The predawn mist clung to the riders as they pushed north, forty sets of hooves churning the muddy imperial road into slurry. Irineus kept his cloak pulled tight against the damp chill, his eyes scanning the tree line for movement. Beside him, Martin rode with one hand resting on his sword hilt, his usual smirk replaced by a soldier's grim focus.

  "Four hours at this pace," Martin muttered, glancing at the gray sky. "We'll reach Emillia by midmorning."

  Irineus nodded absently. His thoughts kept returning to the missing scouts. Good men—veterans who knew better than to wander into an ambush. That none had returned spoke of either overwhelming numbers... or something more deliberate.

  The road began to climb, and as they crested the ridge, Emillia spread before them like a scene from another age.

  "Gods above," one of the soldiers breathed.

  Where Irineus had expected another crumbling village, a thriving market town stood defiant behind freshly reinforced palisades. Plumes of hearth smoke curled above rooftops, and the distant clang of a blacksmith's hammer rang through the crisp air. Most striking was the activity—carts rumbled through the gates, farmers led oxen along well-maintained paths, and the glint of sunlight on spear tips marked patrols moving along the walls.

  Martin frowned. "Bandits wouldn’t dare attack a settlement like this."

  As they approached, the differences became more apparent. The wooden gates showed recent repairs, the timber still pale where new planks had been set. The four guards standing watch wore mismatched armor—one in a quilted gambeson stained with old blood, two in dented cuirasses, and a boy barely old enough to shave in hardened leathers that looked two sizes too big.

  "Halt!" barked the oldest guard, a grizzled man with a scar running down his cheek. "State your business!"

  Irineus raised a hand. "We mean no harm. We’ve been hunting bandits to the south. I sent soldiers this way—they haven’t returned."

  The scarred man studied him, then jerked his chin at the boy. "Andreas. Inform Lord Emilian. Now!"

  The boy sprinted off. Moments later, a tall figure strode through the gate.

  He was young—late twenties—but carried himself with the weight of a man twice his age. His dark eyes swept over Martin first, assessing, before settling on Irineus. A flicker of recognition passed over his sharp features.

  "You bear the imperial sigil," he said, voice cool. "You are Irineus, yes? Son of Manuel, the Emperor’s brother?"

  "I am."

  The man—Lord Emilian—gave a curt nod. "The Empire may have fallen, but it still lives in our hearths." He turned to the guards. "Open the gates."

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  As the boy sprinted off, the remaining guards maintained their positions, but Irineus noted how their grips on their weapons relaxed slightly. The scarred veteran kept studying them with a soldier's assessing gaze, lingering on the quality of their arms and the condition of their mounts.

  The wait stretched just long enough to grow uncomfortable before the gates swung open.

  The man who emerged moved with the controlled grace of a duelist, his black riding boots kicking up puffs of dust. He couldn't have been more than twenty-eight, but carried himself with the authority of someone much older. His dark eyes swept over Martin first—lingering on the sword at his hip—before settling on Irineus.

  A moment of perfect stillness. Then the slightest inclination of his head.

  The town within was more remarkable than its walls. The central square bustled with activity—merchants calling out wares from stalls draped in colorful awnings, farmers bartering sacks of grain, even a scribe's booth where a line had formed. Children darted between legs, their laughter ringing off the cobbles.

  "Your people seem... happy," Martin observed carefully as they passed a baker pulling fresh loaves from a clay oven.

  Lord Emilian didn't turn. "We preserve what we can."

  Everywhere they walked, townsfolk bowed or called greetings. An old woman actually knelt in the street, pressing her forehead to the ground as they passed. Emilian acknowledged none of it directly, but Irineus noticed how his hand twitched toward a pouch at his belt whenever someone showed particular devotion—as if restraining himself from dispensing alms.

  The manor house surprised Irineus most. No gaudy excess here—just clean lines and functional beauty. The iron gates swung open to reveal a courtyard transformed into a living tapestry. Wildflowers Irineus recognized from the roadside—bluebells, fireweed, goldenrod—had been arranged in intricate geometric patterns between winding stone paths. The twin fountains were simple affairs, their basins carved from local stone, but the water danced over cleverly arranged pebbles to create a soothing murmur.

  "Your gardener has skill," Irineus remarked.

  Emilian finally showed something resembling a smile. "My sister's work. She claims flowers grow better when you talk to them."

  The interior of the manor was sparsely furnished but comfortable, the chairs padded with wool-stuffed cushions. A servant brought tea in glazed cups—the aroma earthy and complex.

  "I apologize for detaining your men," Emilian said after the first sip. "These days, armed strangers usually mean trouble."

  Irineus studied the lord across the steaming rim of his cup. Up close, he could see the signs of strain—the faint shadows under Emilian's eyes, the way his fingers tightened imperceptibly around the porcelain. This was a man who hadn't slept well in months.

  "Our scouts reported nothing of Emillia's... prosperity," Irineus said carefully.

  A flicker of something dark passed behind Emilian's eyes. "We've learned to be discreet. Attracting attention brings more than bandits these days."

  The door opened, and Irineus's missing soldiers filed in. They were unharmed but pale, their eyes darting nervously to Emilian before fixing on Irineus with something like relief.

  "Report," Martin snapped.

  The senior scout—a grizzled sergeant named Varis—swallowed hard. "We found tracks leading north, sir. Big group, moving fast. Followed them to the tree line when..." He hesitated. "Something came out of the woods. Not bandits. Not human."

  Emilian set his cup down with deliberate care. "The forests haven't been safe since the first frost. Things come down from the mountains—things that don't leave normal tracks." He met Irineus's gaze squarely. " Your fortress is in a good position, with high walls, surrounded by forest and a river flows from the west. That's why they haven't attacked you yet. But they're growing bolder."