cadence. “See that ye mind thy manners.”

“Always,” I replied, offering him a smile well-practiced in the art of disarming men such as he. Yet if my charm found purchase, he gave no sign, his countenance as stony as the gargoyle that leered from the molding above.

The doors yielded with a low, groaning creak, as though reluctant to permit passage.

And so I stepped forth, crossing the threshold into what could only be the drawing room, where the air was thick with hush’d expectation.

The scent of lavender lingered—soft, elusive, a whisper upon the senses, as though the very walls conspired to perfume the space with memory.

The chamber was a place of measured grandeur, its high-beamed ceilings and heavy tapestries whispering of a legacy not yet surrendered to time, though time had made its advances. The fire in the hearth smoldered with slow, deliberate life—not for warmth, I deemed, but as a gesture, a performance played out for an audience of ghosts. The shadows it cast flickered along the polished wood, stretching long and restless, as if seeking purchase upon the velvet drapery and age-worn stone.

And there, by the fire, stood Lord Edwin Harrick.

He turned as I entered, his movement unhurried, measured—the kind of practiced grace belonging to men who are ever conscious of how they are seen.

His attire, immaculate—dark velvet, the hue of a midnight sea, fitted with such precision that one might think the very air dared not wrinkle its perfect lines. The embroidery at his cuffs was subtle, catching the light only in flickers, a quiet display of wealth that needed no ostentation. His cravat, a pristine coil of ivory, framed his angular visage with near-painterly exactness.

He was young—far younger than I had reckoned—and yet, his bearing was of a man who bore the weight of years not yet his own. One might call him handsome, were one inclined toward marble statues of ambition and pride, sculpted not for warmth but for admiration.

And yet, ‘twas not the symmetry of his form nor the cut of his coat that gave me pause, but rather—the eyes.

Blue, cold, and distant as the far horizon of a winter-clad sea.

They regarded me with a studied neutrality, the kind worn by those well-versed in the art of keeping their own counsel. And yet—ah, but I have made a profession of studying men, dear reader, and no mask is perfect. There was a flicker, brief as a breath, a ripple beneath the surface of his careful control.

Unease, perhaps. Or something more elusive still.

A man who summoneth another from afar, yet doth not sit easy in his presence—now, what is one to make of that?

At last, he spake.

“Cassius Valeford,” quoth he, his voice low and measured, the syllables carried with just a touch of sharpness, like a blade drawn but not yet raised.

I offered a bow—not so deep as to concede my spine, yet not so slight as to feign indifference. A delicate balance, that—a game of posture and pretense, where the rules are unspoken yet well understood.

“Lord Edwin Harrick,” I answered, his name settling upon my tongue as though to savor it. “A pleasure to make thy acquaintance. I trust my summons hath not come at too inconvenient an hour?”

He inclined his head—a motion precise, polite, and yet, I thought, perfunctory.

“The hour matters not,” said he, stepping forward with a gesture toward the seating by the hearth. “Thy arrival is timely, and that is all that matters.”

A carefully wrought answer, that. Not welcoming, yet not unwelcoming. A thing polished, deliberated—perhaps even rehearsed.

I followed his lead, watching as he moved with that same precision, his every step purposeful, calculated—as though the very ground must be certain of his presence ere he deigned to tread upon it.

He gestured toward a chair opposite his own—its upholstery rich, yet marred at the edge by a faint threadbare patch. A small thing, but telling. A careful host might have chosen a different seat for a guest. And yet, this was the chair I was given.

Ah. A man who understands appearances, yet cannot wholly maintain them.

I sank into the offered seat with practiced ease, my boots striking the floor as I settled. Harrick, for his part, took the opposite chair with the air of a man settling into dominion, his fingers coming to rest lightly upon the arms, poised yet unreadable.

‘Twas a posture well-practiced, and yet—no matter how still a man doth sit, one cannot quiet the tension that lingers in the hands.

The firelight danced upon his features, casting one half of his countenance in golden relief, whilst the other lay shrouded in shadow. ‘Twas a fitting division, mayhap, for a man who seemed himself split—half courtly host, half something else, something tethered and restrained, held firm behind a fortress of control.

“I trust thy journey was not overly taxing,” quoth he, his tone cordial yet clipped, as though courtesy were a duty to be discharged with efficiency and naught more.

I allowed a measured pause before answering, as though weighing the nature of his inquiry, though in truth, dear reader, I simply wished to see how long he could endure the silence.

“The road hath its charms,” I replied at last, my smile slight, warm—a thing given sparingly, as one grants a coin to a beggar whose story doth amuse more than it doth move. “Though I confess, ‘tis not oft that it leads me unto so esteemed an invitation.”

Ah, there—the faintest quirk of his brow, a flicker no wider than a blade’s edge. ‘Twas there, then gone, as fleeting as a breath.

“Thy reputation precedeth thee,” he said, his tone poised upon the fine line betwixt praise and assessment, as though he weighed the worth of my name even as he spake it. “An adventurer of thy caliber, the very Roadman himself, is not oft found lingering in the quiet corners of the world.”

I tilted my head, a deliberate gesture, feigning humility as I clasped my hands before me in a posture of quiet repose.

“Aye, my lord, but I have oft found that even the quietest corners hide tales worth uncovering.”

His lips pressed together, his gaze settling upon me with an intensity that bespoke calculation, not curiosity. A man weighing his next words as a gambler doth his final wager. For all his poise, for all his immovable grace, I saw it—a tension coiled beneath his stillness, a tautness that belonged not to comfort, but to command.

The silence stretched betwixt us, broken only by the languid crackling of the fire. I let it linger, unhurried, for silence, dear reader, is oft more revealing than speech.

A man may shape his words with care, but ‘tis his quietude that betrays him.

At length, Lord Harrick reclined, though only by the smallest measure. Not enough to grant ease, but rather a studied shift, a movement that suggested he wished to seem at leisure, rather than feel it. His fingers—long and deft, I noted—tapped once against the armrest of his chair. A habit, mayhap. Or a moment’s slip of impatience.

“I shall not waste thy time, Master Valeford,” quoth he, his voice cool, deliberate. “Thou art a man of the road, a seeker of mysteries—or so I am told. And yet, what I require of thee is no great unraveling, no dark tale worthy of song and spectacle.”

Ah. A game, then.

And if a man doth invite thee to play, shouldst thou not, at the very least, test the pieces upon the board?

I leaned forward just slightly, a deliberate shift. A challenge, disguised as an inquiry.

“No?” I mused, my voice light, yet with a thread of amusement woven through.

“Then thou must forgive me mine ignorance, my lord, for I have found that lords do not oft summon my like for matters of little import.”

Another flicker. The slightest shift in his breath.

I smiled, slow and deliberate, and let my gaze rest on him a moment too long.

A measured step forward, then—toward a line not yet crossed.

“If thou canst dispel the unrest,” quoth he, unwavering, “and set Brackenbridge back to rights, I shall see thee compensated well for thy troubles.”

Ah. There it was. The careful framing, the tidy packaging of obligation into transaction, as though such things could be so neatly wrapped in the coin’s clink.

And yet… for all his composure, his gaze lingered upon me a breath too long.

A touch too measured. A hesitation too brief.

His fingers—those long, elegant fingers—tapped once more against the armrest.

A lesser man might have let the moment slip unnoticed.

I, dear reader, am not a lesser man.

I let the silence swell betwixt us, not unlike the space left ‘twixt two dancers ere the first step is made. In truth, I was not merely considering his words—I was considering him.

At last, I exhaled, slow and measured.

“Ah, compensation,” I murmured, my voice lilting, playful, yet laced with an edge of knowing.

And then, a beat—a moment’s hesitation, a lingering glance at the man before me, before I let my lips curl into a slow, knowing smile.

“And what of satisfaction, my lord?” I mused, the words slipping forth with a quiet deliberation, a shift in weight, a tilt of the head.

A test. A provocation.

“The satisfaction of a duty well done, of a people set at ease. Dost thou not find pleasure in order restored, in fear put to rest?”

His gaze sharpened.

A blade’s edge, turned ever so slightly toward me.

“I would think coin a sufficient reward for most men,” quoth he, his voice measured as ever, like the weight of a sword balanced upon its edge.

“Aye,” I conceded, sinking further into the plush embrace of my chair, my fingers tracing idle patterns upon the embroidery of the armrest—a touch of indulgence, mayhap, but then, indulgence doth oft befit a man of my station.

“But then, I am not most men.”

There. A flicker.

The briefest ghost of something across his countenance.

Amusement?

Annoyance?

Or something else, something treading the line between curiosity and caution?

‘Twas difficult to tell, for he mastered himself too swiftly, smoothing his features as one smooths the crease from a parchment ere it is sealed.

He studied me then, with the sharp gaze of a man weighing whether to humor a rogue—or to play his game.

I did not look away.

At length, he exhaled, his gaze flickering, however briefly, toward the fire.

“The welfare of my people is not in question,” quoth he, his voice carefully measured, as though each word were placed with deliberation, no excess, no waste.

“They are frightened, that much is plain. But fear doth breed its own demons, Master Valeford. It distorts the mind, makes shadows move where there are none.”

Ah. A most polished deflection, wrapped in reason’s fine silk.

And yet, dear reader, how oft hath I heard such words from the lips of men who wish to convince both their audience and themselves?

I hummed lightly, fingers drumming once upon the armrest ere I lifted my gaze, meeting his own.

“A wise sentiment,” said I, my voice rich with the ease of one who hath oft played at such games.

I let the words settle, as a fisherman lets the bait sink, before adding, ever so gently—

“Yet, when shadows are given names, when whispers take on voices, ‘tis seldom without reason.”

There—a shift.

A tightening of the fingers where once they had lain relaxed.

The faintest press of nails against wood, a tell so slight ‘twas near imperceptible.

He did not wish to speak of it.

But he knew something.

I let my smile unfurl, slow and knowing, as though I were but a man indulging idle curiosity.

“Come now, my lord,” I murmured, leaning forward just enough to close the space betwixt us.

Not too much. But enough.

Enough to let him feel the weight of the moment.

“A man such as thee, with a fine estate and a keen mind, would not summon me for mere superstition. What is it thou hast not yet told me?”

Harrick’s jaw tightened.

For a moment, I thought he might dismiss me outright—rise from his chair, cast his gaze to the door, and wash his hands of my presence as one doth the remnants of an ill-advised wager.

But he did not.

Nay, he merely studied me with the scrutiny of a man who doth not yet know whether the blade before him is meant to be grasped—or avoided entirely.

At last, he spake, his voice crisp, precise.

“Certain… misfortunes have befallen the village.”

“Misfortunes?” I echoed, tilting my head.

A deliberate pause, a measured stillness.

“Ah, my lord, forgive my bluntness, but that is a word both broad and accommodating. What manner of misfortunes dost thou mean?”

A pause.

Not long, but long enough.

“Livestock have been lost,” quoth he at last, the words spoken with the care of a man reluctant to name his troubles aloud.

“Shepherds wake to find their flocks diminished, but with no sign of struggle. Tools go missing, only to be found in places they were never left.

Folk grow wary of the woods, even those who have hunted them all their lives.

They speak of unease, of restless dreams.

Small things, Master Valeford.”

Ah, but small things, dear reader, oft have a way of gathering, as storm clouds do upon the horizon, until they break with a fury most unwelcome.

I studied him then, watching how the firelight kissed the fine planes of his face, how the glow carved shadowed hollows where once there had likely been only smooth certainty.

“Tell me,” I murmured, letting the words weave themselves like thread through the space between us.

“When did these misfortunes begin?”

Harrick’s expression did not falter.

And yet… his fingers tensed against the chair.

“They have been building for some time,” said he, too smoothly, too rehearsed.

“Superstitions left unchecked grow like weeds in the minds of those who have naught else to busy themselves with.”

Ah. Deflection, dressed in logic, and worn with such ease.

A skilled player, this lord of Harrick Manor. I would grant him that.

But, dear reader, even the most skilled of men do slip.

And I had every intention of seeing where this one might fall.

I leaned forward, the shift slight, deliberate, as though to close the distance between us in confidence rather than challenge.

My voice, when it came, was softened, almost conspiratorial.

“Thou art troubled, my lord.”

His lips parted—but no immediate denial came forth.

Ah.

An admission in silence, if not in words.

“Curious,” quoth I, tilting mine head but slightly, my voice a thread cast upon still waters, awaiting a ripple.

A thread laid out, an invitation to tug.

“That they should grow so restless now. I wonder, my lord—what hath changed?”

Something in his expression flickered.

Not fear—not quite.

But something that danced along its edges.

A shadow of knowing. Of guilt, mayhap.

A man who had set something in motion… and now feared the place to which the tide might carry him.

And yet, when he spake, his voice remained calm, measured, as though each syllable had been weighed ere it was sent forth.

“The times have been lean,” quoth he. “A hard winter, a cruel summer. Folk will always find something to blame when the seasons turn against them.”

A reasonable answer.

Too reasonable.

I let silence speak in my stead, let it stretch between us like a held breath, unbroken save for the soft murmur of the fire.

I met his gaze with the same measured intensity he had offered me—a battle not of blades, but of stillness. A contest of patience and resolve.

And in that quiet, an understanding passed betwixt us.

An unspoken thing.

He knew I would not be so easily turned aside.

And I knew he would not so easily deceive me.

And yet…

Something within him hesitated. 

I exhaled slowly, allowing my gaze to drift—not upon him, not directly, but across the room—the elegance, the grandeur, cracked at the edges, yet still standing.

A reflection, mayhap, of the man before me.

At last, I turned mine eyes upon him once more, offering him respite in the form of my own retreat.

My tone lightened, smoothed, as though I were merely indulging a nobleman’s whim, as though this were naught but a jest at court.

“I shall see to thy people,” said I, tilting my head just so, my words lighter than they had been a moment prior. A reprieve. A lifeline.

“If ‘tis naught but peasant superstition, I shall name it as such. But if there is more…”

I let the words trail, let my lips curl into a slow, knowing smile.

“Well. Let us see where the road doth lead.”

Harrick studied me then.

For a long moment.

His gaze unreadable—save for the restless shadows that danced upon his face.

And then, slowly—so subtly that one might scarce notice—

He exhaled.

The faintest ghost of something almost—almost—relieved.

“Very well,” quoth he at last.

“We shall see.”

And then, in a gesture at once calculated and yet strangely earnest, he leaned back.

The stiffness in his shoulders eased—but only slightly.

A pause.

A beat.

A move made with purpose.

And then, almost as an afterthought—save that it was naught of the sort—

“Thou shalt join us for dinner this evening.”

Ah.

An invitation.

A test, mayhap.

Or mayhap, dear reader, something else entirely.

I smiled, slow and deliberate, as though weighing the offer.

When in truth, there was no need for deliberation.

“I would be honored, my lord.”

Harrick inclined his head, a touch of satisfaction flickering in his expression.

A pawn had moved.

A step had been taken.

And whatever game had begun betwixt us was now well and truly in motion.

But I, Cassius Valeford, have never been a mere pawn.

And neither, I suspected, had he.